Holly Valentine let out a big sigh. She was stripped naked and bent over a stool. Her ankles and wrists were tied to the legs of the stool. The duct tape they used to secure her hands was thick and industrial strength. She had been bound by experts. Not even an ace reporter like her was getting free any time soon.
“I am very disappointed,” a voice said. Despite her predicament, Holly felt a shiver of excitement. That cultured distinct voice was world famous. It was Branna Kolie, actress and humanitarian. Even though Holly had been captured by Branna’s own security forces on Branna’s African estate, Holly didn’t think she would actually meet the beautiful movie star herself.
“It is a sad statement about today’s media,” another voice said. Holly’s pussy instantly became wet. The voice belonged to Angelus Witt, the handsome movie star husband of Branna and world hunger activist. Holly never thought she would be in the same zip code as Angelus, much less butt-naked in the same room with him.
“Why won’t the paparazzi leave us alone?” said Branna, the model-turned-actress-turned-United Nations-spokeswoman-turned-one-woman-advocate-for-education, poverty reduction and civil rights-turned A-List-celebrity-marriage-partner. “We adopted a poor child from a little known African province and we simply don’t want him exposed to tabloids. Is that so much to ask?”
Branna walked in front of Holly. Holly whimpered at the sight of Branna’s famous pouty lips. The redhead reporter was 80% straight but she would happily move to a gay marriage friendly state if she could have Brianna’s lips on her pussy one night a month.
“He’s just a four year old kid,” Branna said.
Holly’s reporter instincts overcame her lust and allowed her to respond.
“With all due respect, your new adopted child is not just a kid,” Holly said.
“What do you mean by that?” Angelus said. The ruggedly handsome star stepped into Holly’s view. Holly felt her thighs clench as she looked at Angelus’ dreamy blue eyes. Cripes, she had a sudden urge to mount his face.
“Is this because he’s Somalian?” Branna said.
“He’s got wings!” Holly snapped. “I saw them! Big feathery wings growing out of his back! A circle of light is around his head! When I took a picture of him, my camera melted and I had to pop the memory card out! Just looking at the kid brings tears to my eyes! That isn’t some poor orphan; you found some kind of divine baby from heaven!”
Branna and Angelus looked at each other. “He’s still an orphan,” Angelus said.
“You found an angel!” Holly said. “That is news! Do you have any idea how big this is?”
Branna grabbed Holly’s hair. She wrapped the long red strands in her fist and jerked Holly’s head up. Holly gasped as she saw the icy steel in Branna’s eyes.
“He is a child, and he will not become some sort of religious catalyst!” Branna said. “He might be a genetic mutation, he might be the last survivor of some lost race or he might actually have descended from Heaven but I don’t give a shit! Walter is just a kid and he needs a mother and a father! He doesn’t need a fucking media circus!”
Angelus squatted down till he was eye level with Holly. “The orphanage demanded a lot of money for him. I don’t know where they found him, but they just saw him as a commodity. Branna and I know how that is. We know what it is like to be used. So we adopted him and we are going to give Walter the best normal life a winged kid who sometimes heals small animals can have. Do you understand?”
“Fuck,” Holly said. “It is against my principles to help cover something up, but it just a kid. Okay, you can have my memory card. I hid it by the pond, where the giraffes eat.”
Angelus smiled. “I knew you would see reason.”
“We’re still punishing her, right?” Branna said.
“Punish?” Holly asked.
Angelus shrugged. It was an amazingly boyish gesture for the millionaire actor to make. “You did invade our home and take pictures of Walter. Your contrition is nice, but a punishment does seem appropriate.”
“Plus it makes great foreplay,” Branna said. Her fingernails scratched down Holly’s bare back. “Punishing paparazzi has really helped our marriage.”
“What kind of punishment?” Holly said.
“You know, the painful kind,” Angelus said.
Before Holly could respond, Branna pressed a ball gag to Holly’s mouth. The ball gag forced Holly’s jaws apart as Branna strapped the leather around Holly’s head. Holly recognized the gag as the same one used in the Branna movie, ‘Grave Robber’. Holly was actually a little excited that it might be the same gag that had been in Branna’s mouth.
While Branna did that, Angelus stood up and walked behind Holly. The reporter’s mind raced. She knew that ever since Angelus had starred in that gritty movie, ‘Kill Club’, the actor had developed a taste for extreme sports. What punishments would they inflict? Hot pokers? Poisonous snakes? Conservative talk radio?
A fast slap on her ass gave her the answer. Angelus’ hand smacked into the curves of her ass with bad boy authority. The blow was so hard that Holly nearly fell forward on the stool. Only Branna’s hand in her hair kept her upright.
Holly also almost climaxed from that slap. Angelus Witt was slapping her ass!
“You can do better than that,” Branna said.
Angelus laughed. “I’m getting warmed up.”
The second hit to Holly’s ass was much harder. So was the third, the fourth and the fifth. Angelus was wailing on her ass like she was every tabloid who ever combined the names of a married couple. The action star slapped her ass like she was the consumer public that didn’t like art films. Most of all, he slapped her ass like she deserved it.
Each blow sent shockwaves through her body. Her poor ass took the brunt of the slaps but the force traveled her body. Her pale tits jiggled off the side of the stool seat. Her wrists and ankles pulled at the duct tape but they were going nowhere. She kept trying to bite down on the ball gag but the unrelenting rubber forced her mouth open. The stool seat was becoming soaked with Holly’s desire, reminding Holly of how insane this situation was.
Branna reached down and grabbed a tit. Her fingers were surprisingly strong as she mauled Holly’s breast. Holly had forgotten that Branna had performed all the stunts on ‘Grave Robber’ herself.
“Angelus thinks he’s tough,” Branna whispered to Holly. “But he has never received a spanking from a group of models high on coke and Japanese diet pills. Once he has your ass nice and tender, then it will be my turn to punish you.”
Holly felt her orgasm come wonderfully close before the pain of the spanking drove it away.
“I am going to own your ass,” Branna whispered. “I am going to take my favorite brush and give your bottom the beating of a lifetime. I’m going to finger myself while I do it, and you know the worse part?”
Holly shook her head.
“You won’t see it,” Branna said. “I am going to finger my pussy and you won’t see any of it.”
Holly felt despair wash through her and oddly enough, she almost climaxed again.
The spanking stopped. Holly almost didn’t notice at first. Her ass certainly hurt enough that spanking it was almost redundant.
Branna let go of her hair. Holly let her head relax for split second before another grip yanked her head back up. Now she was looking into Angelus’ face.
“I hope you are learning your lesson,” Angelus said.
Holly tried to swear her apologies but the gag muted her into an incoherent balle.
“Uh oh, Branna’s got the hair brush,” Angelus said. “She only does that when she wants to masturbate during a spanking. I should warn you, this is going to hurt.”
WHACK! It did hurt. The brush impacted into Holly’s already tender ass like a meteor. No, like a falling star. Holly tried to scream but the gag silenced her, reducing her cries of distress into a faint moan of acceptance. There would be no escape.
The hair brush returned to Holly’s ass. Each cheek of her buttock was struck in turn. Around and round the paddle struck and no inch of Holly’s red ass was spared. With divine precision, the hair brush set Holly’s ass aflame with heat and shame.
Worse was the idea that Branna was masturbating. She knew it was no idle bluff. Heck, Branna was known to wear her brother’s semen in a vial around her neck and she kissed her mother with tongue at an award’s show. The famous humanitarian and adopter of orphans was well known as a kinky bitch. Holly never thought married life would tame Branna.
Holly tried to turn her head but it was no use. Holly struggle against the duct tape but there was no release. Angelus kept a grip on her hair. She was forced to look straight ahead as Branna abused Holly’s ass while simultaneously abusing herself.
“I bet you would be great at sucking cock,” Angelus said.
Holly frantically communicated that she was as best as the gag would allow.
“You know, Branna and I have an open marriage,” Angelus said. “We’ve added men, women, and couples to our love making. Heck, we once had sex with an entire Eskimo village. That’s how we roll.”
Holly trembled with sexual energy. The hair brush continued to berate and enflame her ass.
“Someone as adventurous as you would make for a fun night I think,” Angelus said. “Would you like that?”
Holly nodded her head as much as Angelus’ grip would allow. She tried to speak her desire through the frustrating ball gag. She pleaded with her eyes and begged with her clenching thighs. She could think of nothing she wanted more.
“Okay,” Angelus said. “Oh wait, you tried to take a picture of my Walter. So I guess the answer is no.”
Holly howled with frustration. Behind her, the paddling stopped. A different kind of howl came from unseen Branna. The cry of her climax did delicious things to Holly’s much neglected sex.
“The guards will let you out,” Angelus said. “I have to go now to fuck my unbelievably amazing wife.”
Holly moaned with denied pleasure.
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Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Dirty Movies: Sucker Punch
Sucker Punch is an awful movie. You probably have heard that by now. What is really amazing is that it is so bad that I keep thinking about it. I dissect it as I try to identify every little thing wrong with it. My core problem is that the story is shit and I have literally seen better character development from stories told by children on the playground. It is stunningly awful. Phantom of the Pulp wrote a really great review of it where he identifies all of the major issues. His identification of why games shot like video games doesn't work is dead on, but this other observation is my favorite takeaway,
"Sucker Punch is the Barbie crotch of action movies. It has no taste. It doesn't kick or moan when you stroke it. It doesn't get wet. It doesn't get nasty. And when you suck it, it tastes like plastic."
So why do I bring up this awful movie at all? I have been in a creative personal slump. Work stress and health stress has eaten away at my creativity and like all insecure artists, I started doubting my ability to tell a story.
Then I see a trashy abortion like Sucker Punch and realize, "Fuck, even a Internet porn writer like myself could do better shit than this."
Terrible shit is an important part of an artist's diet. We all have doubts and we all worry about our skill levels but when you see a fucking mess like this mess, the artist realizes that he isn't nearly as bad as he thought he was. In fact, movies aren't just proof that a director has less talent than the artist. Production companies signed off on this. An editor worked on it. Actors looked at the script and thought it was keen. Hundreds of people worked on this abomination of story telling and none of them could fix it.
Heck, do this one little exercise. Watch Sucker Punch and then come up with ways to make it a better movie in one sentence or less. You can do it! It's easy and it makes you feel like a genius compared to the writer of this schlock.
I give it Zero Pam Griers out of Five.
*Picture is of Jamie Chung, the only character I liked, who incidentally didn't have a personality but did have a role as a pilot in all of the dream sequences which I guess makes her the most developed character in the movie.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Fiction: Tight Security
Katie Delman stripped off the last of her clothes. She placed her lab coat, stockings, dress, underwear and even her glasses in the sliding drawer. Somewhere, trained specialists would soon go through her possessions and search for spy devices, microscopic robots and possible quantum venereal diseases.
At Von Madd Laboratories, they took security very seriously. On Floor 23 of the erotic science laboratory, they took security fucking seriously.
Katie stepped into the security chamber. Bright lights surveyed her body. She kept her eyes open for the retinal scan.
This time she didn’t jump when the robot tentacles came out. Two of the tentacles coiled around her breasts. She groaned as the tentacles tightened around each breast. Tighter and tighter they squeezed while the tip of each tentacle attached itself to her nipples. Suction pressure pulled on her nipples.
“Breasts constriction and nipple reaction matches employee, Katie Delman” a voice declared.
A tentacle came for her mouth. Katie opened her lips as the smooth rubber tip entered her mouth. She relaxed her throat as the rubber pushed deep into her throat. Just when she was about to gag, the tentacle pulled out.
“Throat depth matches employee, Katie Delman,” the voice declared.
Katie took a deep breathe. She was familiar with the next phase. It was always best to just relax and take it.
A squirt of warm liquid splattered against her ass. A rubber tip pressed against her anus. The warm lubricant aided the tentacle as it slowly pushed her ass open. Katie leaned forward to help, relaxing her ass so the probe could go as far as it needed to.
Katie’s ass expanded around the probe. It was going deeper this time. Katie bit her lip as the probe pushed, prodded and forced it’s way into her ass. Katie moaned. It had to stop as some point, didn’t it?
“Anal penetration has exceeded penetration on file for employee, Katie Delman,” the voice. “Applying Von Madd’s coefficient for natural anal experience, penetration is found to be within acceptable identifiers for employee, Katie Delman.”
Katie let out a sigh of relief. If she was rejected, then she would have to go through the test again. Katie wasn’t sure if she would be able to sit if she had to take it a second time.
The last tentacle went to her sex. Katie spread her legs as far as she could and still stay standing. The metal tip was already vibrating before it slipped into the folds of her pussy.
“Holy shit!” Katie said. She had worked long enough at Von Madd Laboratories to recognize the vibrator as a Type VI Hanzo. The women in testing nicknamed it the Thigh-Quaker. Powerful vibrations emanated from the tentacle and sensitized her pussy in seconds. She dripped onto the floor with instant arousal.
Katie grabbed her breasts. She had to hold onto something. She bit her lip. As the wonderful tentacle thrust and fucked inside her pussy, Katie hallucinated random sexual images. She pictured Dr. Von Madd eating her sex. She visualized horses fucking. For reasons that only her therapist knew, she imagined a rapid game of checkers.
Katie Delman climaxed. Her cry of pleasure filled the security booth. As soon as she came, the tentacle withdrew. She held onto her breasts as her knees shook.
“Time to orgasm within expected predicted parameters for employee, Katie Delman.” The voice said.
The door opened. Katie let go of her breasts and tried to walk. On shaky legs, she walked into a room where her clothes were waiting. She sat down on the bench and began the slow process of redressing. Behind her, the security booth closed to prepare for the next one to come through.
Katie shook her head. “It is amazing how much security they put into protecting new ideas for erotica.”
At Von Madd Laboratories, they took security very seriously. On Floor 23 of the erotic science laboratory, they took security fucking seriously.
Katie stepped into the security chamber. Bright lights surveyed her body. She kept her eyes open for the retinal scan.
This time she didn’t jump when the robot tentacles came out. Two of the tentacles coiled around her breasts. She groaned as the tentacles tightened around each breast. Tighter and tighter they squeezed while the tip of each tentacle attached itself to her nipples. Suction pressure pulled on her nipples.
“Breasts constriction and nipple reaction matches employee, Katie Delman” a voice declared.
A tentacle came for her mouth. Katie opened her lips as the smooth rubber tip entered her mouth. She relaxed her throat as the rubber pushed deep into her throat. Just when she was about to gag, the tentacle pulled out.
“Throat depth matches employee, Katie Delman,” the voice declared.
Katie took a deep breathe. She was familiar with the next phase. It was always best to just relax and take it.
A squirt of warm liquid splattered against her ass. A rubber tip pressed against her anus. The warm lubricant aided the tentacle as it slowly pushed her ass open. Katie leaned forward to help, relaxing her ass so the probe could go as far as it needed to.
Katie’s ass expanded around the probe. It was going deeper this time. Katie bit her lip as the probe pushed, prodded and forced it’s way into her ass. Katie moaned. It had to stop as some point, didn’t it?
“Anal penetration has exceeded penetration on file for employee, Katie Delman,” the voice. “Applying Von Madd’s coefficient for natural anal experience, penetration is found to be within acceptable identifiers for employee, Katie Delman.”
Katie let out a sigh of relief. If she was rejected, then she would have to go through the test again. Katie wasn’t sure if she would be able to sit if she had to take it a second time.
The last tentacle went to her sex. Katie spread her legs as far as she could and still stay standing. The metal tip was already vibrating before it slipped into the folds of her pussy.
“Holy shit!” Katie said. She had worked long enough at Von Madd Laboratories to recognize the vibrator as a Type VI Hanzo. The women in testing nicknamed it the Thigh-Quaker. Powerful vibrations emanated from the tentacle and sensitized her pussy in seconds. She dripped onto the floor with instant arousal.
Katie grabbed her breasts. She had to hold onto something. She bit her lip. As the wonderful tentacle thrust and fucked inside her pussy, Katie hallucinated random sexual images. She pictured Dr. Von Madd eating her sex. She visualized horses fucking. For reasons that only her therapist knew, she imagined a rapid game of checkers.
Katie Delman climaxed. Her cry of pleasure filled the security booth. As soon as she came, the tentacle withdrew. She held onto her breasts as her knees shook.
“Time to orgasm within expected predicted parameters for employee, Katie Delman.” The voice said.
The door opened. Katie let go of her breasts and tried to walk. On shaky legs, she walked into a room where her clothes were waiting. She sat down on the bench and began the slow process of redressing. Behind her, the security booth closed to prepare for the next one to come through.
Katie shook her head. “It is amazing how much security they put into protecting new ideas for erotica.”
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Fiction: Public Servant
“Shit like this is not supposed to work,” Holly Valentine said. Yet here she was, outside a motel room on the outskirts of the state capitol. She was minutes away from having an interview with the most controversial governor the state had ever had.
Governor Alan Runner had campaigned on the usual things that Republicans ran on. He swore to cut down government, make jobs and kill any terrorists that he saw. Two days into office, Governor Runner had unveiled a budget plan that fired teachers, made government employees legalized indentured servants and gave a massive bailout to Victoria Khan, the richest billionaire in the state. What the bailout was for was never really made clear, but the Republican controlled state legislature passed it into law.
Flush with victory, the Governor wasn’t taking interviews. Teachers were protesting the capitol and state employees were filing for permission to leave their work pens. Governor Runner was the most sought out interview subject in America and he wasn’t answering anyone’s calls.
That’s when Holly Valentine, reporter for INX, did something that shouldn’t have worked. Out of frustration and perhaps the influence of three Mai Tai’s, Holly had called the Governor’s press secretary and claimed to be Victoria Khan. Affecting a ludicrous Austrian accent, Holly managed to bluff her way to the Governor himself.
“Arrangements have been made. Meet me at the Nap and Tickle, room twenty-three, at midnight.” Governor Runner had said. That was it.
So here Holly was. She was outside room twenty-three wearing a big trench coat, a wide brimmed hat and a pair of sunglasses at night. The trench coat couldn’t hide her immense bosom peaking out the top. The wide hat couldn’t contain her long flaming hair that followed her like angel fire. The sunglasses did hide her lovely eyes, but not the cocky smirk on her full lips. The one thing that was cleverly concealed was the tape recorder that was threaded through out her coat. All good reporters have coats wired for digital sound.
Holly Valentine knocked on the door.
“I am ready!” spoke a voice. It was unmistakably Governor Runner.
Holly opened the door. She almost closed it back again. Inside was a man, stripped naked except for a leather strap around his eyes. He was glistening with oil over his surprisingly frame. He was kneeling on the floor, knees spread wide with his back straight and head lifted high. His cock was trapped inside some devious steel contraption.
“Greetings, Ms. Kahn,” Governor Runner said.
Holly took a deep breath. She had expected to argue and fight for an interview once the Governor realized she was a reporter. Instead, this politician was giving her the access of a lifetime.
“Hello,” Holly said. She coughed as she realized she had forgotten to do an Austrian accent. “I mean, Hello, Governor.”
The Governor trembled. “Ms. Kahn, you have never honored me with my title before. This unworthy worm is grateful!”
Oh boy. Holly tried to recall everything she learned about Sadism when she went undercover at the NRA. She had to get into character and fast.
“Silence, worm!” Holly snapped.
Governor Runner trembled. His cock throbbed helplessly inside its steel cage.
“I have been watching your progress with the budget bill,” Holly said. Her fake accent thickened with each word. “I am moderately pleased.”
“Thank you, Ms. Kahn!” the Governor said. “I did everything you asked. I destroyed the Teacher’s Union for giving your daughter a ‘C’. I also enslaved the state employees so they will quit and you can replace them with your imported Indian workers that you will subcontract to the state.”
It was Holly’s turn to tremble. The Governor’s confession was being recorded by her coat. This could be the scoop of the century! Well, at least till some actor went crazy and said stupid shit.
“Does that please you, Ms. Kahn?” the Governor asked.
“Yes,” Holly said with lust. The lust didn’t need to be faked. This was Pulitzer material.
“But,” Holly said with measured venom. “I am concerned that your methods make enrage the peasants.”
“Fuck them!” Governor Runner said. “I will personally strangle anyone who tries to stand in our way!”
Another delicious tremor of excitement ran through Holly. Few things aroused her like a politician digging a deeper hole for himself. She stood next to the kneeling Governor and ran her fingers over her thinning hair.
“And what about the voters?” Holly asked. “Some people are talking recall.”
“Fuck the voters!” Governor Runner said. “I will sodomize each and every voter who tries any of that recall shit!
Holly moaned. She gripped his hair and tilted his head back. Her panties were soaked.
“And my bailout?” Holly asked.
The Governor whimpered. “I know you asked for seventeen billions dollars, but the state budget only had room for 16 billion. You deserve every penny. You are wealthy and powerful. Every cent the state has should belong to your glory.”
“Damn right,” Holly said. She opened her coat. The reporter should really take her info and run but shit, this was intoxicating.
Holly lifter her skirt and pulled her panties to the side. Some people say that power was an aphrodisiac, but watching power incriminate itself was better than a vibrator and a Hugh Jackman marathon.
She swung her leg over Governor Runner’s body. The politician lifted his head and opened his mouth. He had done this before. As Holly stood over him, Governor Runner ate her cunt.
Because he thought he was licking the cunt of his principal backer, Governor Runner ate the hell out of Holly. The reporter had a new appreciation for why the rich and powerful bought politicians. A pussy eating like this was worth a few million dollars. The Governor used his tongue. He was damn careful with his teeth. Even though his neck was at an awkward angle, he opened wide and tried to reach deep inside Holly. The man even paid just the right amount of attention to her clit.
“Give me that tongue like you gave me a completely unnecessary bailout!” Holly said.
Governor Runner licked faster.
“Make me come as millions of state employees lose their expensive benefits!” Holly moaned.
Governor Runner licked harder.
“Eat that pussy, you paid for sack of shit bought politician!” Holly said.
Governor Runner moaned with submission. The vibration of his lips did wonderful things inside Holly.
“Fuck yes for bribery!” Holly cried as she climaxed. She clenched the Governor’s face to her pussy, riding every last bit of her orgasm on his mouth.
Finally, Holly let go. She stepped away from the Governor’s kneeling body. His face was coated in her juices. Holly pressed a button on her coat and a picture was taken by a sewn in camera. Later, when his career was ruined, she wanted to remember him like this.
“Ms. Kahn,” Governor Runner said. “Please unlock my cock. I want to come so bad. Haven’t I served you well?”
Holly smoothed her coat down. “Not yet, you haven’t,” she said.
“What more do you want?” the slave asked.
“Surprise me,” Holly said as she went out the door.
Governor Alan Runner had campaigned on the usual things that Republicans ran on. He swore to cut down government, make jobs and kill any terrorists that he saw. Two days into office, Governor Runner had unveiled a budget plan that fired teachers, made government employees legalized indentured servants and gave a massive bailout to Victoria Khan, the richest billionaire in the state. What the bailout was for was never really made clear, but the Republican controlled state legislature passed it into law.
Flush with victory, the Governor wasn’t taking interviews. Teachers were protesting the capitol and state employees were filing for permission to leave their work pens. Governor Runner was the most sought out interview subject in America and he wasn’t answering anyone’s calls.
That’s when Holly Valentine, reporter for INX, did something that shouldn’t have worked. Out of frustration and perhaps the influence of three Mai Tai’s, Holly had called the Governor’s press secretary and claimed to be Victoria Khan. Affecting a ludicrous Austrian accent, Holly managed to bluff her way to the Governor himself.
“Arrangements have been made. Meet me at the Nap and Tickle, room twenty-three, at midnight.” Governor Runner had said. That was it.
So here Holly was. She was outside room twenty-three wearing a big trench coat, a wide brimmed hat and a pair of sunglasses at night. The trench coat couldn’t hide her immense bosom peaking out the top. The wide hat couldn’t contain her long flaming hair that followed her like angel fire. The sunglasses did hide her lovely eyes, but not the cocky smirk on her full lips. The one thing that was cleverly concealed was the tape recorder that was threaded through out her coat. All good reporters have coats wired for digital sound.
Holly Valentine knocked on the door.
“I am ready!” spoke a voice. It was unmistakably Governor Runner.
Holly opened the door. She almost closed it back again. Inside was a man, stripped naked except for a leather strap around his eyes. He was glistening with oil over his surprisingly frame. He was kneeling on the floor, knees spread wide with his back straight and head lifted high. His cock was trapped inside some devious steel contraption.
“Greetings, Ms. Kahn,” Governor Runner said.
Holly took a deep breath. She had expected to argue and fight for an interview once the Governor realized she was a reporter. Instead, this politician was giving her the access of a lifetime.
“Hello,” Holly said. She coughed as she realized she had forgotten to do an Austrian accent. “I mean, Hello, Governor.”
The Governor trembled. “Ms. Kahn, you have never honored me with my title before. This unworthy worm is grateful!”
Oh boy. Holly tried to recall everything she learned about Sadism when she went undercover at the NRA. She had to get into character and fast.
“Silence, worm!” Holly snapped.
Governor Runner trembled. His cock throbbed helplessly inside its steel cage.
“I have been watching your progress with the budget bill,” Holly said. Her fake accent thickened with each word. “I am moderately pleased.”
“Thank you, Ms. Kahn!” the Governor said. “I did everything you asked. I destroyed the Teacher’s Union for giving your daughter a ‘C’. I also enslaved the state employees so they will quit and you can replace them with your imported Indian workers that you will subcontract to the state.”
It was Holly’s turn to tremble. The Governor’s confession was being recorded by her coat. This could be the scoop of the century! Well, at least till some actor went crazy and said stupid shit.
“Does that please you, Ms. Kahn?” the Governor asked.
“Yes,” Holly said with lust. The lust didn’t need to be faked. This was Pulitzer material.
“But,” Holly said with measured venom. “I am concerned that your methods make enrage the peasants.”
“Fuck them!” Governor Runner said. “I will personally strangle anyone who tries to stand in our way!”
Another delicious tremor of excitement ran through Holly. Few things aroused her like a politician digging a deeper hole for himself. She stood next to the kneeling Governor and ran her fingers over her thinning hair.
“And what about the voters?” Holly asked. “Some people are talking recall.”
“Fuck the voters!” Governor Runner said. “I will sodomize each and every voter who tries any of that recall shit!
Holly moaned. She gripped his hair and tilted his head back. Her panties were soaked.
“And my bailout?” Holly asked.
The Governor whimpered. “I know you asked for seventeen billions dollars, but the state budget only had room for 16 billion. You deserve every penny. You are wealthy and powerful. Every cent the state has should belong to your glory.”
“Damn right,” Holly said. She opened her coat. The reporter should really take her info and run but shit, this was intoxicating.
Holly lifter her skirt and pulled her panties to the side. Some people say that power was an aphrodisiac, but watching power incriminate itself was better than a vibrator and a Hugh Jackman marathon.
She swung her leg over Governor Runner’s body. The politician lifted his head and opened his mouth. He had done this before. As Holly stood over him, Governor Runner ate her cunt.
Because he thought he was licking the cunt of his principal backer, Governor Runner ate the hell out of Holly. The reporter had a new appreciation for why the rich and powerful bought politicians. A pussy eating like this was worth a few million dollars. The Governor used his tongue. He was damn careful with his teeth. Even though his neck was at an awkward angle, he opened wide and tried to reach deep inside Holly. The man even paid just the right amount of attention to her clit.
“Give me that tongue like you gave me a completely unnecessary bailout!” Holly said.
Governor Runner licked faster.
“Make me come as millions of state employees lose their expensive benefits!” Holly moaned.
Governor Runner licked harder.
“Eat that pussy, you paid for sack of shit bought politician!” Holly said.
Governor Runner moaned with submission. The vibration of his lips did wonderful things inside Holly.
“Fuck yes for bribery!” Holly cried as she climaxed. She clenched the Governor’s face to her pussy, riding every last bit of her orgasm on his mouth.
Finally, Holly let go. She stepped away from the Governor’s kneeling body. His face was coated in her juices. Holly pressed a button on her coat and a picture was taken by a sewn in camera. Later, when his career was ruined, she wanted to remember him like this.
“Ms. Kahn,” Governor Runner said. “Please unlock my cock. I want to come so bad. Haven’t I served you well?”
Holly smoothed her coat down. “Not yet, you haven’t,” she said.
“What more do you want?” the slave asked.
“Surprise me,” Holly said as she went out the door.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Erotica Threat Level: Pussy Pink
Months like these I wish I had an all powerful deity to blame for my woes. Non-divine shit, I have had a rough month. We are in day 63 of Work Super Project and it should wrap up sometime in April(!) I pray for death but sweet release never comes.
In the meantime, I read and watch porn.
My own writing has dribbled into a limp parody of itself. I exhausted the last of saved stories last week. I did manage to cough up a Holly Valentine story for Wednesday due to some topical inspiration. I have to tell you, overwhelming work stress just facefucks the Muse. It is hard to get inspiration when you are gagging on Excel sheets.
One thing that I have been inspired to do is work on the Farmer's Daughter Almanac as a book for 2012. The idea of doing an entire book was daunting but it occurred to me that if I invited other people to contribute, it wouldn't be the massive pain that it could be. I have asked a few writers already to submit some articles and hopefully by December, I will have a full book to publish.
Because everyone is contributing, I decided we should sell the book on Lulu at cost. That way anyone who wants one can buy and no one makes a profit. It is just an exercise in creating a completely unnecessary book.
Writing a guidebook for the sex lives of farmers and farm wives has been way too much fun. The key is to not write for real farmers, but mythical farmers. The kind of farmers who worry about Bigfoots, Satan and city folks. The kind of farmers who can grow sex toys in their gardens. The kind of farmers who engage in salcious Cucumber Queen festivals. These farmers have as much to do with real farmers as the Island Princess does with Hawaii.
At this level of work stress, something as ridiculous as the Farmer's Daughter's Almanac is a welcome relief. I love to make shit up. Coming up with a new story for the Librarians can be tricky, but coming up with a fake history for the man who spread bondage through the farmlands is as easy as apple pie.
If you would like to contribute fake articles for a fake almanac, drop me an email and I will send you the submission guidelines. You will get a writing credit and since this is porn, anonymity will be completely respected.
In the meantime, I read and watch porn.
My own writing has dribbled into a limp parody of itself. I exhausted the last of saved stories last week. I did manage to cough up a Holly Valentine story for Wednesday due to some topical inspiration. I have to tell you, overwhelming work stress just facefucks the Muse. It is hard to get inspiration when you are gagging on Excel sheets.
One thing that I have been inspired to do is work on the Farmer's Daughter Almanac as a book for 2012. The idea of doing an entire book was daunting but it occurred to me that if I invited other people to contribute, it wouldn't be the massive pain that it could be. I have asked a few writers already to submit some articles and hopefully by December, I will have a full book to publish.
Because everyone is contributing, I decided we should sell the book on Lulu at cost. That way anyone who wants one can buy and no one makes a profit. It is just an exercise in creating a completely unnecessary book.
Writing a guidebook for the sex lives of farmers and farm wives has been way too much fun. The key is to not write for real farmers, but mythical farmers. The kind of farmers who worry about Bigfoots, Satan and city folks. The kind of farmers who can grow sex toys in their gardens. The kind of farmers who engage in salcious Cucumber Queen festivals. These farmers have as much to do with real farmers as the Island Princess does with Hawaii.
At this level of work stress, something as ridiculous as the Farmer's Daughter's Almanac is a welcome relief. I love to make shit up. Coming up with a new story for the Librarians can be tricky, but coming up with a fake history for the man who spread bondage through the farmlands is as easy as apple pie.
If you would like to contribute fake articles for a fake almanac, drop me an email and I will send you the submission guidelines. You will get a writing credit and since this is porn, anonymity will be completely respected.
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
Fiction: Hundred Ass Salute
The shuttle doors opened. Four members of the Queen’s Whips marched out and took their positions. The masked women were clad in red leather that revealed tempting curves, but everyone’s eyes were on the Vortex rifles they were carrying. One trigger squeeze and an artificial black hole was going to permanently alter the landscape.
After a tense minute, Queen Erishella emerged. She was dressed as a conqueror. Black metal encased her body and left only her face exposed behind a shimmering diffraction field. The power armor she wore glowed as various weapon systems came online. Spikes studded every inch of her body, including a mountain range of deadly points across her breasts.
“Greeting, My Queen!” a tall man said. He stepped forward, wearing a simple white tunic. The only clue to his wealth and power was the twinkling of diamonds sewn into his tunic.
“I am Count Garve the Second,” the greeting man said. “On behalf of Pyritia, I welcome you as the rightful conqueror of our Gem Moon.”
Queen Erishella looked down on the man. “And why are there a hundred female asses bent over and exposed to me? Is this some sort of subtle insult?”
The man’s smile never faltered. “Nay, My Queen. When we decided to surrender to your army before hostilities could begin, we were not sure how to properly show our submission. I decided on this little ceremony.”
Count Garve clapped his hand. A hundred servants stepped forward and raised wicked paddles in their hands. As one, a hundred paddles came down and smacked a hundred asses. The cries of the women were drowned in the thunder of continued paddling.
Queen Erishella smiled. “I was disappointed when you surrendered to me. I very much enjoyed drowning the Gem Moon of Touramali under its melted polar caps. I was looking forward to perhaps igniting the atmosphere of this moon.”
Count Garve bowed his head. “If you give my people a chance, I am sure we can find other ways of entertaining you. I would like to point out that each ass being spanked today was chosen according to the Six Principles of Euphorian Anal Beauty. Each servant wielding a paddle has had their neural pathways configured for the optimal spanking swing. Each paddle was hand crafted by sadistic teachers of wayward students.”
The paddling continued. The sounds of beaten flesh filled the night air.
Queen Erishella grabbed the Count’s chin with her gloved hand. Tiny spikes bit into his flesh. The Count grimaced but he kept smiling.
“And what if I said that I wanted your ass spanked for my pleasure as well?”
“I thought you may,” the Count said. “So I took the precaution of having my buttocks sculpted by a body surgeon for optimal visual pleasure.”
Queen Erishella laughed. She released his face.
Count Garve let out a sigh of relief. It was cut short as someone forced him to the ground. A swift kick to the stomach made him get on his hands and knees. One of the Queen’s Whips ripped his tunic from his body.
The Queen put a spiked heel to his neck. Count Garve obediently put his head to the ground and lifted his ass as high as he could.
“I am going to enjoy this world,” Queen Erishella said. “I may make this Moon my personal Pleasure Palace.”
Before Count Garve could respond, the air was cut with the whistling of a paddle. Blistering heat exploded on his ass. His submission, as well as his people, was just beginning.
After a tense minute, Queen Erishella emerged. She was dressed as a conqueror. Black metal encased her body and left only her face exposed behind a shimmering diffraction field. The power armor she wore glowed as various weapon systems came online. Spikes studded every inch of her body, including a mountain range of deadly points across her breasts.
“Greeting, My Queen!” a tall man said. He stepped forward, wearing a simple white tunic. The only clue to his wealth and power was the twinkling of diamonds sewn into his tunic.
“I am Count Garve the Second,” the greeting man said. “On behalf of Pyritia, I welcome you as the rightful conqueror of our Gem Moon.”
Queen Erishella looked down on the man. “And why are there a hundred female asses bent over and exposed to me? Is this some sort of subtle insult?”
The man’s smile never faltered. “Nay, My Queen. When we decided to surrender to your army before hostilities could begin, we were not sure how to properly show our submission. I decided on this little ceremony.”
Count Garve clapped his hand. A hundred servants stepped forward and raised wicked paddles in their hands. As one, a hundred paddles came down and smacked a hundred asses. The cries of the women were drowned in the thunder of continued paddling.
Queen Erishella smiled. “I was disappointed when you surrendered to me. I very much enjoyed drowning the Gem Moon of Touramali under its melted polar caps. I was looking forward to perhaps igniting the atmosphere of this moon.”
Count Garve bowed his head. “If you give my people a chance, I am sure we can find other ways of entertaining you. I would like to point out that each ass being spanked today was chosen according to the Six Principles of Euphorian Anal Beauty. Each servant wielding a paddle has had their neural pathways configured for the optimal spanking swing. Each paddle was hand crafted by sadistic teachers of wayward students.”
The paddling continued. The sounds of beaten flesh filled the night air.
Queen Erishella grabbed the Count’s chin with her gloved hand. Tiny spikes bit into his flesh. The Count grimaced but he kept smiling.
“And what if I said that I wanted your ass spanked for my pleasure as well?”
“I thought you may,” the Count said. “So I took the precaution of having my buttocks sculpted by a body surgeon for optimal visual pleasure.”
Queen Erishella laughed. She released his face.
Count Garve let out a sigh of relief. It was cut short as someone forced him to the ground. A swift kick to the stomach made him get on his hands and knees. One of the Queen’s Whips ripped his tunic from his body.
The Queen put a spiked heel to his neck. Count Garve obediently put his head to the ground and lifted his ass as high as he could.
“I am going to enjoy this world,” Queen Erishella said. “I may make this Moon my personal Pleasure Palace.”
Before Count Garve could respond, the air was cut with the whistling of a paddle. Blistering heat exploded on his ass. His submission, as well as his people, was just beginning.
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
Fiction: Showdown at Brown Mud
The West might have been Wild but in the little town of Brown Mud, we had no trouble. Part of it was because we had no gold mines, no train tracks and a healthy crop of strange tobacco that kept everyone mellow. The other main reason we had no troubles is because the baddest bad ass of the West would come by once a month to fuck our local sheriff, Johnny Lumber. Her name was Texanah.
Texanah was a wildcat. Long blonde hair, big grand tetons and thighs that could crush a steel caboose made her the proudest woman ever to call herself a Texan. The woman rode around and righted wrongs, killed those needing killing and fucking the shit out of most everything. That gal was a real American.
Now her and Johnny Lumber had an understanding. It was a bit complicated but it went something like this: When Texanah was in town, no one better commit a crime because Texanah was knocking boots, boobs and pussy with the Sheriff. If someone did commit a crime, why Johnny and Texanah would shoot them seventeen times and hang them for the interruption.
It was a right good arrangement and it kept the people of Brown Mud well protected. Texanah usually came around the 22nd of every month like clockwork, though some of the lady folks hint that it was some sort of internal clock that kept Texanah coming back around that time. Whatever the reason, she always came on the 22nd.
The problem came when Texana showed up early on the 16th one month. She rode into town and saw that there was another horse tied up outside the sheriff’s office. Even worse, she could hear the sounds of crazy sex coming from inside the building. Sheriff Lumber was giving his wood to someone else!
“You got ten seconds to get your whore ass out here so I beat the brown mud out of you!” Texanah yelled. The crowd applauded her clever way with words in how she worked in the name of the town. Some cowgirls just have style, you know?
Seven seconds later, out came the woman in question. It was Meximaria! She was the meanest, toughest and most attractive woman south of the border! She had long black hair that she wore under a tassled red hat. Her great tits were the color of dark tea smothered under her white blouse. Leather chaps encased thick thighs that could hold onto a raging Republican.
“What the Hell are you doing here, chica?” Meximaria said.
“What the Hell are you doing with my man?” Texanah said.
Meximaria walked out into the street. Texanah stood her ground but turned to face her. The people of Brown Mud got the fuck off the streets to give them some room.
“Your man? You have a lot of nerve coming here and saying that, punta!” Meximaria said.
“I don’t know what that means, but I am not surprised that a whore like you might know foreign dirty words!” Texanah said.
Johnny Lumber came out of the sheriff’s building. His pants were still around his ankles. His piece was swinging between his legs and everyone understood what exactly the fight was about.
“Hey gals, there is no need to fight!” Johnny said.
“Shut up!” both women yelled.
Jophnny Lumber stood there silently like a good boy.
“On the count of three, draw,” Texanah said to Meximaria. “Or do you not know American numbers?”
“I am just surprised that you can count to three,” Meximaria said.
Texanah narrowed her eyes. Meximaria flexed her fingers. Both girls had their hands inches away from their guns. I started to play a little whistling tune on my flute to set the mood.
“One,” Texanah said.
“Dos,” Mexmimaria said.
“Three!” Texanah said.
Lightning quick hands went into motion. Both ladies whipped their pistols out of their holsters and started shooting. Lead was flying thicker than a mess of hornets.
Now when men shoot each other, they stand real still. I think it is because it makes them look good but women understand that standing still makes you easier to hit. Texanah and Meximaria was dancing and weaving like a june bug crawled up their snatch. The two women were shooting and dodging, shooting and dodging.
They weren’t hitting each other but they were coming close. A bullet went right through the shoulder of Texanah’s vest and her tit popped out. A bullet went through the side of Meximaria’s pants and her chap leg fell down. Texanah barely dodged a bullet to her crotch but she lost her belt buckle. Meximaria stepped out of the way of one bullet but it shot the button off her blouse and popped it open.
The smoke of gunpowder hung in the air. It was as thick as the smoke around harvest time. We held our breaths as we waited to see which one of the two ladies survived. When the smoke finally cleared, both ladies were still standing. Their clothes were in tatters around their feet. All they had on was their hats and their boots!
Texanah and Meximaria kept pulling the triggers but their guns were empty. Men might have reloaded but these two hellcats couldn’t be bothered. They tossed down their guns and ran straight for each other. They were going to settle this by hand.
I once saw a prostitute bathe in whiskey but I ain’t never seen nothing more beautiful than those two running at each other. Texanah with her lovely canyons and Meximaria with her dark melons were like proof that God was a man. Why, if they ever invent the moving picture, they would just film those two running all day.
The two women collided into each other. They then bounced off each other as their breasts crashed together. Both ladies shook their heads and then dived at each other again.
This is when things got real ugly. Or real pretty depending on your place on the street. Those two witches tore at each other with their fingers and teeth. They scratched each other’s tits, pulled on each other’s bushy sex hair and bit each other’s thighs. They rolled around on the dirt and since we just had a good rain, they were getting good and muddy. Somehow they managed to keep their hats on, but what would you expect from such legendary cowgirls?
They rolled and tussled and they bit and shoved. They rolled down one end of the street and back up it. Around and round their tits and ass went and they were kicking, screaming, scratching, biting and hissing the entire time. Shit, I wouldn’t mind watching that every Saturday night.
At some point the screams were started getting personal. It sounded a lot like moans. Instead of scratching, it looked like some fingers were stroking and pinching. Hands went to private parts and stayed there, but more importantly, it didn’t seem like the other was trying to push them away. Biting of tits turned into sucking of nipples and kicking with knees turned into straddling of thighs.
They stopped rolling and were right in front of the sheriff’s office. Texanah had her head between Meximaria’s thighs, while Meximaria had her head right up on Texanah’s cooch. They were kissing each other right there on their sexes! It was the wildest thing I had ever seen. I guess only a woman could stand to eat that!
“What they doing?” Sheriff Lumber said.
The ladies kept eating at each other.
“It is some kind of lesbianism!” Molly, the school teacher said.
“Lordy!” Sheriff Lumber said. “Isn’t that how women get the vote? We got to stop it!”
Sheriff Lumber went over to the horse trough and grabbed a bucket. He filled up a bucket of water and came back to the kissing ladies. That bucket of water emptied right on them and doused them all wet and shiny.
“Oh Hell, no!” Texanah said. She stood up in all her wet naked glory.
“Madre Fuckero!” Meximaria said. She stood up in all her wet naked glory.
Somehow, both ladies were wearing the other’s hats.
“This woman is ten times the man you are between my thighs!” Texanah said.
“This senora can get between my legs any time she wants, but you never will again!” Meximaria said.
“Now hold on ladies,” Sheriff Lumber said. “I’m sure we can go inside and talk this out. Maybe we can invent the threesome!”
What happened next was too fast for the human eye to follow. Sheriff Lumber fell to the ground with two black eyes. Texanah and Meximaria spun around from the force of their swings. They looked at each other and whispered something.
No one knows what they say, but the two gals walked straight to the hotel and got themselves a room. They had wild loud sex for a good week before they were done. When they finally finished, the two rode off in different directions, swearing to meet back next month.
As for Sheriff Lumber, well we elected Molly the school teacher to his job and things have been quiet ever since.
Texanah was a wildcat. Long blonde hair, big grand tetons and thighs that could crush a steel caboose made her the proudest woman ever to call herself a Texan. The woman rode around and righted wrongs, killed those needing killing and fucking the shit out of most everything. That gal was a real American.
Now her and Johnny Lumber had an understanding. It was a bit complicated but it went something like this: When Texanah was in town, no one better commit a crime because Texanah was knocking boots, boobs and pussy with the Sheriff. If someone did commit a crime, why Johnny and Texanah would shoot them seventeen times and hang them for the interruption.
It was a right good arrangement and it kept the people of Brown Mud well protected. Texanah usually came around the 22nd of every month like clockwork, though some of the lady folks hint that it was some sort of internal clock that kept Texanah coming back around that time. Whatever the reason, she always came on the 22nd.
The problem came when Texana showed up early on the 16th one month. She rode into town and saw that there was another horse tied up outside the sheriff’s office. Even worse, she could hear the sounds of crazy sex coming from inside the building. Sheriff Lumber was giving his wood to someone else!
“You got ten seconds to get your whore ass out here so I beat the brown mud out of you!” Texanah yelled. The crowd applauded her clever way with words in how she worked in the name of the town. Some cowgirls just have style, you know?
Seven seconds later, out came the woman in question. It was Meximaria! She was the meanest, toughest and most attractive woman south of the border! She had long black hair that she wore under a tassled red hat. Her great tits were the color of dark tea smothered under her white blouse. Leather chaps encased thick thighs that could hold onto a raging Republican.
“What the Hell are you doing here, chica?” Meximaria said.
“What the Hell are you doing with my man?” Texanah said.
Meximaria walked out into the street. Texanah stood her ground but turned to face her. The people of Brown Mud got the fuck off the streets to give them some room.
“Your man? You have a lot of nerve coming here and saying that, punta!” Meximaria said.
“I don’t know what that means, but I am not surprised that a whore like you might know foreign dirty words!” Texanah said.
Johnny Lumber came out of the sheriff’s building. His pants were still around his ankles. His piece was swinging between his legs and everyone understood what exactly the fight was about.
“Hey gals, there is no need to fight!” Johnny said.
“Shut up!” both women yelled.
Jophnny Lumber stood there silently like a good boy.
“On the count of three, draw,” Texanah said to Meximaria. “Or do you not know American numbers?”
“I am just surprised that you can count to three,” Meximaria said.
Texanah narrowed her eyes. Meximaria flexed her fingers. Both girls had their hands inches away from their guns. I started to play a little whistling tune on my flute to set the mood.
“One,” Texanah said.
“Dos,” Mexmimaria said.
“Three!” Texanah said.
Lightning quick hands went into motion. Both ladies whipped their pistols out of their holsters and started shooting. Lead was flying thicker than a mess of hornets.
Now when men shoot each other, they stand real still. I think it is because it makes them look good but women understand that standing still makes you easier to hit. Texanah and Meximaria was dancing and weaving like a june bug crawled up their snatch. The two women were shooting and dodging, shooting and dodging.
They weren’t hitting each other but they were coming close. A bullet went right through the shoulder of Texanah’s vest and her tit popped out. A bullet went through the side of Meximaria’s pants and her chap leg fell down. Texanah barely dodged a bullet to her crotch but she lost her belt buckle. Meximaria stepped out of the way of one bullet but it shot the button off her blouse and popped it open.
The smoke of gunpowder hung in the air. It was as thick as the smoke around harvest time. We held our breaths as we waited to see which one of the two ladies survived. When the smoke finally cleared, both ladies were still standing. Their clothes were in tatters around their feet. All they had on was their hats and their boots!
Texanah and Meximaria kept pulling the triggers but their guns were empty. Men might have reloaded but these two hellcats couldn’t be bothered. They tossed down their guns and ran straight for each other. They were going to settle this by hand.
I once saw a prostitute bathe in whiskey but I ain’t never seen nothing more beautiful than those two running at each other. Texanah with her lovely canyons and Meximaria with her dark melons were like proof that God was a man. Why, if they ever invent the moving picture, they would just film those two running all day.
The two women collided into each other. They then bounced off each other as their breasts crashed together. Both ladies shook their heads and then dived at each other again.
This is when things got real ugly. Or real pretty depending on your place on the street. Those two witches tore at each other with their fingers and teeth. They scratched each other’s tits, pulled on each other’s bushy sex hair and bit each other’s thighs. They rolled around on the dirt and since we just had a good rain, they were getting good and muddy. Somehow they managed to keep their hats on, but what would you expect from such legendary cowgirls?
They rolled and tussled and they bit and shoved. They rolled down one end of the street and back up it. Around and round their tits and ass went and they were kicking, screaming, scratching, biting and hissing the entire time. Shit, I wouldn’t mind watching that every Saturday night.
At some point the screams were started getting personal. It sounded a lot like moans. Instead of scratching, it looked like some fingers were stroking and pinching. Hands went to private parts and stayed there, but more importantly, it didn’t seem like the other was trying to push them away. Biting of tits turned into sucking of nipples and kicking with knees turned into straddling of thighs.
They stopped rolling and were right in front of the sheriff’s office. Texanah had her head between Meximaria’s thighs, while Meximaria had her head right up on Texanah’s cooch. They were kissing each other right there on their sexes! It was the wildest thing I had ever seen. I guess only a woman could stand to eat that!
“What they doing?” Sheriff Lumber said.
The ladies kept eating at each other.
“It is some kind of lesbianism!” Molly, the school teacher said.
“Lordy!” Sheriff Lumber said. “Isn’t that how women get the vote? We got to stop it!”
Sheriff Lumber went over to the horse trough and grabbed a bucket. He filled up a bucket of water and came back to the kissing ladies. That bucket of water emptied right on them and doused them all wet and shiny.
“Oh Hell, no!” Texanah said. She stood up in all her wet naked glory.
“Madre Fuckero!” Meximaria said. She stood up in all her wet naked glory.
Somehow, both ladies were wearing the other’s hats.
“This woman is ten times the man you are between my thighs!” Texanah said.
“This senora can get between my legs any time she wants, but you never will again!” Meximaria said.
“Now hold on ladies,” Sheriff Lumber said. “I’m sure we can go inside and talk this out. Maybe we can invent the threesome!”
What happened next was too fast for the human eye to follow. Sheriff Lumber fell to the ground with two black eyes. Texanah and Meximaria spun around from the force of their swings. They looked at each other and whispered something.
No one knows what they say, but the two gals walked straight to the hotel and got themselves a room. They had wild loud sex for a good week before they were done. When they finally finished, the two rode off in different directions, swearing to meet back next month.
As for Sheriff Lumber, well we elected Molly the school teacher to his job and things have been quiet ever since.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Fucktoy Friday #4
I climaxed in the fucktoy’s ass. Her tight little ass quivered as my seed pumped into her. When I pulled my cock out, I wiped it on her ass.
“Please,” she moaned. She stayed on the floor with her legs spread apart. Her hands were bound together. Her knees and breasts would have rug burns for the rest of the week.
“Two minutes,” I saig.
The fucktoy rose on her knees. She whimpers as her ass protested the movement. She crawled awkwardly across the living room where the dildo was nailed to the floor. The fucktoy mounted the dildo with whorish ease.
The clock was ticking. The fucktoy humped the dildo furiously. Spanking her turned her on. Choking her turned her on. Fucking her ass turned her on. None of those got her off though. That was what the dildo was for.
The fucktoy bounced on her dildo. Her small tits bounced with urgency. The spank marks on her ass clenched as she rode the dildo. The sound of her greedy pussy filled the room with squelches and slurps.
The fucktoy had no shame. She didn’t slow down when I laugh at her need. She didn’t stop when I called her a horny slut.
“Time is up,” I said. It might have been. I never look at the clock.
The fucktoy whined but she dismounted. The dildo glistened.
“Clean your toy,” I said.
The fucktoy bent over and took the dildo in her mouth. She licked it clean while I I thought of what I wanted from her next.
“Please,” she moaned. She stayed on the floor with her legs spread apart. Her hands were bound together. Her knees and breasts would have rug burns for the rest of the week.
“Two minutes,” I saig.
The fucktoy rose on her knees. She whimpers as her ass protested the movement. She crawled awkwardly across the living room where the dildo was nailed to the floor. The fucktoy mounted the dildo with whorish ease.
The clock was ticking. The fucktoy humped the dildo furiously. Spanking her turned her on. Choking her turned her on. Fucking her ass turned her on. None of those got her off though. That was what the dildo was for.
The fucktoy bounced on her dildo. Her small tits bounced with urgency. The spank marks on her ass clenched as she rode the dildo. The sound of her greedy pussy filled the room with squelches and slurps.
The fucktoy had no shame. She didn’t slow down when I laugh at her need. She didn’t stop when I called her a horny slut.
“Time is up,” I said. It might have been. I never look at the clock.
The fucktoy whined but she dismounted. The dildo glistened.
“Clean your toy,” I said.
The fucktoy bent over and took the dildo in her mouth. She licked it clean while I I thought of what I wanted from her next.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Fiction: Mystery Girl
My name is Holly Valentine. I am a reporter for INX, the independent news website. I’m in my mid-thirties and I have never been married. I have cracked open dozens of major scandals although I will never win a Pulitzer because of the powerful people I have pissed off. The reason I am writing to you today in this issue of Journal of Psychological Disorders is to share my experiences about my own particular sexual fetish.
I am a diagnosed conspirasexual. That means I get aroused when I encounter a mystery that someone is actively trying to hide. To be more specific, I get aroused and stimulated as I try to uncover those secrets that others try to hide.
My earliest sexual memory is watching Scooby-Doo. Watching that dog and those kids solve mysteries used to excite me like nothing else. I was too young to understand what my body was feeling but I knew that I liked it. My heart would beat faster, my legs would tingle and I could barely sit still on the couch. When the Scooby gang would yank the mask off the monster to show the real villain, I would feel this weird bliss fill my body.
Unless you grew up during that sweet spot of the 70’s and 80’s, you wouldn’t understand how important mystery was to Saturday cartoons. The success of Scooby-Doo meant that cartoons of other crime solving kids and their pets, talking cars and friendly ghosts filled the major channels. Every Saturday was filled with more mysteries than I could possibly keep up. From show to show, I would watch with terrible excitement. It was like my young personality was being trained to solve crimes and expose dishonest park owners and monster fakers.
Childhood turned into puberty and puberty became a quest to uncover all the things parents don’t want you to know. I was a particularly deviant teenage girl not because of some irresistable desire for sex and alcohol, but because parents and society worked so hard to keep it away from me. I had to find out about handjobs, oral sex, vodka, kissing girls and ‘9 ½ Weeks’ because everyone was trying to so hard to keep it away from my prying eyes.
I finally settled down in High School when I joined the school paper. I loved our adviser teacher, Mr. Gort, but I was horrified by how little we were encouraged to actually investigate. We were told to write articles about football games and cover school politics. We were encouraged to become publicity people for our school. When you look at the state of modern journalism, it is not too surprising but as a young horny teenager eager to bust some mysteries, it was unacceptable.
I investigated an affair that was going on between the Girl’s Tennis coach and his two top players. Watching the three of them have sex was exciting, but it was the pictures I took that really got me wet and excited. I masturbated for the first time as my camera recorded their sinful deeds.
To this day, Polaroids of people having sex that they are trying to hide from others is an instant orgasm for me.
When I filed my report for the paper, Mr. Gort was very understanding. He forbade me from publishing it in the school paper but he helped me submit my findings to the town newspaper and as well as the police. He encouraged me to get the fuck out of school journalism and hit the real newspapers. I like to think he understood me; especially since he helped me break up three more sex scandals at the school.
I went to college and continued my work. I also continued my sexual enjoyment of exposing conspiracies. It was in college that I really came to understand myself. For example, a night in watching Law and Order is kind of stimulating, but only as much as watching silly softcore porn movies is for kinky people. I need to be involved.
If I am sweet-talking a guard into letting me snoop somewhere I don’t belong, that gets my panties soaking. If I am watching a hacker break into corporate secrets, that sends a tingle from my nipples to my clit. If I have documentation of a crime that is going to topple a politician, I might have to masturbate six or seven times that night just to calm down.
My boss at INX understands my compulsion and has suggested I get therapy for it. Some of my fellow reporters think it is unprofessional to get so horny that you fuck an informant after you have already bribed him and gotten your information. A few network executives have told me that they would gladly hire me for a plush prime time job if it wasn’t for the fact that I unconsciously moan while talking about secrets. It is safe to say that my conspirasexuality has impacted my career opportunities.
I am not shedding any tears. I am too busy stroking off to another scandal fueled orgasm. It is really difficult to want to change your life when there are so many secrets out there. It is really difficult to want to change your sexual identity when you are screaming an orgasm in a parking lot because you just captured footage of a bribe between crooks and religious figures. It is fucking difficult to want to change when you soak as many panties as I do on a daily basis.
So here is what I want to say to you doctors, therapists and scholars reading this journal article. Stop trying to cure Conspirasexuallia. Figure out a way to spread it instead.
Imagine how much better the world would be.
I am a diagnosed conspirasexual. That means I get aroused when I encounter a mystery that someone is actively trying to hide. To be more specific, I get aroused and stimulated as I try to uncover those secrets that others try to hide.
My earliest sexual memory is watching Scooby-Doo. Watching that dog and those kids solve mysteries used to excite me like nothing else. I was too young to understand what my body was feeling but I knew that I liked it. My heart would beat faster, my legs would tingle and I could barely sit still on the couch. When the Scooby gang would yank the mask off the monster to show the real villain, I would feel this weird bliss fill my body.
Unless you grew up during that sweet spot of the 70’s and 80’s, you wouldn’t understand how important mystery was to Saturday cartoons. The success of Scooby-Doo meant that cartoons of other crime solving kids and their pets, talking cars and friendly ghosts filled the major channels. Every Saturday was filled with more mysteries than I could possibly keep up. From show to show, I would watch with terrible excitement. It was like my young personality was being trained to solve crimes and expose dishonest park owners and monster fakers.
Childhood turned into puberty and puberty became a quest to uncover all the things parents don’t want you to know. I was a particularly deviant teenage girl not because of some irresistable desire for sex and alcohol, but because parents and society worked so hard to keep it away from me. I had to find out about handjobs, oral sex, vodka, kissing girls and ‘9 ½ Weeks’ because everyone was trying to so hard to keep it away from my prying eyes.
I finally settled down in High School when I joined the school paper. I loved our adviser teacher, Mr. Gort, but I was horrified by how little we were encouraged to actually investigate. We were told to write articles about football games and cover school politics. We were encouraged to become publicity people for our school. When you look at the state of modern journalism, it is not too surprising but as a young horny teenager eager to bust some mysteries, it was unacceptable.
I investigated an affair that was going on between the Girl’s Tennis coach and his two top players. Watching the three of them have sex was exciting, but it was the pictures I took that really got me wet and excited. I masturbated for the first time as my camera recorded their sinful deeds.
To this day, Polaroids of people having sex that they are trying to hide from others is an instant orgasm for me.
When I filed my report for the paper, Mr. Gort was very understanding. He forbade me from publishing it in the school paper but he helped me submit my findings to the town newspaper and as well as the police. He encouraged me to get the fuck out of school journalism and hit the real newspapers. I like to think he understood me; especially since he helped me break up three more sex scandals at the school.
I went to college and continued my work. I also continued my sexual enjoyment of exposing conspiracies. It was in college that I really came to understand myself. For example, a night in watching Law and Order is kind of stimulating, but only as much as watching silly softcore porn movies is for kinky people. I need to be involved.
If I am sweet-talking a guard into letting me snoop somewhere I don’t belong, that gets my panties soaking. If I am watching a hacker break into corporate secrets, that sends a tingle from my nipples to my clit. If I have documentation of a crime that is going to topple a politician, I might have to masturbate six or seven times that night just to calm down.
My boss at INX understands my compulsion and has suggested I get therapy for it. Some of my fellow reporters think it is unprofessional to get so horny that you fuck an informant after you have already bribed him and gotten your information. A few network executives have told me that they would gladly hire me for a plush prime time job if it wasn’t for the fact that I unconsciously moan while talking about secrets. It is safe to say that my conspirasexuality has impacted my career opportunities.
I am not shedding any tears. I am too busy stroking off to another scandal fueled orgasm. It is really difficult to want to change your life when there are so many secrets out there. It is really difficult to want to change your sexual identity when you are screaming an orgasm in a parking lot because you just captured footage of a bribe between crooks and religious figures. It is fucking difficult to want to change when you soak as many panties as I do on a daily basis.
So here is what I want to say to you doctors, therapists and scholars reading this journal article. Stop trying to cure Conspirasexuallia. Figure out a way to spread it instead.
Imagine how much better the world would be.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Farmer's Daughter's Almanac: Don't Scare the Horses
Love is a complicated thing. Sometimes we marry our middle school sweetheart and sometimes we don't marry at all because the men are kind of stupid. Sometimes it is more fun to fuck than to get married. The problem is that after fucking six different guys on Saturday, Reverend Busybody is preaching about you on Sunday. Or maybe Daddy gets mad and shoots one of your lovers. Or worse, Momma decides to become a MILF and steal all your boys. What's a Farmer's Daughter to do?
Well in the old days, women of a certain sexual healthiness would fuck in the barn. This causes all sorts of problems. For one, it scares the horses. Second, it is the first place fathers, mothers, peeping tom clergy and jealous wives look. Fucking in the barn is a lot like hiding money in your pussy, it's the first place everyone looks.
The Farmer's Daughter offers the following suggestions.
Cellar Hideaway: Dig a cellar and tell your family it's for tornadoes. This will allow you to stuck it with supplies like a comfortable bed, food, water and your favorite lubricant. Heck, if a tornado does come through, you got yourself set up for a very busy night.
Church: Think about it, unless it is a Sunday, that big old Church is empty most other days of the week. You haven't lived till you have been bent over a pew or eaten under the altar. You're going to be calling out to God anyway; might as well do it where he can hear you.
The Outhouse: Yeah, it is not sexy in there I know. But think about this, if you walked by an outhouse and it was shaking and you heard a bunch of moans, would you bother them?
Your Daddy's Bed: This is a good one. If your Daddy does come to the bedroom to find you fucking the entire Bible Quiz team in his bed, he won't say anything. He would be too ashamed of admitting that he was so lazy that he went to his bedroom before sundown.
Well in the old days, women of a certain sexual healthiness would fuck in the barn. This causes all sorts of problems. For one, it scares the horses. Second, it is the first place fathers, mothers, peeping tom clergy and jealous wives look. Fucking in the barn is a lot like hiding money in your pussy, it's the first place everyone looks.
The Farmer's Daughter offers the following suggestions.
Cellar Hideaway: Dig a cellar and tell your family it's for tornadoes. This will allow you to stuck it with supplies like a comfortable bed, food, water and your favorite lubricant. Heck, if a tornado does come through, you got yourself set up for a very busy night.
Church: Think about it, unless it is a Sunday, that big old Church is empty most other days of the week. You haven't lived till you have been bent over a pew or eaten under the altar. You're going to be calling out to God anyway; might as well do it where he can hear you.
The Outhouse: Yeah, it is not sexy in there I know. But think about this, if you walked by an outhouse and it was shaking and you heard a bunch of moans, would you bother them?
Your Daddy's Bed: This is a good one. If your Daddy does come to the bedroom to find you fucking the entire Bible Quiz team in his bed, he won't say anything. He would be too ashamed of admitting that he was so lazy that he went to his bedroom before sundown.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Fucktoy Friday #3
The gas stop had three fucktoys to choose from. The selection was getting bigger every time I came through here. Hauling car parts down I-20 wasn’t looking so bad any more.
All three of them were naked and all three of them were cuffed to the metal pipers above them. A five dollar deposit got you the fucktoy of your choice. They were yours to play with until you left them at another certain gas stop where they go back into circulation. Being a trucker in these enlightened times was the shit.
The first fucktoy was a tiny little blonde girl. Her itty-bitty tits would be perfect for biting on the long drive. I bet I could cram the whole girl into my tool box and take out her out for blowjobs and cunt fucks.
The second fucktoy was a plump black girl. Damn, she had an ass on her. I could fuck that ass at every rest stop between here and Greenville.
The third fucktoy was a scared looking brunette with tattoos on her pale skin. We see her kind all the time. They thought it would be their dream to serve as fucktoys to truckers on the highway but once they get here, they realize we aren’t the pussy gentle lovers they are used to bossing around. Her tits had nice pretty bruises from her last user. She also stood with her legs apart, like she had been carrying something large and painful between her thighs for too long.
Shit, I am also a sucker for the scared ones. I slapped my ballgag on her and paid my five bucks. I dragged her by her hair and pulled her with me. She stumbled a bit so I picked her up and put her over my shoulder.
I walked out to my truck. My hand was on her ass but my mind was on the drive. I got deadlines to make and gas to ration. I got to plan my meals and figure out how long I can drive before I need to sleep. I’m not even thinking about my fucktoy because she is the least of my concerns. I’ll fuck her ass, I’ll fuck her mouth and I’ll fuck that sweet young cunt. That is what she’s there for.
She’s just another supply I use for the trip.
All three of them were naked and all three of them were cuffed to the metal pipers above them. A five dollar deposit got you the fucktoy of your choice. They were yours to play with until you left them at another certain gas stop where they go back into circulation. Being a trucker in these enlightened times was the shit.
The first fucktoy was a tiny little blonde girl. Her itty-bitty tits would be perfect for biting on the long drive. I bet I could cram the whole girl into my tool box and take out her out for blowjobs and cunt fucks.
The second fucktoy was a plump black girl. Damn, she had an ass on her. I could fuck that ass at every rest stop between here and Greenville.
The third fucktoy was a scared looking brunette with tattoos on her pale skin. We see her kind all the time. They thought it would be their dream to serve as fucktoys to truckers on the highway but once they get here, they realize we aren’t the pussy gentle lovers they are used to bossing around. Her tits had nice pretty bruises from her last user. She also stood with her legs apart, like she had been carrying something large and painful between her thighs for too long.
Shit, I am also a sucker for the scared ones. I slapped my ballgag on her and paid my five bucks. I dragged her by her hair and pulled her with me. She stumbled a bit so I picked her up and put her over my shoulder.
I walked out to my truck. My hand was on her ass but my mind was on the drive. I got deadlines to make and gas to ration. I got to plan my meals and figure out how long I can drive before I need to sleep. I’m not even thinking about my fucktoy because she is the least of my concerns. I’ll fuck her ass, I’ll fuck her mouth and I’ll fuck that sweet young cunt. That is what she’s there for.
She’s just another supply I use for the trip.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Fiction: Hand Wash
Aaron had two hours to kill before his Technical Sex Manual Writing class. The nice thing about Eros University was that there was plenty to do. Today he planned to spend his time at the Pornocade and see if he can beat his personal high score on Donkey Punch.
As he walked across campus, he saw that one of the sororities had set up some sort of charity drive. Young women in skimpy bikinis stood in front of curtained stalls. As he got closer, one of the girls yelled at him.
“Hey! Want a hand wash? Only 20 dollars! All the money goes to providing porn in rural areas without internet!”
“I don’t have a car,” Aaron said.
The blonde girl giggled. “We don’t wash cars! We will wash you!”
Aaron stopped walking. He looked the blonde girl over. She had to be on a nude model scholarship because she was unbelievable hot, even by Eros University standards. She had firm golden breasts barely supported by her green bikini. Her hips curved in ways that artists practice years to get right. Long curly blonde hair fell around a cute oval face that looked delighted to see him. The only imperfection was a wide nose that gave her beautiful face a touch of realism.
“Are you saying that you will wash me? You?” Aaron said. He wanted to make sure there wasn’t a bait and switch like they taught him in Dishonest Internet Advertising Class.
“Well, not exactly,” the girl said. “It will be me and my friend, Angie.”
The girl pointed at another bikini girl. This woman was shorter than the blonde but shit, her chest was twice as big. She had short brown hair that framed her face. The blue bikini she wore threatened to explode at any moment from the massive burden it was carrying.
Aaron reached into his wallet. “I did skip my shower this morning.”
“There you go!” the girl said. “My name is Jessi.” She went to one of the stalls and pulled aside the curtains. Come join us once you pay.”
Aaron quickly handed the money to a smirking Asian woman and went to the stall. Inside was a raised wooden platform with a drain. A shower head hung overhead and a small water tight cooler was open. A sign said “Constructed by the Home Dungeon Economics Class of 2009.”
Jessi had the cooler open. “Strip down and put your clothes here.”
Aaron took off his shirt and pants. He hesitated at his underwear.
“How else are we going to get you clean?” Angie said behind him. She yanked his underwear down to reveal his hard cock.
“All right!” Aaron said. His cock was pointing right at Jessi. She looked at it like it was the biggest she had ever seen. She was definitely here on a Nude Model scholarship.
“Are you two going to get naked?” Aaron asked.
Jessi shook her head. “We are not the ones who need to get clean.”
Before Aaron could answer, the showerhead came on and sprayed him with surprisingly warm water. It was the perfect temperature from the start. He wondered which science class came up with that.
The spray was so wide that Jessi and Angie were soaked as well. Jessi’s curls turned a dark gold as it was plastered to her smooth skin. Rivers of water flowed down her chest and into the canyon of her cleavage. The green bikini became transparent when wet and revealed the contours of her hard nipples and wide areoles. She tilted her head and opened her mouth so the spray of water would fill her mouth and spill out over her chin.
Fuck, maybe they don’t need to be naked after all.
“We prefer to use body wash,” Angie said behind him. He turned to face her. Her blue bikini seemed to shrink in the water to reveal even more of her mountainous breasts. “Would you prefer refreshing breeze as a scent or forest clean?”
“Ahh, refreshing breeze?” he said. His mind was failing to work in front of so much wet flesh.
“Okay, let’s get to work!” Jessi said.
The girls squeezed the blue body wash into their hands and lathered it up. Both of them also smeared the body wash onto their breasts. As they rubbed the soapy suds onto his body, they would return to the lather on their breasts for fresh suds.
The two girls soaped him up but they also worked their fingers into his arms and chest. They massaged his muscles as they soaped him up. He bit back his moans as they worked out kinks he didn’t even know he had in his arms.
“You should come by the Massage building and sign up for practice massages.” Angie said. “You have a lot of tension,”
“Especially between his legs,” Jessi said.
Angie laughed and slapped her friend. Suds and water went everywhere. Aaron throbbed and tried to keep from groaning.
“I’ll get his back,” Angie said. She stepped behind him but instead of her hands, Aaron felt her breasts press against him. He shuddered as he felt her soft wet pillows rub back and forth.
“I’ll get his legs,” Jeesi said. She knelt down in the stall before him. His cock unconsciously bounced in her direction. The cute blonde looked up at him and giggled.
“Campus Legal Department insists that I tell each one of our customers the following,” Angie said. “Although we can give you a head to toe wash, we are legally forbidden from offering sexual services without a state license.”
“Aww, that is too bad,” Aaron said. “You ladies would be worth any amount.”
Angie’s breasts pressed harder into his back. “Hey, that is sweet of you to say. Don’t you think, Jessi?”
“It sure is,” Jessi said.
The blonde looked up at Aaron and put a finger to her lips for him to be quiet. Before he could understand why, the blonde opened her mouth and took his cock into her mouth.
“Oh Jesus,” Aaron said.
“You like that?” Angie said as she massaged his ass. Her fingers were ever so close to his anus.
“Yes!” Aaron said. He did like it, but not as much as Jessi bouncing her head furiously on his cock.
“I have to say that you are pretty clean already,” Angie said. “So many of our customers are a bit on the skuzzy side. It is nice to see some guys follow basic hygiene.”
“Thanks,” Aaron said weakly. Jessi was fondling his balls as her mouth suck him. He was praying for climax before Angie was finished with his back.
Angie’s breasts were still against his back as she reached around and lathered his chest again. He noticed her hands were spending a lot of time with his nipples. She pinched them with her soapy fingers.
“Don’t say anything,” Angie whispered to him.
Aaron nodded. Her secret was safe with him.
He looked down to see Jessi looking up at him. Her leyes were half closed with oral bliss.
Aaron climaxed. It was the quietest he had ever come. His cock exploded inside the blonde’s mouth while the busty brunette continued to pull his nipples.
Jessi stood up and Angie quickly released his nipples.
“All done down there!” Jessi said.
“All done back here!” Angie said.
Angie and Jessi rinsed his body of any remaining suds, lather or come. The water was turned off and before Aaron had a chance to shiver, his body was engulfed in big fluffy towels. The two women rubbed the wonderful towels over every part of his body though both of them seemed to think that his now limp cock needed a thorough drying. Aaron didn’t complain.
As he got dressed, Aaron was filled with afterglow generosity. “Would it be okay if I donated more money to your charity?”
“That’s sweet of you!” Jessi said. “You must really care about people getting their porn in these time economic times!”
“I have a big heart,” Aaron said.
“Just hand your money to our cashier and let them know you had us as washers,” Angie said.
“Will do!” Aaron said. He headed off to empty his wallet.
As he walked away, Angie let out a sigh. “Too bad it was your turn to suck them, because he was cute.”
Jessi nodded. “At this rate, we won’t have any problems being the top charity earners.”
“We’ll claim that grand prize and get that porn star convention trip for our Spring Break!” Angie said.
“I love charity work!” Jessi said.
As he walked across campus, he saw that one of the sororities had set up some sort of charity drive. Young women in skimpy bikinis stood in front of curtained stalls. As he got closer, one of the girls yelled at him.
“Hey! Want a hand wash? Only 20 dollars! All the money goes to providing porn in rural areas without internet!”
“I don’t have a car,” Aaron said.
The blonde girl giggled. “We don’t wash cars! We will wash you!”
Aaron stopped walking. He looked the blonde girl over. She had to be on a nude model scholarship because she was unbelievable hot, even by Eros University standards. She had firm golden breasts barely supported by her green bikini. Her hips curved in ways that artists practice years to get right. Long curly blonde hair fell around a cute oval face that looked delighted to see him. The only imperfection was a wide nose that gave her beautiful face a touch of realism.
“Are you saying that you will wash me? You?” Aaron said. He wanted to make sure there wasn’t a bait and switch like they taught him in Dishonest Internet Advertising Class.
“Well, not exactly,” the girl said. “It will be me and my friend, Angie.”
The girl pointed at another bikini girl. This woman was shorter than the blonde but shit, her chest was twice as big. She had short brown hair that framed her face. The blue bikini she wore threatened to explode at any moment from the massive burden it was carrying.
Aaron reached into his wallet. “I did skip my shower this morning.”
“There you go!” the girl said. “My name is Jessi.” She went to one of the stalls and pulled aside the curtains. Come join us once you pay.”
Aaron quickly handed the money to a smirking Asian woman and went to the stall. Inside was a raised wooden platform with a drain. A shower head hung overhead and a small water tight cooler was open. A sign said “Constructed by the Home Dungeon Economics Class of 2009.”
Jessi had the cooler open. “Strip down and put your clothes here.”
Aaron took off his shirt and pants. He hesitated at his underwear.
“How else are we going to get you clean?” Angie said behind him. She yanked his underwear down to reveal his hard cock.
“All right!” Aaron said. His cock was pointing right at Jessi. She looked at it like it was the biggest she had ever seen. She was definitely here on a Nude Model scholarship.
“Are you two going to get naked?” Aaron asked.
Jessi shook her head. “We are not the ones who need to get clean.”
Before Aaron could answer, the showerhead came on and sprayed him with surprisingly warm water. It was the perfect temperature from the start. He wondered which science class came up with that.
The spray was so wide that Jessi and Angie were soaked as well. Jessi’s curls turned a dark gold as it was plastered to her smooth skin. Rivers of water flowed down her chest and into the canyon of her cleavage. The green bikini became transparent when wet and revealed the contours of her hard nipples and wide areoles. She tilted her head and opened her mouth so the spray of water would fill her mouth and spill out over her chin.
Fuck, maybe they don’t need to be naked after all.
“We prefer to use body wash,” Angie said behind him. He turned to face her. Her blue bikini seemed to shrink in the water to reveal even more of her mountainous breasts. “Would you prefer refreshing breeze as a scent or forest clean?”
“Ahh, refreshing breeze?” he said. His mind was failing to work in front of so much wet flesh.
“Okay, let’s get to work!” Jessi said.
The girls squeezed the blue body wash into their hands and lathered it up. Both of them also smeared the body wash onto their breasts. As they rubbed the soapy suds onto his body, they would return to the lather on their breasts for fresh suds.
The two girls soaped him up but they also worked their fingers into his arms and chest. They massaged his muscles as they soaped him up. He bit back his moans as they worked out kinks he didn’t even know he had in his arms.
“You should come by the Massage building and sign up for practice massages.” Angie said. “You have a lot of tension,”
“Especially between his legs,” Jessi said.
Angie laughed and slapped her friend. Suds and water went everywhere. Aaron throbbed and tried to keep from groaning.
“I’ll get his back,” Angie said. She stepped behind him but instead of her hands, Aaron felt her breasts press against him. He shuddered as he felt her soft wet pillows rub back and forth.
“I’ll get his legs,” Jeesi said. She knelt down in the stall before him. His cock unconsciously bounced in her direction. The cute blonde looked up at him and giggled.
“Campus Legal Department insists that I tell each one of our customers the following,” Angie said. “Although we can give you a head to toe wash, we are legally forbidden from offering sexual services without a state license.”
“Aww, that is too bad,” Aaron said. “You ladies would be worth any amount.”
Angie’s breasts pressed harder into his back. “Hey, that is sweet of you to say. Don’t you think, Jessi?”
“It sure is,” Jessi said.
The blonde looked up at Aaron and put a finger to her lips for him to be quiet. Before he could understand why, the blonde opened her mouth and took his cock into her mouth.
“Oh Jesus,” Aaron said.
“You like that?” Angie said as she massaged his ass. Her fingers were ever so close to his anus.
“Yes!” Aaron said. He did like it, but not as much as Jessi bouncing her head furiously on his cock.
“I have to say that you are pretty clean already,” Angie said. “So many of our customers are a bit on the skuzzy side. It is nice to see some guys follow basic hygiene.”
“Thanks,” Aaron said weakly. Jessi was fondling his balls as her mouth suck him. He was praying for climax before Angie was finished with his back.
Angie’s breasts were still against his back as she reached around and lathered his chest again. He noticed her hands were spending a lot of time with his nipples. She pinched them with her soapy fingers.
“Don’t say anything,” Angie whispered to him.
Aaron nodded. Her secret was safe with him.
He looked down to see Jessi looking up at him. Her leyes were half closed with oral bliss.
Aaron climaxed. It was the quietest he had ever come. His cock exploded inside the blonde’s mouth while the busty brunette continued to pull his nipples.
Jessi stood up and Angie quickly released his nipples.
“All done down there!” Jessi said.
“All done back here!” Angie said.
Angie and Jessi rinsed his body of any remaining suds, lather or come. The water was turned off and before Aaron had a chance to shiver, his body was engulfed in big fluffy towels. The two women rubbed the wonderful towels over every part of his body though both of them seemed to think that his now limp cock needed a thorough drying. Aaron didn’t complain.
As he got dressed, Aaron was filled with afterglow generosity. “Would it be okay if I donated more money to your charity?”
“That’s sweet of you!” Jessi said. “You must really care about people getting their porn in these time economic times!”
“I have a big heart,” Aaron said.
“Just hand your money to our cashier and let them know you had us as washers,” Angie said.
“Will do!” Aaron said. He headed off to empty his wallet.
As he walked away, Angie let out a sigh. “Too bad it was your turn to suck them, because he was cute.”
Jessi nodded. “At this rate, we won’t have any problems being the top charity earners.”
“We’ll claim that grand prize and get that porn star convention trip for our Spring Break!” Angie said.
“I love charity work!” Jessi said.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Six Random Ways That My Wife Has Made Me a Better Person
1> I appreciate onions in my food now.
2> She taught me to fucking drive.
3> Through hard work and pestering, she got me to regularly balance my bank account.
4> She inspired my Island princess stories.
5> Helped me like my mother again.
6> Gives me a reason to laugh every single day.
2> She taught me to fucking drive.
3> Through hard work and pestering, she got me to regularly balance my bank account.
4> She inspired my Island princess stories.
5> Helped me like my mother again.
6> Gives me a reason to laugh every single day.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Fucktoy Friday #2
It was my turn. I went to the second floor of the fraternity and entered the fucktoy room. Eighteen of my brothers had gone before me but I didn’t care about the wait. It was my turn to fuck.
She had her hands bound to the bed frame. Her legs were free so we could fuck her in any position we wanted. She was naked except for her blindfold. Well, that and the names.
We have a tradition with our fucktoys. They can’t see us, but we sign our work. In purple marker we write our names on their bodies when we are done. I have heard that some fucktoys carry those names for weeks.
I take off my pants and get into bed. The slut moans as she hears me. Eighteen cocks had used her today and still she wanted more. Her thighs parted and she lifted her cunt to me.
The fucktoy was older than me. She was in her thirties, maybe even her forties. I have no idea where the fraternity finds her kind. I just know that they are here to be used.
I grab her ankles and lift them to my shoulders. My cock slips into her wet cunt and the slut whimpers. She must be tender. Tough shit.
I fuck her. I pound her like the horny college kid that I am. I grab her tits and play with them harder than any date would let me. I call her every dirty name I can think of. My cock takes her cunt and the fucktoy loves every minute of it.
My brothers’ names bounce on her body. Steve’s name jiggles on her right breast. Matt’s name wiggles on her stomach. Paul’s name is stretched out on her left thigh. I look for a place to put mine.
The fucktoy climaxes. I don’t care.
The fucktoy comes again.
I finally get off. I shoot load into the slut’s cunt and it feels amazing. The stress of school and dating disappear into the fucktoy’s cunt.
It was my turn. I sign my name across the top of her shaved cunt.
She had her hands bound to the bed frame. Her legs were free so we could fuck her in any position we wanted. She was naked except for her blindfold. Well, that and the names.
We have a tradition with our fucktoys. They can’t see us, but we sign our work. In purple marker we write our names on their bodies when we are done. I have heard that some fucktoys carry those names for weeks.
I take off my pants and get into bed. The slut moans as she hears me. Eighteen cocks had used her today and still she wanted more. Her thighs parted and she lifted her cunt to me.
The fucktoy was older than me. She was in her thirties, maybe even her forties. I have no idea where the fraternity finds her kind. I just know that they are here to be used.
I grab her ankles and lift them to my shoulders. My cock slips into her wet cunt and the slut whimpers. She must be tender. Tough shit.
I fuck her. I pound her like the horny college kid that I am. I grab her tits and play with them harder than any date would let me. I call her every dirty name I can think of. My cock takes her cunt and the fucktoy loves every minute of it.
My brothers’ names bounce on her body. Steve’s name jiggles on her right breast. Matt’s name wiggles on her stomach. Paul’s name is stretched out on her left thigh. I look for a place to put mine.
The fucktoy climaxes. I don’t care.
The fucktoy comes again.
I finally get off. I shoot load into the slut’s cunt and it feels amazing. The stress of school and dating disappear into the fucktoy’s cunt.
It was my turn. I sign my name across the top of her shaved cunt.
Wednesday, February 09, 2011
Fiction: On Track to Death
Donnie “Fat Fuck” Scialanio looked around. This truly was a lonely place to die. The woods were pitch black and the tiny bit of moonlight that made it through the trees cast everything in a grim sepia of twilight. The train tracks stretched to the horizion of darkness like some sort of infinity plane. It was times like these that Donnie was glad that he took those art classes in school so he could have the words to describe the setting when he bragged about this murder later.
“Wow,” the woman said. “The Dairy Farmers Association does not fuck around. Who knew that investigating those milk ads would result in getting tied to a train track?”
Donnie shrugged. He was a blue collar kind of assassin. He just killed the people that other people paid to kill. It kept thing simple.
Still, it was a shame about this woman. Holly Valentine was a reporter and she was hot enough to be on Fox News. She had long red hair that captured every stray moonbeam and turned it into spectral fire. Long pale legs peeked out of a blue skirt. Plentiful breasts threatened to escape from her dress’s cleavage even if they had no hope of escaping the rope bound across her chest. Her hands were tied behind her, giving her a vulnerability that made even a hardened killer like Donnie want to rescue her. The gal was something special. Too bad she was about to become a wet smear on the train tracks.
“When is the train supposed to be here?” Holly asked.
Donnie was impressed by the tone of her voice. She was all calm and shit.
“In about five minutes,” Donnie said.
“Not nearly enough time,” Holly said, half to herself.
“Not nearly enough time for what?” Donnie asked.
Holly shook her read hair out of her face. Bound to the train track, she still made it look sexy. “Not enough time for one last fuck.”
Donnie laughed. Holy kept talking.
“No, seriously,” Holly said. “I’m a reporter for a news blog on the internet. I have to do real news. That keeps me too busy for a love life, you know? Do you have any idea how long it has been since a man touched me?”
Donnie looked down on her. “Are you trying to tell me that a hot chick like you can’t get any?”
“Trust me, most of the people I meet are trying to hide secrets from me, or trying to kill me,” Holly said. “It has been way too long since I had something in me that wasn’t powered by a battery.”
Donnie felt a stirring in his pants. “I can’t let you go,” he said. “I’m a professional.”
“Shit, I know that,” Holly said. “I’m just asking you to take advantage of me, okay? I’m tied up and helpless, don’t you want to grab a tit or something?”
“No way,” Donnie said. “I never molest my victims. I ain’t one of those creeps you see on those sexual assault crime shows.”
“I know you’re not,” Holly said kindly. “But I am asking you. Could you please just squeeze my breast? Just a little?”
Donnie “Fat Fuck” came by his nickname honestly. He was a fat fuck. The number of gals who asked him to squeeze their breasts could be counted on one hand and still have enough fingers to bury a body. He wasn’t a pervert, but he wasn’t made of stone either.
Donnie stepped onto the train tracks and bent down. The rope crossed over and under her breasts, almost as if he had subconsciously wanted them available for later. The thin material of the dress was straining against Holly’s breasts. He reached down and cupped a tit. He gave it a little squeeze.
Fuck, that was nice.
“Get under the dress, silly,” Holly said. “I can’t do anything. Go for it!”
Swallowing hard, Donnie did as she requested. His fingers slipped into her cleavage and touched her soft flesh. He felt her nipple and he was surprised by how hard it was. Maybe the girl was hard up.
“Squeeze me,” Holly said. “Squeeze me like you want me.”
Donnie did want her. He squeezed. Fingers that crushed windpipes tightened around her breast. He expected her to cry out in pain but instead she moaned with pleasure.
“Oh that is nice,” Holly said. “Check my pussy, you’ll see how much I like it.”
Donnie kept squeezing her breast. “Are you serious?”
“Hey, I’m about to get run over by a train,” Holly said. “Man up and finger my pussy. We both want it.”
Donnie squeezed her breast harder. “Yeah, damn it. I’m a hardened killer. Your pussy is mine.”
“There you go!” Holly said.
He let go of her breast and flipped her skirt up. The reporter was wearing a white thong that glowed in the moonlight. He pushed the thong aside to reveal a patch of fiery hair. Her legs were bound together at the knees but she managed to part her thighs a few inches. His middle finger slipped into her pussy with liquid ease. Not only was she wet as she claimed, but she was fucking tight as well.
“Oh fuck yes,” Holly said. “Keep doing that, keep doing that.”
Donnie stroked her. He used short rapid thrusts like a good alley mugging. She was so wet and so tight, every thrust made her squirm and moan. The reporter was a writhing victim to his fingers.
“Do whatever you want,” Holly moaned. “Use me as you wish, just keep stroking!”
He took his other hand and ripped her dress open. Both breasts glowed in the moonlight. He groped one and then the other; kneading them to his heart’s delight while Holly kept moaning.
“give me you fingers,” Holly said. He didn’t understand her till she opened her mouth and flicked her tongue at him.
He let go of her breasts and stuck a finger in her mouth. Her lips snapped shut around his finger and sucked. Oh God, did she suck! He pushed in another finger and she took it. He pushed a third finger in her mouth and she sucked it as well. He fingerfucked her mouth as he fingerfucked her pussy and the squirming reporter clenched tight around both fingers.
She tried to say something but his fingers were gagging her. He pulled them out and the moaning reporter said one thing.
“Fuck me.”
“Right,” Donnie said. He stood up and unzipped his pants. His cock was hard and ready for her. He pulled off his pants and his underwear in a single motion. Holly’s bound body waited for him. The only question was how was he going to fuck her with her legs tied together?
“Turn me over,” Holly said as if she was reading his mind. “Turn me over and take me from behind.
This was the most cooperative murder victim ever. Donnie gently rolled her over and flipped up her skirt. Her ass was even more abundant than her chest. Round buttocks clenched together as if waiting for a smack of his hand.
Mad with power, Donnie did just that. His hand landed on her ass with a resounding ‘WHAM!’. Her ass clenched from the force of his spank.
“Fuck yes!” Holly said. “Get my ass, ready!”
Donnie was about to spank her again when he heard something terrible. It was the whistle of the train. He couldn’t see it so it might be a few miles off, but it was close.
“Shit!” Donnie said.
“Shit!” Holly said.
Donnie looked down at the reporter. Her bare ass waited for him. She was still squirming. He hadn’t even put his cock in her yet. It was fucking unfair!
“Isn’t there another train coming later?” Holly asked. “I mean, does it have to be this train that runs me over?”
“No, it doesn’t!” Donnie said. There was another train about an hour from now. No one said she had to be dead at a certain time.
He scooped her up in his arms and carried her off the track. He set her down in the grass a few feet away from the tracks. Maybe he should bring her to the woods but fuck that. He had to have her now.
Holly must have been in the same state. Still tied up and on her stomach, the reporter managed to get on her knees get her ass in the air. The moonlight spotlighted her ass as she shook it back and forth.
Donne kneeled down behind her. His cock pushed up into the pussy that needed him. Wet heat engulfed his cock as he slipped all of himself into her.
“Fucking yeah!” Holly yelled. She had her head down and her red hair spilled over her like a blanket.
Donnie heard the train coming. He didn’t care. He fucked Holly’s pussy. He grabbed that wonderful ass and pounded the shit out of the reporter. Years of frustration channeled through his humping hips. That cute girl at the pizza place who wouldn’t go out with him? Donnie fucked Holly’s bound body for her. Those other mob guys who call him ‘Fat Fuck’? Donnie’ slapped Holly’s ass for them. That lousy ending to the Sopranos? Donnie fucked Holly’s pussy in revenge for incoherent finales.
The train thundered by. Car after car of crushing power stormed by Donnie as he fucked Holly. He felt like there was a metaphor about trains and his cock but he was too horny to think of one. The man was too busy tearing up reporter ass.
Holly might have come but the train was too loud for Donnie to hear her. He felt her pussy clench and her whole body shook in orgasmic spasms. Just the thought of her climaxing was enough for him. He came inside her yelled his triumph to the rushing train.
Donnie fell of her body. Holly kept squirming. Donnie watched in afterglow bliss as the reporter twisted in the moonlight.
When the train finally left, Donnie had to get back to business. He stood up on shaky legs and picked her up. She purred as he carried her back to the tracks.
“That was great,” she said. “Thanks for giving me that.”
“Hell, I should have done this a long time ago with other chicks,” Donnie said.
“Hey, you never know!” Holly said. “Women facing certain death sometimes are open to the craziest things!”
Donnie set her down on the tracks. He picked up his pants and put them back on. He nearly fell over twice. Fucking her had taken a lot out of him.
“Guy, you look like you need a nap,” Holly said. “Why don’t you go home already?”
Donnie yawned. “I am beat, but I should really stay. It ain’t professional to walk away before you are sure your job is done.”
“Hey, if you go now, I won’t tell anyone,” Holly said. “My well fucked ass will be dead!”
They laughed at her joke. “Alright, I will,” Donnie said. “You’re a great gal. Hope you get to heaven!”
“Thanks!” Holly said.
She watched as Donnie walked into the woods. She slowly counted to a hundred when she couldn’t see him anymore. When she was done counting, she went back to work on the ropes. Her squirming and twisting earlier had loosened them a lot, but the guy’s fucking and thrusts had helped her get most of the ropes loose.
A minute later she was free. She stood up and stretched. Her dress was torn but at least she was alive. Now all she had to do was get back to town and file her report.
Holly paused on the track. It was a shame that she didn’t get the guy’s name. He seemed kind of sweet.
“Wow,” the woman said. “The Dairy Farmers Association does not fuck around. Who knew that investigating those milk ads would result in getting tied to a train track?”
Donnie shrugged. He was a blue collar kind of assassin. He just killed the people that other people paid to kill. It kept thing simple.
Still, it was a shame about this woman. Holly Valentine was a reporter and she was hot enough to be on Fox News. She had long red hair that captured every stray moonbeam and turned it into spectral fire. Long pale legs peeked out of a blue skirt. Plentiful breasts threatened to escape from her dress’s cleavage even if they had no hope of escaping the rope bound across her chest. Her hands were tied behind her, giving her a vulnerability that made even a hardened killer like Donnie want to rescue her. The gal was something special. Too bad she was about to become a wet smear on the train tracks.
“When is the train supposed to be here?” Holly asked.
Donnie was impressed by the tone of her voice. She was all calm and shit.
“In about five minutes,” Donnie said.
“Not nearly enough time,” Holly said, half to herself.
“Not nearly enough time for what?” Donnie asked.
Holly shook her read hair out of her face. Bound to the train track, she still made it look sexy. “Not enough time for one last fuck.”
Donnie laughed. Holy kept talking.
“No, seriously,” Holly said. “I’m a reporter for a news blog on the internet. I have to do real news. That keeps me too busy for a love life, you know? Do you have any idea how long it has been since a man touched me?”
Donnie looked down on her. “Are you trying to tell me that a hot chick like you can’t get any?”
“Trust me, most of the people I meet are trying to hide secrets from me, or trying to kill me,” Holly said. “It has been way too long since I had something in me that wasn’t powered by a battery.”
Donnie felt a stirring in his pants. “I can’t let you go,” he said. “I’m a professional.”
“Shit, I know that,” Holly said. “I’m just asking you to take advantage of me, okay? I’m tied up and helpless, don’t you want to grab a tit or something?”
“No way,” Donnie said. “I never molest my victims. I ain’t one of those creeps you see on those sexual assault crime shows.”
“I know you’re not,” Holly said kindly. “But I am asking you. Could you please just squeeze my breast? Just a little?”
Donnie “Fat Fuck” came by his nickname honestly. He was a fat fuck. The number of gals who asked him to squeeze their breasts could be counted on one hand and still have enough fingers to bury a body. He wasn’t a pervert, but he wasn’t made of stone either.
Donnie stepped onto the train tracks and bent down. The rope crossed over and under her breasts, almost as if he had subconsciously wanted them available for later. The thin material of the dress was straining against Holly’s breasts. He reached down and cupped a tit. He gave it a little squeeze.
Fuck, that was nice.
“Get under the dress, silly,” Holly said. “I can’t do anything. Go for it!”
Swallowing hard, Donnie did as she requested. His fingers slipped into her cleavage and touched her soft flesh. He felt her nipple and he was surprised by how hard it was. Maybe the girl was hard up.
“Squeeze me,” Holly said. “Squeeze me like you want me.”
Donnie did want her. He squeezed. Fingers that crushed windpipes tightened around her breast. He expected her to cry out in pain but instead she moaned with pleasure.
“Oh that is nice,” Holly said. “Check my pussy, you’ll see how much I like it.”
Donnie kept squeezing her breast. “Are you serious?”
“Hey, I’m about to get run over by a train,” Holly said. “Man up and finger my pussy. We both want it.”
Donnie squeezed her breast harder. “Yeah, damn it. I’m a hardened killer. Your pussy is mine.”
“There you go!” Holly said.
He let go of her breast and flipped her skirt up. The reporter was wearing a white thong that glowed in the moonlight. He pushed the thong aside to reveal a patch of fiery hair. Her legs were bound together at the knees but she managed to part her thighs a few inches. His middle finger slipped into her pussy with liquid ease. Not only was she wet as she claimed, but she was fucking tight as well.
“Oh fuck yes,” Holly said. “Keep doing that, keep doing that.”
Donnie stroked her. He used short rapid thrusts like a good alley mugging. She was so wet and so tight, every thrust made her squirm and moan. The reporter was a writhing victim to his fingers.
“Do whatever you want,” Holly moaned. “Use me as you wish, just keep stroking!”
He took his other hand and ripped her dress open. Both breasts glowed in the moonlight. He groped one and then the other; kneading them to his heart’s delight while Holly kept moaning.
“give me you fingers,” Holly said. He didn’t understand her till she opened her mouth and flicked her tongue at him.
He let go of her breasts and stuck a finger in her mouth. Her lips snapped shut around his finger and sucked. Oh God, did she suck! He pushed in another finger and she took it. He pushed a third finger in her mouth and she sucked it as well. He fingerfucked her mouth as he fingerfucked her pussy and the squirming reporter clenched tight around both fingers.
She tried to say something but his fingers were gagging her. He pulled them out and the moaning reporter said one thing.
“Fuck me.”
“Right,” Donnie said. He stood up and unzipped his pants. His cock was hard and ready for her. He pulled off his pants and his underwear in a single motion. Holly’s bound body waited for him. The only question was how was he going to fuck her with her legs tied together?
“Turn me over,” Holly said as if she was reading his mind. “Turn me over and take me from behind.
This was the most cooperative murder victim ever. Donnie gently rolled her over and flipped up her skirt. Her ass was even more abundant than her chest. Round buttocks clenched together as if waiting for a smack of his hand.
Mad with power, Donnie did just that. His hand landed on her ass with a resounding ‘WHAM!’. Her ass clenched from the force of his spank.
“Fuck yes!” Holly said. “Get my ass, ready!”
Donnie was about to spank her again when he heard something terrible. It was the whistle of the train. He couldn’t see it so it might be a few miles off, but it was close.
“Shit!” Donnie said.
“Shit!” Holly said.
Donnie looked down at the reporter. Her bare ass waited for him. She was still squirming. He hadn’t even put his cock in her yet. It was fucking unfair!
“Isn’t there another train coming later?” Holly asked. “I mean, does it have to be this train that runs me over?”
“No, it doesn’t!” Donnie said. There was another train about an hour from now. No one said she had to be dead at a certain time.
He scooped her up in his arms and carried her off the track. He set her down in the grass a few feet away from the tracks. Maybe he should bring her to the woods but fuck that. He had to have her now.
Holly must have been in the same state. Still tied up and on her stomach, the reporter managed to get on her knees get her ass in the air. The moonlight spotlighted her ass as she shook it back and forth.
Donne kneeled down behind her. His cock pushed up into the pussy that needed him. Wet heat engulfed his cock as he slipped all of himself into her.
“Fucking yeah!” Holly yelled. She had her head down and her red hair spilled over her like a blanket.
Donnie heard the train coming. He didn’t care. He fucked Holly’s pussy. He grabbed that wonderful ass and pounded the shit out of the reporter. Years of frustration channeled through his humping hips. That cute girl at the pizza place who wouldn’t go out with him? Donnie fucked Holly’s bound body for her. Those other mob guys who call him ‘Fat Fuck’? Donnie’ slapped Holly’s ass for them. That lousy ending to the Sopranos? Donnie fucked Holly’s pussy in revenge for incoherent finales.
The train thundered by. Car after car of crushing power stormed by Donnie as he fucked Holly. He felt like there was a metaphor about trains and his cock but he was too horny to think of one. The man was too busy tearing up reporter ass.
Holly might have come but the train was too loud for Donnie to hear her. He felt her pussy clench and her whole body shook in orgasmic spasms. Just the thought of her climaxing was enough for him. He came inside her yelled his triumph to the rushing train.
Donnie fell of her body. Holly kept squirming. Donnie watched in afterglow bliss as the reporter twisted in the moonlight.
When the train finally left, Donnie had to get back to business. He stood up on shaky legs and picked her up. She purred as he carried her back to the tracks.
“That was great,” she said. “Thanks for giving me that.”
“Hell, I should have done this a long time ago with other chicks,” Donnie said.
“Hey, you never know!” Holly said. “Women facing certain death sometimes are open to the craziest things!”
Donnie set her down on the tracks. He picked up his pants and put them back on. He nearly fell over twice. Fucking her had taken a lot out of him.
“Guy, you look like you need a nap,” Holly said. “Why don’t you go home already?”
Donnie yawned. “I am beat, but I should really stay. It ain’t professional to walk away before you are sure your job is done.”
“Hey, if you go now, I won’t tell anyone,” Holly said. “My well fucked ass will be dead!”
They laughed at her joke. “Alright, I will,” Donnie said. “You’re a great gal. Hope you get to heaven!”
“Thanks!” Holly said.
She watched as Donnie walked into the woods. She slowly counted to a hundred when she couldn’t see him anymore. When she was done counting, she went back to work on the ropes. Her squirming and twisting earlier had loosened them a lot, but the guy’s fucking and thrusts had helped her get most of the ropes loose.
A minute later she was free. She stood up and stretched. Her dress was torn but at least she was alive. Now all she had to do was get back to town and file her report.
Holly paused on the track. It was a shame that she didn’t get the guy’s name. He seemed kind of sweet.
Monday, February 07, 2011
Farmer's Daughter's Almanac: Garden Seeds
Growing your own sex toys in your garden is not only economical and good for the environment, but it can be fun too! Back in the old days, my grandmother and her friends had to grow cucumbers of a certain shape with careful planting, horticultural techniques and the occasional midnight prayer to Satan. Today's horny farm woman can select from a wide range of seed packets from several discreet catalogs. The following are some of my favorites.
Green Goliath Corn Cobs- These seeds are the woman who may have had sex with a horse or a man hung as one. The resulting corn cob is large enough to satisfy any woman of any size. The only drawback is that some of the cobs may be dangerously large for insertion. So remember ladies, use plenty of butter the first time.
Aunt Bee's Zucchini- For the woman who likes a little variety in her vegetable sex life, Aunt Bee's seeds are perfect. Each seed grows a zucchini between five to eleven inches long, but each zucchini is guaranteed to be different from one another. Some will lean to the left, others will lean to the right while some will even have textured bumps. A new zucchini every night is like having a new husband every night, just without the mother-in-laws.
Von Madd's Cockumber- This bio-engineered vegetable has only been on the market for a year but it is already a big hit in certain rural communities. The cockumber is very firm and remarkably sturdy no matter how wild your night gets. The skin was designed to have a flavor that is 98% indistinguishable from a man's penis. The only drawback is much like a real man's cock, they require extra care. They will need twice as much watering and fertilizer as regular cucumbers.
Mississippi Carrots- For those shy women or perhaps newlyweds, this special line of carrots will grow thin and slender. They have quite a reach though and some of the more wanton farmers like to use these to hit their Gee-Spot. The Farmer's Daughter can not confirm or deny the existence of the Gee-Spot but that is because I usually black out from the force of the orgasm when I hit it.
Farmer's Daughter's Tip! Tell your husband, boyfriend or handsome farm hand that the special ladies vegetables require a man to shoot his load on the seeds. They don't, but you can have a lot of fun doing it!
Green Goliath Corn Cobs- These seeds are the woman who may have had sex with a horse or a man hung as one. The resulting corn cob is large enough to satisfy any woman of any size. The only drawback is that some of the cobs may be dangerously large for insertion. So remember ladies, use plenty of butter the first time.
Aunt Bee's Zucchini- For the woman who likes a little variety in her vegetable sex life, Aunt Bee's seeds are perfect. Each seed grows a zucchini between five to eleven inches long, but each zucchini is guaranteed to be different from one another. Some will lean to the left, others will lean to the right while some will even have textured bumps. A new zucchini every night is like having a new husband every night, just without the mother-in-laws.
Von Madd's Cockumber- This bio-engineered vegetable has only been on the market for a year but it is already a big hit in certain rural communities. The cockumber is very firm and remarkably sturdy no matter how wild your night gets. The skin was designed to have a flavor that is 98% indistinguishable from a man's penis. The only drawback is much like a real man's cock, they require extra care. They will need twice as much watering and fertilizer as regular cucumbers.
Mississippi Carrots- For those shy women or perhaps newlyweds, this special line of carrots will grow thin and slender. They have quite a reach though and some of the more wanton farmers like to use these to hit their Gee-Spot. The Farmer's Daughter can not confirm or deny the existence of the Gee-Spot but that is because I usually black out from the force of the orgasm when I hit it.
Farmer's Daughter's Tip! Tell your husband, boyfriend or handsome farm hand that the special ladies vegetables require a man to shoot his load on the seeds. They don't, but you can have a lot of fun doing it!
Friday, February 04, 2011
Fucktoy Friday
Her tongue licks my cock. As instructed, her lipstick stained lips are open. If a single red mark appears on my cock, the fucktoy gets punished.
It isn’t easy for her. She is squatting precariously on high heels. Her hands are cuffed behind her. My hand is on one of her dark breasts and I maul her tender flesh to my heart’s content.
She licks. Sometimes I am kind and I hold my cock for her. She licks furiously when I do this, moaning as she enjoys the taste.
When I am not kind, the fucktoy has to reach for my cock herself. She has to chase my throbbing cock with her tongue. When my cock comes dangerously close to her slut’s lipstick, she recoils in terror.
It isn’t long before she moans. She is whining to be touched. She isn’t allowed to talk but her moans, whimpers and shudders beg for her. She wants my cock inside her cunt. She wants my fingers inside her cunt. She would even be satisfied if I let her hands free so she could stroke herself. The fucktoy wants to come.
Fuck her. It’s Friday. She’s my fucktoy today.
My climax is close. I grab my cock and stroke. The fucktoy is excited. She opened her mouth and sticks out her tongue. Denied her own pleasure, she wants to taste mine.
I come. Most of it lands in her mouth. Quite a bit lands on her pretty face. A wicked strand lands on her whore’s lipstick. Not enough lands on her ebony breasts.
It isn’t easy for her. She is squatting precariously on high heels. Her hands are cuffed behind her. My hand is on one of her dark breasts and I maul her tender flesh to my heart’s content.
She licks. Sometimes I am kind and I hold my cock for her. She licks furiously when I do this, moaning as she enjoys the taste.
When I am not kind, the fucktoy has to reach for my cock herself. She has to chase my throbbing cock with her tongue. When my cock comes dangerously close to her slut’s lipstick, she recoils in terror.
It isn’t long before she moans. She is whining to be touched. She isn’t allowed to talk but her moans, whimpers and shudders beg for her. She wants my cock inside her cunt. She wants my fingers inside her cunt. She would even be satisfied if I let her hands free so she could stroke herself. The fucktoy wants to come.
Fuck her. It’s Friday. She’s my fucktoy today.
My climax is close. I grab my cock and stroke. The fucktoy is excited. She opened her mouth and sticks out her tongue. Denied her own pleasure, she wants to taste mine.
I come. Most of it lands in her mouth. Quite a bit lands on her pretty face. A wicked strand lands on her whore’s lipstick. Not enough lands on her ebony breasts.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Sex is Damn Confusing
Domination has always been a part of my sexual fantasy life. As a young child I often delighted in my Princess Leia action figure getting captured by Vader, Boba Fett, random storm troopers or even jawas. Capturing the princess was my favorite past time although my figures and I were often unsure what to do once we caught her.On the opposite end, when I discovered masturbation, my most common fantasy was of an older woman dominating me and making me have sex with her. As a serial shoplifter as a kid, it was easy to imagine that if I got caught stealing a book, then I was going to have to fuck a store employee. It just makes sense.
As I got even older, I found myself attracted to really strong minded women. When you are young, it is really hard to tell the difference between a strong willed woman and a bossy pain in the ass. My interest in dominant women completely died out as I struggled to deal with the arrogant and uncompromising women I was dating and eventually married.
My wife wanted a poly marriage which technically means that you develop relationships with other people. I soon realized that I was the charming one in the family when I kept meeting people who wanted to be with me while my wife kept meeting people who wanted little to do with her. Every time I did find something I adored, my wife would do everything to sabotage it to keep me with her. Like an idiot, I deferred to her. I'm not proud of that.
It seems completely logical to me now that being in an unhappy marriage really brought out my desire for submissive women. I liked flirting with them, I liked fucking them and I really loved writing about them. I like arguing with them and winning. I like making unreasonable demands and having them met. I liked having control because I had so little in my marriage.
My fiction didn't see many dominatrixes during this time. My wife fancied herself a dom when most of the time she was really just selfish and sadistic. Heck, that is a good definition of a dominatrix but being married to one who dominates you without your consent is a shitty situation. I wrote porn to get away from the troubles of my wife so the last thing I wanted to do was write something that reminded me of her.
There was also a weird social stigma to writing submissive male fiction when I started writing. Most of my stories were for newsgroups and when I did write the occasional male submissive story, my fan mail from submissive females would evaporate. It wasn't that they didn't like the story as much as they felt that if I was writing something like that, then I wasn't the macho dom writer they fantasized about.
It is sad. I roll my eyes at the idea now but during my bad marriage, that kind of response was important to me. I stopped writing about dominant women and submissive males. It wasn't like I had much interest in them anyway, but I had some and it is a shame that I let something as unimportant as what other people think influence me.
At a happy point in my life, I met my current wife. She helped me understand what a fucked up life I was leading. I left my wife and spent a year or two growing up. The sad fact is that I was a submissive to my ex-wife in that I let her win every argument and she made me feel that every small bit of happiness I had was because she graciously allowed me to be selfish.
There is a thing that my friends in the BDSM community often joke about. We will see friends who are doms or subs and they will end up marrying someone completely vanilla. We laugh and shake our heads because we think it can never work out. We also think it is a lot like regressing. We watch people struggle with their dominant or submissive personalities and then right when they are comfortable, they marry someone who isn't part of that life at all. It just seems like a crying shame.
I bring it up because I have become one of those people. My wife is a strong willed woman because hey, I am attracted to women like that. The difference is that she has no interest in steam rolling me and quite frankly, gets pissed when she does. My natural instinct was to roll over and avoid confrontation but being freed of one bad marriage has unleashed my anger. It might be years of repressed rage but it is something I can use. I fight. I argue. I get damn mad. You know, all the things that happen in an real relationship.
Which translates into a rather vanilla romance with my wife. There is no power inequality, so I don't need to supplement my self esteem with bdsm. She has an ass made for spanking but there is no need for a pretext to spank her. I love that woman and she is my partner and my wingman. Neither of us are in charge. It is pretty nice.
The fantasies don't go away. Heck, as a porn writer, I am not sure I could make them go away. I don't see attractive women on the street, I see potential characters in stories that need to be written. I am pretty sure that I could be fucking a dozen away a day for the rest of my life and I would still want to write a story about a guy and a girl doing something naughty. Being a writer is a not a hobby or a job, it is a classification of a compulsion.
What fascinates me is that now that I am happy, my fantasies don't give a shit what people think. My fantasies about dominant women have returned because I no longer feel dominated. My sillier fantasies about over the top action heroes and heroines in peril have returned because I no longer care about presenting a serious face to my audience. I write about male and female submissives because they interest me and I no longer worry about what that says about my own sexuality. My own sexuality is a tangled mess and if a reader thinks they know me, they are terribly mistaken. More importantly, a reader's assessment of my sexuality is really none of my business any more. That is the most important thing I have learned over the last few years. I used to be told not to care what people think but now I realize that although I sometimes care, it is not any of my concern. I have my own misconceptions about my sexuality, what do I care if other people are just as confused?
Sketch card is by the talented Lohmeier
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Fiction: Midnight Rendezvous
“This is not a bookstore,” Claire Currie said.
“You are correct,” her employer, Mr. Dillon said. “Graveyards are not known for selling books. You powers of observation once again amaze and delight me.”
Claire bit back her own sarcastic remark. As a librarian, Claire understood that it was not polite to respond rudely. As Mr. Dillon’s lover and receiver of his sadistic impulses, Claire knew that when her boss was in a biting mood. As an employee for the worlds most unique collection of erotic books, Claire knew that something special was about to happen. Why else would they be at a cemetery at eleven at night?
“You know, I did wonder why we had come to Utah,” Claire said. “I didn’t think there would be many erotic books here.”
Mr. Dillon breathed in the cold air. “Nonsense, there is plenty of porn here. What else are they going to do?”
Mr. Dillon started walking through the graveyard. Claire followed, struggling to stay upright on her four inch heels on the grassy ground. Her uniform was a strict affair and Mr. Dillon felt that just because they would be walking on grass at night was no reason to change her clothes. Black stockings provided her legs protection from the night air which was good because her black skirt barely came down to her knees. When a breeze of wind did travel up her skirt, her flimsy red thong offered not protection to her bushy sex. The white button shirt she wore might have kept her warm if Mr. Dillon hadn’t insisted on her leaving enough buttons open to reveal a generous amount of her dark cleavage.
Claire followed Mr. Dillon through the graveyard. She became aware that they were not the only ones here. There were whispers in the darkness. There was also the occasional giggle and the sound of beer bottles clinking together. A smell of alcohol, cigarettes and hot dogs wafted through the air.
“Sir, what are we doing here?” Claire asked.
Mr. Dillon stopped. He looked down and noticed that he was illuminated by moonlight. He took a step to the side and made sure he was cloaked in darkness. With a wave of his hand, he motioned Claire to join him in secrecy of night.
“About thirty yards from here,” Mr. Dillon said, “is the grave of Phyllis Nubmeg. She wrote about fifty books in the eighties about exhibitionist women who masturbated in public. She was a fantastic cook, knitted together wonderful quilts and was a proud lesbian in small town that didn’t know what to do with her.”
“She sounds like a lovely woman,” Claire said.
“She was,” Mr. Dillon said. “But more importantly, she was a hell of a writer. Two years after she died, a woman was spotted visiting her grave on the day of Phyllis’ birthday. The woman stripped off her pants and sat on Phyllis’s gravestone. The woman masturbated and then left. No one knows who the woman was.”
Claire giggled. “Sounds like a dedicated fan.”
“Every year after that, a woman comes to Phillis’ gravestone to masturbate,” Mr. Dillon said. “It has become a local scandal and tourist attraction. The local authorities turn a blind eye and the night becomes an unofficial holiday. The woman who comes to masturbate changes from year to year and sometimes the same woman appears for several years in a row.”
“How fascinating,” Claire said. “Are we here to witness this mystery woman?”
Mr. Dillon snorted. “Ms. Currie, we are the cause of the mystery woman. When Phyllis passed away, she left the Colette-Ashbee collection the entirety of her books, her works in progress and writing notes. She also left a recipe for broccoli and bacon casserole that is divine. The condition of the will states that she wanted this tradition to take place on her birthday. Even in death she wanted to see a pretty woman masturbate.”
“Wait, you want me to go do it?” Claire said. “You brought me here to masturbate in front of strangers?”
“No, Ms Currie,” Mr. Dillon said with steel in his voice. “I want you to fulfill the obligations of the Colette-Ashbee collection to a great writer. I would gladly do it myself but Phyllis was not a fan of the cock. In the past, we have hired prostitutes and paced ads in lesbian journals. Now that you are under our employment, we can bring the tribute in house.”
Claire took a deep breath. “Was that broccoli and bacon casserole as delicious as you say it was?”
“I planned to make some tonight,” Mr. Dillon said. “It was why I insisted we have a motel room with a kitchen.”
“Any special instructions I should be aware of?” Claire said.
Mr. Dillon placed a scarf in her hand. “Phyllis was always a fan of mystery. Conceal your identity just a little.”
Claire wrapped the scarf around her head so that it covered her mouth.
“Oh, and masturbate to a climax,” Mr. Dillon said. “Don’t cheat a great writer.”
Claire nodded. “I will be right back.”
“I’ll be watching,” Mr. Dillon said.
A delicious shiver went down her spine. At least she won’t be performing solely for strangers. Claire walked through the graveyard and looked for Phyllis’ grave. As she walked, she heard the whispers around her suddenly grow quiet. Her unknown audience was realizing that their mystery woman had arrived.
Claire found the grave easily. Phyllis’ name was in large letters but what gave it away was the top of the gravestone. It was shaped with a slight depression like a seat. It was made to be sat on.
Thinking of her audience, and thinking of Mr. Dillon, Claire stripped slowly. She lifted one stocking clad leg and took off her shoe before repeating the process with her second foot. Her skirt went off next so people could see the stockings and bright red thong on her dark body. Claire wanted to keep the stockings on for warmth but this wasn’t about her. This was for Phyllis so Claire bent over and slowly unrolled one stocking and then the other from her legs. Last to go was her thong. Claire put the thong on the ground before the gravestone like an offering.
She sat in the seat of marble gravestone and quickly discovered just how cold it really was tonight. She suppressed her scream of discomfort and tried to appear as casual as possible. The librarian parted her legs and ra her fingernails up and down her thighs. The moonlight shone down on her like a sensual spotlight.
Claire reached between her legs. She felt the thick hair of her bush part for her fingers as she sought her sex. A tremble went through her as she touched her sex. She was already wet.
She thought of what life must have been like for Phyllis. Claire came from London and all she knew was of large cities and dense populations. Utah with it’s wide open spaces and small towns that look like outposts of humanity were alien to her. Phyllis was a strange woman in a town where she could not hide it. She dreamed and wrote of naked woman touching themselves. She wrote of women exposing who they were. Claire could understand that.
Claire stroked. At first she tried to block out the people who might be watching but her opinion changed. Phyllis didn’t want to block them out. The proud woman wanted them to see. Claire spread her legs a little wider. Claire plunged her fingers a little deeper. Claire moaned and arched her back. The librarian wasn’t going to hide what she was doing; she was going to put it in their faces.
Claire stroked faster. She thought of the people in the graveyard watching. Were they just here to catch a sexy thrill? Were they fellow sufferers of perverse thoughts that would never be accepted by their friends and family? Were they secret writers in a small town? Claire dedicated her stroking to them as well.
She used both hands to masturbate. Her moans drifted through the silent graveyard. She squirmed on the gravestone, clenching her legs and arching her back. Sometimes she pulled a hand out of her sex and grabbed her breast through her shirt. Her sticky fingers left wet handprints on her shirt.
Claire felt her climax coming. To her surprise, she actually delayed for a few minutes. She was enjoying this. She enjoyed performing a service for a writer she had never met or even read. Mr. Dillon was a fan and that was good enough for Claire. Perhaps Claire enjoyed the chance to do something on Mr. Dillon’s behalf.
She stroked faster. Her hand became a blur as she gave in to her desires. She wanted to climax but she wanted to please as well. Claire wanted to please Phyllis, the crowd and her boss. Her body was her instrument of their pleasure.
Finally she climaxed. The scarf around her mouth couldn’t block her cry of joy. She kept stroking as she rode her climax out. Distantly she thought she heard applause but it was quickly silenced.
Claire stopped. She cleaned her fingers with her mouth. Taking her time, she cleaned each finger individually.
She stepped off the gravestone and picked up her skirt. Claire wrapped it around her body and slipped her shoes back on. She picked up her stockings and her thong. A wet spot was visible on the seat of the gravestone and Claire wondered how many other women had left their contributions. Claire felt a strange kinship to those women.
Claire placed her red thong on the gravestone and walked away.
Mr. Dillon was waiting for her in the darkness.
“Leaving the thong was a nice touch,” he said.
“It felt right,” she said.
“I think we shall add that to the tradition,” he said.
“I will remember it when we come back next year.”
“You are correct,” her employer, Mr. Dillon said. “Graveyards are not known for selling books. You powers of observation once again amaze and delight me.”
Claire bit back her own sarcastic remark. As a librarian, Claire understood that it was not polite to respond rudely. As Mr. Dillon’s lover and receiver of his sadistic impulses, Claire knew that when her boss was in a biting mood. As an employee for the worlds most unique collection of erotic books, Claire knew that something special was about to happen. Why else would they be at a cemetery at eleven at night?
“You know, I did wonder why we had come to Utah,” Claire said. “I didn’t think there would be many erotic books here.”
Mr. Dillon breathed in the cold air. “Nonsense, there is plenty of porn here. What else are they going to do?”
Mr. Dillon started walking through the graveyard. Claire followed, struggling to stay upright on her four inch heels on the grassy ground. Her uniform was a strict affair and Mr. Dillon felt that just because they would be walking on grass at night was no reason to change her clothes. Black stockings provided her legs protection from the night air which was good because her black skirt barely came down to her knees. When a breeze of wind did travel up her skirt, her flimsy red thong offered not protection to her bushy sex. The white button shirt she wore might have kept her warm if Mr. Dillon hadn’t insisted on her leaving enough buttons open to reveal a generous amount of her dark cleavage.
Claire followed Mr. Dillon through the graveyard. She became aware that they were not the only ones here. There were whispers in the darkness. There was also the occasional giggle and the sound of beer bottles clinking together. A smell of alcohol, cigarettes and hot dogs wafted through the air.
“Sir, what are we doing here?” Claire asked.
Mr. Dillon stopped. He looked down and noticed that he was illuminated by moonlight. He took a step to the side and made sure he was cloaked in darkness. With a wave of his hand, he motioned Claire to join him in secrecy of night.
“About thirty yards from here,” Mr. Dillon said, “is the grave of Phyllis Nubmeg. She wrote about fifty books in the eighties about exhibitionist women who masturbated in public. She was a fantastic cook, knitted together wonderful quilts and was a proud lesbian in small town that didn’t know what to do with her.”
“She sounds like a lovely woman,” Claire said.
“She was,” Mr. Dillon said. “But more importantly, she was a hell of a writer. Two years after she died, a woman was spotted visiting her grave on the day of Phyllis’ birthday. The woman stripped off her pants and sat on Phyllis’s gravestone. The woman masturbated and then left. No one knows who the woman was.”
Claire giggled. “Sounds like a dedicated fan.”
“Every year after that, a woman comes to Phillis’ gravestone to masturbate,” Mr. Dillon said. “It has become a local scandal and tourist attraction. The local authorities turn a blind eye and the night becomes an unofficial holiday. The woman who comes to masturbate changes from year to year and sometimes the same woman appears for several years in a row.”
“How fascinating,” Claire said. “Are we here to witness this mystery woman?”
Mr. Dillon snorted. “Ms. Currie, we are the cause of the mystery woman. When Phyllis passed away, she left the Colette-Ashbee collection the entirety of her books, her works in progress and writing notes. She also left a recipe for broccoli and bacon casserole that is divine. The condition of the will states that she wanted this tradition to take place on her birthday. Even in death she wanted to see a pretty woman masturbate.”
“Wait, you want me to go do it?” Claire said. “You brought me here to masturbate in front of strangers?”
“No, Ms Currie,” Mr. Dillon said with steel in his voice. “I want you to fulfill the obligations of the Colette-Ashbee collection to a great writer. I would gladly do it myself but Phyllis was not a fan of the cock. In the past, we have hired prostitutes and paced ads in lesbian journals. Now that you are under our employment, we can bring the tribute in house.”
Claire took a deep breath. “Was that broccoli and bacon casserole as delicious as you say it was?”
“I planned to make some tonight,” Mr. Dillon said. “It was why I insisted we have a motel room with a kitchen.”
“Any special instructions I should be aware of?” Claire said.
Mr. Dillon placed a scarf in her hand. “Phyllis was always a fan of mystery. Conceal your identity just a little.”
Claire wrapped the scarf around her head so that it covered her mouth.
“Oh, and masturbate to a climax,” Mr. Dillon said. “Don’t cheat a great writer.”
Claire nodded. “I will be right back.”
“I’ll be watching,” Mr. Dillon said.
A delicious shiver went down her spine. At least she won’t be performing solely for strangers. Claire walked through the graveyard and looked for Phyllis’ grave. As she walked, she heard the whispers around her suddenly grow quiet. Her unknown audience was realizing that their mystery woman had arrived.
Claire found the grave easily. Phyllis’ name was in large letters but what gave it away was the top of the gravestone. It was shaped with a slight depression like a seat. It was made to be sat on.
Thinking of her audience, and thinking of Mr. Dillon, Claire stripped slowly. She lifted one stocking clad leg and took off her shoe before repeating the process with her second foot. Her skirt went off next so people could see the stockings and bright red thong on her dark body. Claire wanted to keep the stockings on for warmth but this wasn’t about her. This was for Phyllis so Claire bent over and slowly unrolled one stocking and then the other from her legs. Last to go was her thong. Claire put the thong on the ground before the gravestone like an offering.
She sat in the seat of marble gravestone and quickly discovered just how cold it really was tonight. She suppressed her scream of discomfort and tried to appear as casual as possible. The librarian parted her legs and ra her fingernails up and down her thighs. The moonlight shone down on her like a sensual spotlight.
Claire reached between her legs. She felt the thick hair of her bush part for her fingers as she sought her sex. A tremble went through her as she touched her sex. She was already wet.
She thought of what life must have been like for Phyllis. Claire came from London and all she knew was of large cities and dense populations. Utah with it’s wide open spaces and small towns that look like outposts of humanity were alien to her. Phyllis was a strange woman in a town where she could not hide it. She dreamed and wrote of naked woman touching themselves. She wrote of women exposing who they were. Claire could understand that.
Claire stroked. At first she tried to block out the people who might be watching but her opinion changed. Phyllis didn’t want to block them out. The proud woman wanted them to see. Claire spread her legs a little wider. Claire plunged her fingers a little deeper. Claire moaned and arched her back. The librarian wasn’t going to hide what she was doing; she was going to put it in their faces.
Claire stroked faster. She thought of the people in the graveyard watching. Were they just here to catch a sexy thrill? Were they fellow sufferers of perverse thoughts that would never be accepted by their friends and family? Were they secret writers in a small town? Claire dedicated her stroking to them as well.
She used both hands to masturbate. Her moans drifted through the silent graveyard. She squirmed on the gravestone, clenching her legs and arching her back. Sometimes she pulled a hand out of her sex and grabbed her breast through her shirt. Her sticky fingers left wet handprints on her shirt.
Claire felt her climax coming. To her surprise, she actually delayed for a few minutes. She was enjoying this. She enjoyed performing a service for a writer she had never met or even read. Mr. Dillon was a fan and that was good enough for Claire. Perhaps Claire enjoyed the chance to do something on Mr. Dillon’s behalf.
She stroked faster. Her hand became a blur as she gave in to her desires. She wanted to climax but she wanted to please as well. Claire wanted to please Phyllis, the crowd and her boss. Her body was her instrument of their pleasure.
Finally she climaxed. The scarf around her mouth couldn’t block her cry of joy. She kept stroking as she rode her climax out. Distantly she thought she heard applause but it was quickly silenced.
Claire stopped. She cleaned her fingers with her mouth. Taking her time, she cleaned each finger individually.
She stepped off the gravestone and picked up her skirt. Claire wrapped it around her body and slipped her shoes back on. She picked up her stockings and her thong. A wet spot was visible on the seat of the gravestone and Claire wondered how many other women had left their contributions. Claire felt a strange kinship to those women.
Claire placed her red thong on the gravestone and walked away.
Mr. Dillon was waiting for her in the darkness.
“Leaving the thong was a nice touch,” he said.
“It felt right,” she said.
“I think we shall add that to the tradition,” he said.
“I will remember it when we come back next year.”
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