So Wrong (the collected pornographica of Elsie)

I won’t go into the sordid details of how we met. It was pretty sordid, and in retrospect, it all seems inevitable, like the force of gravity acting upon two spheres in a void.

She told me she’d just moved to the city. She told me she’d left an abusive boyfriend in Seattle, driven across the country in a semi-stolen rental car, all her belongings crammed into a duffel bag in the back seat. She told me she’d ditched the car along the side of the turnpike in north Jersey, and taken a bus into Port Authority. She told me she needed a place to stay, just for one night.

I let her sleep on my couch.

I woke up early, with a boner. I remembered that she was there just in time, and fumbled a pair of boxers on, before parading across the tiny, cluttered apartment to the bathroom, my morning wood jutting obnoxiously in the front of my underwear, a testament to the non-subtlety of the male anatomy. She looked beautiful asleep; sweet and vulnerable and at peace as if an enchantment had been laid upon her. Or been lifted off. I pissed, a yellow, dehydrated stream; flushed, and went back to bed. When I woke up a second time, she was gone.

When I got home, she was there. I sure as shit don’t remember giving her my spare set of keys, but she had them. She told me she’d tried to look up a couple old friends who had moved here from Austin, but their address had changed or something, and they were nowhere to be found. She looked kind of haggard and fragile, like a wild flower dipped in liquid nitrogen.

She told me she’d had a baby when she was just a teenager, a little girl who was taken away from her as an infant, and who now lived with her ex-boyfriend’s grandparents in San Francisco.

She asked me if she could spend the night again, and I said ‘Sure’. My motives were not entirely pure. She wore a black long-sleeve leotard, and an intricate black dress down to her ankles that looked like it came from another century; and her breasts were large and round, endearingly oversized for her slight frame. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and a constellation of freckles was scattered across her cheeks. When she smiled, which was a rare event, the corners of her eyes crinkled, making her look older than she said she was.

I picked up a box of red wine, which isn’t nearly the travesty it sounds, and we methodically proceeded to get shit-faced drunk together.

She told me that when she was just a girl, her daddy had raped her. Well, it hadn’t been his fault exactly, she said, she had goaded and teased him into it. From the time she grew breasts, she was always flaunting them, tormenting him with them. She would walk around the house in just a bra, or in an oversized t-shirt with no bra on underneath. She would make her boobies jiggle while he pretended not to watch, and strutted around in front of him, showing off her brand-new cleavage. She would give him big, tight, excessively warm hugs, eating up his discomfort like a young siren. She used to sit on his lap and very deliberately rub her ass up and down and back and forth, feeling his erection grow inside his pants, while her mother watched disapprovingly.

He took her one summer afternoon in their back yard, while she was lying out topless next to the pool. She felt his shadow fall across her naked back, and then he was lying down on top of her, his full weight crushing her, making it hard to breathe. He reached underneath her and fondled her fresh, sensitive breasts, pinching and twisting her nipples, making her squirm and struggle. His hands pulled her bikini bottoms aside, rubbing up and down her young pussy, which was now excruciatingly wet. He slathered her wetness all over his cock. His penis, she said, was not especially long, but it was really thick. Later, he would make her suck it, whenever he felt like it; in the car, or after she’d gone to bed, and he’d always come in her mouth. Now, he pulled her swimsuit all the way off, tossing it into the pool. He pried her butt cheeks apart, exposing her most private parts, and spat right on her asshole. She knew what was coming, but she didn’t scream or even tell him to stop. He took a big fistful of her hair and proceeded to cram his fat cock up her ass. It hurt a lot, that first time, she said. Later, when she knew what to expect, when her body was more used to the invasion, she would enjoy it, even come to crave it.

He always fucked her ass. Or made her suck his cock. That way, she said, he didn’t have to worry about getting her pregnant. Her mom knew, she told me, as she gulped down another paper cup full of cheap wine; her mom knew all about it, but never said anything, but she was jealous and used to find any excuse to punish her.

One time, her mom caught her masturbating. She hauled her downstairs by the hair, struggling and crying, naked from the waist down, where her mom’s friends were all playing cards and drinking Long Island Ice Teas. Her mother forced her to spread her legs in front of all of them, and then spanked her pussy with a ruler until she was weeping uncontrollably. The ladies all laughed at her. She said when her mother was finally finished with her, she slunk shame-faced back up to her room, and finished masturbating her bruised and tender pussy. She said she’d never come so hard in her life.

Her eyelids were getting heavy and her words slished and sloshed together. She poured another paper cup full of wine and went on with her story: her mom threw her out of the house on the morning of her sixteenth birthday, calling her a slut and a whore, her daddy’s semen still bitter in her mouth. She moved to Coeur d’Alene, and moved in with her boyfriend, a guy she’d never actually met, but only knew from the internet. Her story trailed off there as her eyes finally closed and did not open again.

She was asleep, fully dressed and sloppy drunk, a dixie cup half full of Malbec still clutched in her spidery little hand, sprawled out on my ratty and disreputable sofa. I thought about taking advantage of her. I imagined that I was her daddy, and she was fourteen again, and it was me who was violating her virgin asshole.

I jerked off, mere inches from her relaxed, angelic, sleeping face. When I was done, I felt like a scumbag, a pervert who should register himself somewhere. I cleaned up the mess, and slunk off to bed, where I dreamed drunk, confusing dreams, and woke up with a stiff morning woody and a hangover. She was gone.

She was home when I got home. She told me she’d spent the day looking for a job, but her résumé had been on her laptop, which had been stolen in St. Louis. She asked if she could use my computer to look for work, and I said ‘Fine’. She was wearing all black, as usual, a voluminous turtleneck and tight black jeans that somehow made her look both skinnier and curvier than ever.

My place was tiny, even by New York standards. It had been illegally carved out of a dilapidated three-bedroom apartment that had been on the small side to start with. If it had been in Guantanamo, instead of Bed-Sty, I’m sure it would have been in violation of some U.N. convention or other. The place was never meant for two, especially not two people who weren’t actually fucking, and the claustrophobia was getting thick as dense fog. She had eaten the last of my microwave bean burritos, and run me out of milk. We sat on the couch and drank vodka that she had brought home that tasted like paint thinner.

When we were both good and lit, she went on with her story, picking up right where she’d left off.

She moved in with her Idaho boyfriend, who lived with his mom in a mobile home on the wrong side of town. She got pregnant the first time they had sex. She didn’t know how she knew, she told me, but she knew, as soon as he came inside her. It was her first time, she said, her first time with a cock in her pussy. He threw her out, she said, as soon as he found out: broke it off with her and told her to go get an abortion. She moved to Seattle and had the baby there.

She got into real estate, and ended up sleeping with her boss. He was wealthy, she said, and he paid her rent, but he had a mean streak, and he liked to play games.

Sometimes when she was giving him head, he’d grab her by the hair and fuck her face, as if her mouth were a cunt, not caring if she choked or gagged or even if she could breathe. After he’d come, he’d hold her head in place as his cock softened, and then sometimes he’d piss in her mouth.

Sometimes he’d tie her up and leave her there, go to a bar and pick some girl up and bring her home and fuck her, right in front of her.  Once, on a rainy Seattle night, he locked her out of the house, held on to her wallet and keys, and wouldn’t let her back in until she brought a girl home for him to fuck. She ended up slipping some poor baby dyke a couple roofies, and staggering home with this weepy underaged chick on her shoulders. She watched as he fucked the passed-out little waif right there on the carpet, no condom or anything. When he was done, she licked his cock clean, and they hustled the confused and bedraggled semi-conscious young girl out the door and into the dark and drizzling suburban night.

She said the last time they were together, he tied her to the bed, face-down and spread eagled. He told her that he had a jar full of pure sulfuric acid, and that he was going to pour it all over her back. She didn’t believe him, she thought it was just another one of his mind-games, even as he dribbled the liquid up and down her back, from her shoulders down to her buttocks. Then it started to burn. It sizzled and stunk. She could smell her flesh being eaten away. He told her that he had a box of baking soda in his other hand, and he would sprinkle it over her back and neutralize the acid, but not until he came. He slid his cock into her pussy, which was soaking wet, and told her to get fucking.

She fucked him as hard as she could, restrained by the tightly knotted ropes, bucking her pelvis up and down and squeezing him with her cunt, howling and crying as the acid ate away her flesh. He stood perfectly still, letting her milk his cock. She was desperate. The ropes cut into her ankles and wrists, but she didn’t care. She slammed herself up and down on his erection, desperate for him to come. Finally, he shot off into her pussy, and good as his word, he sprinkled the baking soda all over her back. She said the endorphin rush was so intense that she came right away, his wilting cock still inside her, his come leaking out onto the sheets. She said it was the most intense orgasm of her life. She went into shock right after that, and lost consciousness. He dropped her off at the emergency room; she never saw him again.

She was gone again the next morning, and she wasn’t around when I got home from work. I wondered if I’d seen the last of her, but I didn’t think much about it; I had other worries. My ATM card wasn’t working, and my landlord likes for me to pay the rent in cash. He’s not the most reasonable fellow: if he’s not actually a mobster, he sure likes to dress and act like one, which is arguably worse.

I ordered Thai food, and paid the delivery guy with quarters, dimes, and nickels from my change drawer. She showed up just in time to help me finish off the phad thai.

We slept together that night. There was no discussion, she just came to bed with me. We didn’t waste much time on preliminaries: I licked her pussy for a little while, but I did that because I wanted to, not because she wanted it. She tasted nice, a little salty and a little musky, like some sort of exotic fruit.

She told me to fuck her. She told me I didn’t need to wear a condom. I put one on anyway.

We fucked face-to-face, kissing like wildcats. Her big, soft breasts were pressed against my chest. Her pussy was incredibly wet and slippery and hot and hungry for my cock.

I fucked her hard, and I fucked her deep. I felt like Superman. I felt like I was never going to come. Her body was slender and lithe and strong like a weasel or a ferret. Her pussy was neatly trimmed, her legs were long and muscular, and she liked to wrap them around my back and pull me deeper inside. Her tits shook pleasantly while I fucked her pussy.

When she came, she let the whole block know about it. I swear, she set off car alarms. She threw her head back, arched her back, and really let go. I felt like King of the World.  It seemed to go on forever. She told me it was the best orgasm she had ever had.

I asked if I could fuck her in the ass, and she said ‘Sure’, and rolled over onto all fours. Her naked ass was at least as beautiful as it had been wrapped in tight black jeans. We didn’t need any additional lube; her wetness was plenty for both of us. I nudged my cock gently into her tiny little hole, easing the head of my cock past her crinkled anus. She was tight back there, but not impossibly tight. She sighed throatily, and pressed back against me, taking more of my cock up her ass. Finally, I was all the way in, balls deep, her asshole clenching around the base of my cock. Very slowly at first, then gradually faster and faster, I started to fuck her ass.

Her back was smooth and flawless, from her exquisite shoulder blades down to the cleft of her buttocks. The only mark to be seen was a small, slightly fuzzy, generic-looking Celtic knot tattooed at the base of her spine.

She was really into it, huffing and grunting and humping back against my thrusts, playing enthusiastically with her clit while I sodomized her; her tits swinging beneath us like a pair of wrecking balls.

What pushed me over the edge was when she slipped a finger, or maybe more than one, up her pussy. I could feel her fingers rubbing up against my dick from inside her body, and it drove me wild. I shoved her head hard down into the pillows, and crammed my cock all the way up her butt until my hips were pressed hard against her pale ass-cheeks. I came, howling like an orangutan and pumping the condom buried in her ass full of semen.

When I woke up in the morning, she was gone, just like I knew she would be. My bank account was empty, and I was already locked out of my email.

I should have gotten on the phone right away, and started cancelling credit cards, but I took a shower first. I masturbated there, under the tingling cascade of spraying water, savoring the memory of the night before, clutching my dick in one soapy hand and leaning against the cracked and mildewed tiles. After I came, I stood in the shower for a long time, my hand still wrapped around my softening cock, my come congealing in the drain like spilled egg whites, letting the hot cleansing water spill all over my body, letting it wash away her scent, her touch, her memory, every last lingering trace of her.

END

The place isn’t crowded, but it certainly isn’t abandoned either. We are sitting at a picnic table in a neglected corner of the park, underneath an enormous old tree that is more dead than alive. It is Oliver’s lunch hour, and we are eating sandwiches, and he is playing with my pussy under the table, and it is driving me insane.

I tell him that I want to mark him as mine, my own property. Just saying the words makes my pussy flood, my clit swell and twitch. I feel his fingers pause inside my panties, hesitate, and then resume their meandering journey even more eagerly than before. I tell him that I want to brand him. He nods, but his eyes get real wide. Boys are so funny about pain!

I ask him where he wants me to do it, someplace where only he and I will know about it, somewhere where his wife won’t see it. He smiles shyly, licks my joy juice off his finger, and points coyly down at his crotch.

I tell him to unbutton his jeans and lie down on the bench, and he starts to panic.

“Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

There are people around, but I don’t think anyone is probably looking at us. We’re just another unremarkable couple, having lunch outside together on a nice early summer day.

He does as I say. Of course. He is wearing boxers, and his dick makes an impressive tent in the soft tartan material. My pussy is squelchy wet, juicy and hot and horny, missing the attention of his strong, talented fingers.

From my purse, I take a small piece of rigid steel wire, twisted and bent into a stylized LC, my initials. I clamp a little set of vice-grips to the wire, and turn on a tiny butane torch, holding the wire inside the flame until it glows white hot and emits sparks. I can hear his breathing coming fast and shallow.

“Will it hurt?” he asks, trying to sound brave.

“Oh yes,” I say, “This should hurt quite a bit.”

I pull his boxers down, letting his dick spring free like a jack-in-the-box. It is tall and thick and proud and kind of beautiful. His pubes are shaved bald, balls and all, which was not the case when we first me. I idly wonder what his wife thinks of this new look. I wonder if she will notice the mark I am about to make, but I don’t really care.

He whimpers a little. He is afraid. I am enjoying the anticipation immensely. I bend his dick to one side, out of the way, and press the hot metal against his bare flesh, just above the base of his cock. It makes a tiny hiss as it makes contact, and he flinches hard and grunts through clenched teeth. It really hurts, I can tell. He is breathing hard and fast, making noises like a woman in labor. I hold it there, on his smooth skin, for a count of three, then lift it off. My initials stared back at me, livid red on his pale, untanned flesh.

I apply a towelette soaked in alcohol to the wound, and am rewarded with another flinch and a stifled, choked-down scream. My pussy is positively drooling into my panties, my clit is twitching with lust.

I long to sit down on his dick, and fuck him like this, in pain, outside, and in public; but that is the one thing he has absolutely forbidden me. So instead, I do a quick check to see if anyone is obviously staring at us, wet one finger, and stick it straight up his asshole. I wrap my other hand around his dick and pump, hard and fast, like I’m playing Nintendo and winning. His cock is harder than ever.

With my long finger clamped securely inside his tight anus, I stick out my tongue and flick at the swollen red crown of his dick. He comes almost instantaneously, arching his back, and crying out in a throaty rasp that definitely makes people nearby turn their heads and look at us. Pearly-white semen splashes up his chest, in a long, beautiful arc, staining his white button-down shirt. I feed him a fat drop off my finger, mop up the rest with a handi-wipe. I hope he has something to change into back at his office.

Lunch hour is almost over, and it is time for Oliver to be getting back to his office. Self-consciously, we straighten out our clothes and try to look presentable. My own pussy is squishy hot and slippery, clamoring for release, but that will have to wait. Looking sheepish, Oliver rubs a little burn ointment onto his brand new scar, favors me with a half-smile, and buttons his jeans one last time. His dick still makes a noticeable lump in the front of his pants. I could eat that thing all day, every day, if I had the chance.

I am left to pick up the pieces: half eaten sandwiches and wrappers, branding paraphernalia scattered all around the picnic table, my own moistened panties, which I shove into my purse.

The first time I meet him, flesh-and-blood meet him, it is very early in the morning, at a park-and-ride off Route 9. For some reason I am taken aback: he really is that cute in person!

We’ve played on the internet before: I’ve made him put clothespins on his tiny nipples and snap his own sensitive parts with rubber bands, and had him cram his wife’s pearl necklace up his cute little butt. I’ve watched him jerk off plenty of times, but this is very different. The traffic is a constant low-level roar: the morning commute in full swing. My heart feels like it wants to rip out of my chest.

His hair is mussed up, and he still has bed-face. I told him to go commando, and I can clearly see the outline of his cock through his pants.

He steps out of the car, and we kiss. He tastes like coffee. He slips a hand up inside my t-shirt and cups my breast, covering it entirely with the palm of his large, strong hand. My pussy melts.

I tell him he how bad I want this, how hard it has been to wait, how I’m really nervous, and it is mostly true. He kisses me harder and squeezes my nipple. I bite his lip, bearing down hard, until I taste blood. He pulls away. The gold band on the fourth finger of his left hand taunts me.

I position him behind his car, facing away from me, and I tell him to pull down his pants. His ass is bare underneath, in all its taut, muscular, pale glory. His dick is fully erect, straining up and out, swollen and leaking and slightly curved. It would fit inside me deliciously. The traffic on Route 9 is heavy. Anyone could see us now, from inside their car, if they were looking. But they probably aren’t. I tell him to bend over and touch his toes.

I spank his ass hard, alternating cheeks, one and then the other. I spank him until my hand stings, my arm aches. His white ass is covered in raised red finger-shaped welts. I want his wife to see my hand-prints later on, to ask him where they came from.

I want it to hurt. I take off my belt and use that. It makes a satisfying *whack* as it contacts his flesh. He flinches away, but does not ask me to stop. He knows better than that. By the time I am done, tears are running down his cheeks, splashing onto the asphalt pavement like salty rain. His cock is harder than ever.

I tell him to stand up and reach for the sky, and he does so slowly, almost reluctantly. When he is finally standing up straight, with his hands laced together on top of his head, I start going down on him.

His pants are in a pile, crumpled on top of his shoes, his dick juts eagerly out. I don’t swallow him whole, the way I might with someone else. Instead, I stick out my tongue, softly trace my way up and down his length, and back again, stopping to swirl around the ridges of the crown, as if he were an exotic hard candy. He is quivering under my tongue. His dick twitches and shudders, and he moans out loud. With one hand, I softly pet the underside of his ball sac, trace tiny little hidden paths up the crevice between his cheeks, tormenting and avoiding his asshole, tracing intricate spirals on that soft, secret flesh, while my tongue still travels its lazy traverse, up, down, and back up again. I am going to make him late for work, and I don’t care.

He goes off without warning. He gasps, he cock suddenly jumps and goes harder than hard, and he spurts off, directly into my open mouth, squirting his hot, thick, salty semen straight onto my outstretched tongue. He will pay for this later on. Meanwhile, I swallow every drop, even as he milks himself into my mouth.

I sit on the tail gate of his car, with my skirt hiked up and my legs pornographically spread, and he earnestly goes down on me, flicking my clit with his tongue and fingering my cunt until I come, but it isn’t what I want. It is good, don’t get me wrong, but it isn’t fulfilling. It doesn’t fill that void.

With my wetness still sticky on his face, he buttons up, kisses me one last time, and gets back in his car. He is definitely going to be late for work. I hope his ass pains him all day long. I hope he thinks of me every time he sits down or shifts his weight in his chair during a long, stifling meeting. I will send him filthy texts, just to make sure.

At home I masturbate furiously. I use my vibrator, but I keep the switch turned off. I want to come just from this. It takes a while, but I can do it. I am certainly wet enough.

I imagine crucifying him spread-eagled to my hardwood floor with sixteen-penny duplex nails and a framing hammer. There would be a butt-plug the size of a Volkswagen up his ass, and his dick would be harder than steel. With every blow of the hammer, as I drive cold iron through the flesh of his hands and his feet, I ask him over and over again, “Do you like it now?” and he’d moan back “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

I squat over him, hovering just above his straining erection. “Do you want it? Do you want it now? Do you want me to fuck you?”

“No,” he says, “Please no.” I do it anyway.

I lower myself onto his dick and ride him, savoring every centimeter of his cock filling me up, bouncing up and down like a wild woman, lifting off and letting his penis flop helplessly, straining up toward my slick and drooling cunt like a drowning thing, coated in my juices. Again and again, I plunge back down on him, relishing the sensation of penetration, fullness, feeling his cock inside me. I grind down and back and forth, my scarlet initials peering back up at me past my swollen clitoris, where my pussy lips have swallowed his penis whole.

He is arching his back, fucking up at me, fucking my cunt. I know he is close, and I draw it out of him, balanced on the tip of his cock, the livid head of his dick captured just inside my pussy lips, rocking back and forth, stimulating my clit while my juice runs down his cock like syrup. He comes, with an anguished scream, arching his back up to me, fingers and toes clenching spasmodically, tearing at the spikes I have driven through his flesh, filling me with his seed, and I come too, lowering myself onto him one last time until he is completely inside me, his balls mashed against my skin, pounding on his chest and twisting and pulling on his nipples all the way through my orgasm.

I have pissed on him; he has drank my urine straight from the source as if I were a human water fountain; I have smeared my menstrual blood all over his face; I have beat him and bitten him and branded his skin; I have jerked him off and sucked his cock; I have even sodomized him, but I will never possess him.

The vibrator finally slips regretfully out from between my tired and buzzing labia. I feel empty inside. My breasts are pink and flushed from my orgasm; my hands are still trembling. It is another Saturday night and I ain’t got nobody.

END

1.

The devil is in the details. You like the general idea, but we spend a lot of time negotiating the nitty-gritty. Just talking about it over the phone, and back and forth in emails and texts makes us both squirmy, restless, and hot. The anticipation builds and builds.

You come over to the house early in the morning, pink and eager and freshly showered. You ring the doorbell right on time, and my dick twitches and swells inside my pants. Out of sheer perversity, I let you wait a while on the doorstep. Five minutes, ten minutes click by with excruciating deliberateness. Time has slowed down to dentist office speed. When I do let you in, you smother me in a big, warm hug. Your body feels nice pressed up against mine. My cock is already hard. I have made you a big, hot breakfast. We eat, and then we make out for a while, lolling together on the couch like a pair of spoons, my erection pressed up against the cleft of your ass while I squeeze and fondle your breasts and we kiss. Then you get undressed, and I lead you downstairs.

It is dark and cool in the basement. The cement floor is gritty and a little moist. I fasten a leather dog collar around your throat, secure it with a padlock to a length of chain attached to the plumbing. There is a bowl of water for you to drink from, and a few granola bars. I kiss you once more, hard this time, biting your lip until I draw blood, and pinching and twisting your nipple, making you cry out. Then I switch off the light and leave you down there.

There is work for me to do, calls to make, open projects clamoring for my attention on the computer. My dick stays obnoxiously hard between my legs as I try to concentrate. Knowing that you are down there waiting for me is a powerful aphrodisiac. I feel your pull like a magnet.

When I can’t stand the wait anymore, I set work aside and make the trip down the stairs. You are lying down on the cement floor. Maybe you were asleep. I pull your lead, forcing you up onto your knees. I take out my cock and feed it to you, savoring the feeling of your mouth on my dick. You are an eager fellator.  You use your tongue and your lips and your hands on my erection, my balls, my asshole. You are good. The pleasure is almost too much for me. Before you push me past that event horizon, before I slip past the point of no return, I wrench myself away, leaving you there, gasping and panting. Upstairs, my dick is now constantly hard, a heavy ingot between my legs. I keep thinking of you down in the cellar waiting for me. I am not very productive.

From time to time during the day, I come down and let you suck my dick. Sometimes I shove it into your mouth, cramming it down your throat, grabbing a fistful of hair and fucking your face. Other times I torment you with it, holding it just out of reach so that the collar chokes you, and every muscle strains as you stick out your tongue, trying to lick the red, swollen head.

My friend Bryan comes over for lunch, and I tell him I’ve got something to show him downstairs. We go down to the basement, and I watch while you suck his dick. You look really sexy like that, with your lips wrapped earnestly around his cock, his balls rubbing against your chin, your breasts swaying and jiggling as your mouth goes up and down on him. I join in, and you try to swallow us both at once. It feels weird to have my cock rubbing up against his inside your mouth. I realize that I have never touched another man’s dick before, and now I am. You use both hands on our cocks, massaging our dicks while you slather your tongue across both of the swollen heads. You take my hand, place it on his shaft; and his hand on mine. We jerk each other off while you suck us both. Suddenly, I am kissing him. If he is surprised, he doesn’t show it. It is weird to kiss a guy: his lips feel hard and rough, his stubble is scratchy.  It feels strange to hold another guy’s cock in my hand. Now Bryan is kissing me back, our hands pumping hard and fast on each other’s cocks while you struggle to keep both the heads between your lips. I feel him shoot off into your mouth, and that is what sets me off. We spurt into your hungry mouth like a pair of roman candles. You lick our dicks clean as they slowly wilt and diminish. Afterward, Bryan seems embarrassed by what happened. I offer him a beer, but he makes an excuse and leaves.

During the afternoon, you suck my dick some more. I play with your pussy, choking you with one hand while I run my fingers roughly up and down your slit. I’m not going to fuck you this time, though I want to and you want me to. You are shockingly wet. I slip a finger into your asshole, and you yelp. I let you masturbate while I jerk off into your open mouth.

I unlock you, and bring you upstairs where you shower and get dressed. Then I treat you to a big, beautiful dinner with flowers and a nice twenty-dollar wine. We sit outside together and look at the stars. You tell me this might be the start of a beautiful friendship.

2.

You are still kneeling when I get home, which is good, because I know you don’t want to spend another night in the box. You are just where I left you, dead center in the middle of the living room, down on your knees, back straight; arms trussed up and bound behind your back.

The girl I brought home is young, skinny, pretty, and a little drunk. She giggles too loudly when she sees you. You hate her already. I can see it in your eyes, glinting through your glasses.

We make out for a while on the couch, right in front of you. She is a sloppy kisser, and over-eager to get my cock out. I get her top off, toss her bra aside. She has a pretty cute set of tits, the nipples hard and pink, pointing up and out.

She sucks my dick a little bit. She isn’t very good at it. She tries to swallow it whole, but gags and chokes. She bobs her head up and down, and uses her hand, but can’t find a good rhythm. She licks it like an ice cream cone, which is kind of sweet, but mostly frustrating.

I get annoyed and have her stand up and pull her skirt up and her panties down. I have her stand in front of you, and I tell you to lick her pussy. You don’t want to do it, but you do it anyway, sticking out your tongue and dragging it up her pouting, waxed, puffy-lipped slit. She grins, and giggles too loudly again.

I fuck her. I can feel your eyes on us every second of it. Her pussy feels really good on my cock, hot, tight, and very wet. She is gloating, chuckling as I fuck her bald twat, high on the thrill of fucking your lover right in front of you. She rubs her clit, and kicks her legs and comes loudly and dramatically on my thrusting dick.

I pull out, and tell her that you are going to show her how a real whore sucks cock. I peel off the condom and present my straining dick to you, and you devour it eagerly, devouring my erection like a prime cut of meat. Her juices are all over me. I reek of her sex. I pull your hair and fuck your face. Your mouth is, as always, amazing; hot and wet and talented. I can bear it no longer. With a cry and a whimper, I come, filling your mouth with my hot semen. You swallow eagerly, milking me dry.

I give her a cab fare and send her on her way. She looks resentful, as if she had expected something more. You smile triumphantly as I shoo her out the door. I untie you. We kiss and cuddle, and go to bed together, where I find your pussy slick and wet and ready to go. I lick your clit until you can’t stand it any more, and beg me to please fuck your cunt. I gladly oblige.

3.

We find this one on Craigslist, of course. She taps softly at the front door, ignoring the doorbell. She’s cute; a little heavy, a little unsure of herself, with frizzy not-quite-blonde hair and skin so pale that it is almost transparent. I ask her in and offer her a drink, which she nervously accepts. She yelps when she sees you, even though we had told her beforehand exactly what to expect. I ask her if she’s ok, and she flashes me a disarming little smile and says ‘Yes’.

You are flat on your back on the coffee table, bound tight, your arms and legs lashed securely to the table legs. Your breasts are pancaked, and your labia peek out, betraying your excitement. The rope presses into your skin, carving out valleys in your flesh. To me it looks uncomfortable, but I don’t hear you complaining.

She sits on the couch and primly sips her drink, watching intensely as I step out of my pants and underwear. My cock and balls feel heavy, pendulous, as I climb up onto the table and straddle your face. You eagerly begin licking the underside of my cock, making me swell and grow hard. I shift position, and you licked and nuzzled my balls. I shift again, arching my back and spreading my cheeks, and you lick up and down the cleft of my ass, extending your tongue, licking all around my asshole before darting up inside. My cock is fully erect now, arching up and out, straining with excitement. I could come just from this. I stand up before we get too carried away.

“I think a woman looks so beautiful in a strap-on.” I say to the room. I produce our harness, with the large, purple, silicone dildo already in place, the one you like to fuck me with when the mood is upon us. This time, instead of buckling it around your hips, like we usually do, I fasten the straps around your face, so that the base of the dildo is pressed against your lips like a gag. You look strangely sexy that way, artificial phallus protruding obscenely from your face. I kind of like it. “Go ahead,” I tell her, “Be our guest. Please, don’t be shy!”

She is shy though, and it is cute. She is hesitant and self-conscious about undressing. I think she has a lovely body, even though she isn’t anything like model-thin. Her boobs are small and sweet, she sports a neatly-trimmed little bush. I think her best feature is her ass, large and curvaceous.

Nervously, as if she’s afraid it won’t bear her weight, she climbs up onto the coffee table. I can see your breathing get shallower and more rapid, see your lips swelling, pouting out like a blooming flower, see the wetness oozing between your legs. She slowly and tentatively starts to lower herself onto the dildo that is strapped to your face. She smiles… she likes it! She sighs loudly, and lets it slip slowly all the way up inside, until her pussy is mashed up against your face. She grins up at me: this is good!

She starts riding you, like an equestrian atop a galloping horse, bouncing up and down, grinding against you. I’m not sure how you can breathe: your head is captured between her thick, meaty thighs; when she bears down your nose disappears between her ass cheeks. She bends over and starts finger-fucking you. I don’t think she has ever been with a girl before. It looks like she is stabbing at your pussy. Two fingers plunge in and out like daggers. I know you are enjoying this, but I also know it will not make you come.

I pour lube all over my hard dick until it glistens and shines like an amphibian thing. I maneuver myself into position, pry her cheeks apart, take aim. She stops moving, and holds her breath. I slide my cock slowly, inexorably up her ass. She grunts as she is penetrated. I am fucking her ass now, and you have a front-row seat.

She starts moving on the dildo again, rocking back and forth as I sodomize her. She whimpers and whines. She is going to come. Her asshole squeezes me very tight; the motion of the dildo in her cunt drives me crazy. I am not going to last very long.

She orgasms, loudly, high-pitched, broken, unintelligible screams, mashing herself down hard against your face. Her orgasm triggers my own, and I shoot off with a shout, squirting deep inside her asshole.

We slowly, gently untangle. I untie you, massage the blood back into your hands and feet. Your face is sticky, shiny with her juices. I let the two of you kiss for a little while, then gently tell her it is time to go home.

I make you walk naked out to the car. Anyone could see you if they were looking, but they probably aren’t. You have a tiara on your head, and a butt-plug in your ass, with three enormous, gaudy peacock feathers sticking out of the base. I think you look lovely like that.

I follow you out to the car, and take off my pants, so that I am naked from the waist down. We get in and drive. When we get out on the thruway, I turn on the dome light, roll down the windows, and set the cruise control.

You masturbate as you suck my cock. The peacock feathers protruding from your rear end flap and flutter in the slipstream like a cavalry standard. The big rigs slow down and lay on their horns appreciatively as they pass us.

I love the way you suck my cock. You are so good at it! You play me like an instrument, like you are performing a symphony on my dick. With my free hand, I play with your breasts, pinching and twisting your nipples as your head bobs up and down on my lap. There are bruises on your wrists from where the rope cut into you. They look pretty. Your tongue is swirling all over the head of my cock, making me squirm with desire, making me hump back against your mouth. I am having trouble keeping the car in our lane.

Your fingers are making squishing sounds as you masturbate. You smile up at me around my cock, your eyes flashing merrily in the low light. The plastic tiara is sitting crooked on top of your head. I tell you I want to come in your mouth, but you already know that. You slip a finger up my asshole, and start sucking me in earnest, no more teasing. You are a woman on a mission.

I reach over and slide a pair of fingers up inside your pussy. You are hot and slippery and dripping wet. I finger-fuck you while you play with your clit. You suck my cock and torment my asshole. Somehow we manage to come at the same time. I cry out loud and shoot off into your mouth as you buck and shake through an orgasm on my probing finger. You swallow my come. I lick my fingers clean. You remove the butt-plug, and I turn off the interior lights and roll up the windows, and we drive home, taking the slow route, feeling deeply, deeply satisfied.

And they lived happily ever after.

END

It was corporate espionage, right down there at the very bottom of the food chain, where grotesque, blind organisms flail around in the muck, competing for whatever scraps filter down through the dark. Salem, the sole owner and proprietor of El Rey Del Taco was asking me to get a job over at Our Lady of Tacos so that I could spy on them and sabotage their product and find out why Belinda Moldover had a line out her door at lunch time and he didn’t.

I could have told him: Belinda hired cute high school girls, and had them wear skimpy, sassy little outfits, and their tacos were five cents cheaper than ours. But I didn’t. What would have been the fun in that?

“Just think, Sugarbuns, you’ll be making twice what you make now.”

Yes, and that was still less than half what I used to make over at the Rep for hanging and focusing light plots; before I got fired for, among other things, fucking the lighting director and for not fucking the production manager.

This job was the crusty bottom of the high fructose corn syrup barrel, a last-ditch Hail Mary pass. I was already way behind on the rent, and the cable company was threatening to cut off my internet. The measly salary Salem paid me didn’t even start to cover rent, but at least it allowed me to maintain my coffee habit, and I got to eat free tacos.

Salem wanted me to spy on the competition, but that wasn’t all he wanted. Underneath his expansive gut, his crotch bulged lewdly. He leered at me and licked his lips in an effort, I suspect, to appear seductive.

I had sucked Salem’s dick exactly once; I had more or less explicitly promised to do so at the job interview; if nothing else I am a girl who keeps her promises; and I had no desire to do so again. It wasn’t awful; it’s not like he had terrible personal hygiene or anything. It just wasn’t pleasant. He’s not very well hung, which isn’t really a problem for me, especially when it comes to blowjobs, but he’s also a combination of fat and reptilian that I find particularly repulsive. He’s the kind of guy who feels cheated if he doesn’t get to come on your face, the type who feels free to grab you with both hands by the back of the head if he doesn’t feel like you’re giving it your all. So I just played dumb and ignored the hints he kept dropping.

I wondered if he beat his wife, in addition to cheating on her and neglecting her. Probably not. Too much work.

So I got a job over at Our Lady of Tacos. And I didn’t even have to suck any dicks to get it.

Belinda Moldover ran Our Lady, and Salem hated her worse than he hated anything other than the Feds. I don’t think Belinda even knew Salem was alive, which of course only made him loathe her all the more.

Belinda had been an investment banker before the big crash, and she still dressed like it, in snappy pantsuits and pinstripes. Everything about her screamed ‘dyke’, and she overcompensated with too much pink and frilly stuff, and cheesy posters of half- to three quarters- naked muscle boys on her office walls. There was absolutely no sexual innuendo during the interview; it was very professional and above-board. She hired me. I knew right away that I wanted to fuck her. One way or another, I was going to lick her pussy.

As far as the spying went, there really wasn’t much to it: the tacos were almost exactly the same as the ones over at El Rey. Same brand of shells even, same supplier. Like I said before, the only difference was more teeny-boppers, and the price. Belinda made less money per unit, and she more than made up for it in volume; a concept that was utterly foreign to Salem. So I made shit up. I told him they used kangaroo meat in the ground beef, marijuana sweepings in the salsa. He ate that shit up.

As for sabotage, I did what I could. I spit in the lettuce. I squirted ketchup into the salsa. If I were a guy, I would have jerked off into the guacamole. Once I got brave and wiped pussy-sweat onto a tray of fish sticks. I broke taco shells and skimped on lettuce. Nobody noticed my efforts, but I was certainly enjoying myself. I have to hand it to Salem, he picked the right girl for the job. I’ve always been a bit of a junior-league terrorist, a mean little bitch. I guess it’s just the way I’m wired.

Once, when I was little, I walked in on my Mom and her boyfriend doing it. My dad was at work, and I was supposed to be over at my friend Molly’s, but I ditched that and walked home. I insinuated myself silently into our suburban ranch house, and tip-toed down the hall to my parents’ room. The door was ajar. I stood there in the doorway to their bedroom for a long time, just watching.

I’m not sure exactly how old I was at the time, but I was certainly old enough to enjoy the spectacle. He had a high forehead, and a pronounced farmer’s tan. His butt was skinny and pale, and his penis hung down between his legs, thick and heavy, dwarfed by his big, hairy, dangling balls. He was kneeling on the bed, with his face planted squarely in between my mother’s wide-spread thighs. She was sprawled out, a big lazy kitty-cat, practically purring with bliss as he busily licked and slurped.

What I saw made my cunny all moist and tingly. I stood there silently for a long time, just watching. I think I could have been bouncing up and down on a pogo stick and playing the cymbals; they would never have noticed me there in the doorway. They were completely wrapped up in what they were doing with each other.

She kicked her legs and lifted her ass off the bed and yipped like a coyote. I guessed that meant she was having an orgasm. He stayed with her all the way through it, her hands buried in his thinning hair, pressing him hard into her muff. I squeezed my thighs together. Inside my panties, my young pussy felt hot and wet and squishy.

Mom climbed on top of him, facing his toes. She could have plainly seen me, except that she was totally focused on the cock in her face, like a greedy kid confronted with a big candy cane. As she played with it, his thing magically grew and stiffened, until it was tall and rigid, standing straight up like a rocket ship poised for launch.

At this point, they switched positions again. My mom lay flat on her back on the bed, her legs held straight up in the air, her toes pointing at the ceiling. He climbed on top of her, his hard cock jutting out and bobbing around. It was bigger, hairier, and uglier than I had expected. Cocks, I decided, were not especially aesthetically pleasing. Still, it was damn sexy.

I actually heard her pussy squelch as he entered her. They both started moaning softly. I stuck one hand down my pants. My fingers came back wet and sticky.

I waited and watched while they got more and more into it, humping faster and faster, louder and louder. My mom was screaming incoherently. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought he was butchering her alive, chopping her up for stew meat. I held my breath, counted to five, and made my entrance.

“Mom! I’m home… oh!”

I couldn’t have timed it better. They both jumped like they had stumbled into a yellow-jacket nest. Mom squealed like a bunny rabbit, and they disengaged in a flurry of limbs.

His dick twitched, and fat, viscous globs of white stuff oozed out the end, falling like raindrops on the shag carpeting of my parents’ bedroom. He looked abashed and uncomfortable; she looked embarrassed and irritated. I was thrilled.

“Molly wasn’t around, so I just came home…” I let my voice trail off. “I’m gonna make a peanut butter sandwich. I’ll be playing with my Barbies in the back yard!” I finished brightly, leaving them to pick up whatever pieces they wanted to.

Later, Mom sat me down and explained that she had been playing a special grown-up game with my “Uncle Jim”, and that I shouldn’t mention what I had seen to my father.

A few days after that, after dinner, when Mom and Dad were watching TV, I knocked her porcelain elephant off the shelf where it sat. It shattered into a million little pieces. She had gotten it from her own mother, who had supposedly gotten it as a present from her fiancé, who was killed in the war.

“Why did you do that?” she asked sharply as she swept up the scattered shards. I knew that elephant had been precious to her. I just smiled and shrugged.

A couple years later, after she and Dad had gotten divorced, I blew one of her suitors. He had come over to pick her up for a date, and he was a little early, and she was still getting ready, so she told me to entertain him while he waited.

She went into her bedroom to put on makeup and fuck with her hair. I climbed up onto his lap. He wasn’t bad looking; sort of tall and gangly. I smiled sweetly up at him. I felt a certain something shift and twitch inside his pants, so I shifted my butt accordingly. That something responded. I slid my tush up and down his lap, and it responded even more. There was quite an impressive lump going on in his trousers.

I clambered down off his lap, and unzipped his pants. He certainly didn’t make any moves to stop me. The head of his dick was swollen, red and juicy. I popped it into my mouth like a big candy plum. He tasted nice, kind of salty and freshly washed. I wrapped my small hands around his shaft and slid them up and down, up and down.

He started rocking his hips back and forth, trying to get more of his dick inside my mouth. I persevered, keeping the head of his dick — but no more – captured between my lips, and pumping my hands up and down until my shoulders ached.

Suddenly he grunted. Strong hands grabbed me by the back of the head and pressed down, hard. His cock filled my mouth, plunging against the back of my throat, obstructing my breathing, making me choke and gag. I started to panic, but he held me tight. He was breathing hard, thrusting at me, fucking my mouth. He whispered “Bitch” in a raspy voice, and flooded my mouth with hot, thick, salty, bitter semen.

The hands grasping my head relaxed, and I fell onto the floor, grinning up at him, my mouth full of his come. I savored it, delighted in it, drank it with relish, knowing that it rightfully belonged to my mother. Just as he finished zipping up his wet, soft noodle, my Mom walked back into the room, ready for her date. I swallowed, and smiled sweetly.

It wasn’t long after that that she stopped speaking to me.

Back at Our Lady of Tacos, I was running out of lies to tell Salem, and my petty attempts at sabotage were going completely unnoticed. I was bored. I decided it was time for more drastic action. I would seduce Belinda Moldover.

In terms of seduction, I’ve always favored the direct approach. Friday night, after my shift was over, I ditched my apron, pinched my nipples to make them show clearly through my tight t-shirt, and slipped discretely into her office while my co-workers were busily cleaning up and putting away.

She was sitting behind her desk, a mahogany antique the size of an aircraft carrier. A ream of paperwork was spread out in front of her. She looked up at me through prim, rimless bifocals, looking for all the world like a sexy, dykey librarian. The poster of the oiled-up muscle boy behind her, wearing nothing but a black g-string and bow tie kind of spoiled the effect.

I spilled my guts to her, laid it all on the line. I told her I wasn’t sure I should say anything, but that it had been eating a hole in my gut. I told her I thought she was an amazing, beautiful woman. I told her that I was finding myself strongly attracted to her, and I thought we had chemistry, and I hoped that the feeling was mutual. I told her I’d never done anything with another girl before, but that I was curious to try.

I told her a bunch of untruths, filthy, filthy lies. Almost all of it was pure fabrication. I did think she was really hot though. I guess I have a thing for older women.

She took off her glasses and gave me a look that was pretty much smoldering. I melted like butter on a hot day, feeling myself get all wet and gushy inside my pants. I really wanted to fuck her, right then and there, right across that massive, cluttered desk. I wanted to spread her legs and lick her up, down, and left and right until she screamed.

“You’re a very attractive young lady,” she told me, “And I have to say I’m complimented… as well as tempted.”

I knew what she was going to say, and my gut tightened up and my mouth went sour.

“It really wouldn’t be ethical, as you’re an employee and I’m your employer… and anyway I have to confide in you that I’m sort of involved with someone else.”

She said it like it was some kind of big secret, but everyone knew. She and Dolores Breakwell were lovers. Dolores ran a garage a couple doors down and on the other side of the street from Our Lady. She was a classic dyke, short and stocky, with closely trimmed fingernails, muscular forearms, and a mullet.

If there’s anything I truly hate in this world, it’s being thwarted.

I decided that if I couldn’t fuck Belinda, I would definitely fuck her girlfriend. And Dolores proved to have far fewer ethical qualms about cheating on her lover and boinking me. I barely had to work at it to get into her pants.

She liked to lash me to the bed and make me eat her pussy for what seemed like hours on end. That woman was insatiable! She also liked to fuck me in the ass with a strap-on dildo, my wrists bound together in front of me, tied securely to the frame of her bed, sodomizing me like it was a competitive sport. I liked it even more than I let on. I barely had to fake anything,

We pushed our luck, and I encouraged bad behavior. We fucked in customers cars. I hid in the garage bays while she and Belinda fucked, and when she was gone, I came out and licked Dolores’ wet pussy some more. We had sex in their bed, while Belinda was out shopping. And inevitably, we got caught.

They double-teamed me. My hands cuffed behind my back, I desperately licked at Dolores’ pussy and clit while Belinda worked over my rear end with a belt, making it whistle through the air . Then they switched places, and I buried my face in Belinda’s silky-smooth crotch while Dolores flogged me. She used the buckle end. It hurt a lot. I screamed until my throat was raw and my voice cracked. The more I screamed, the wetter Belinda seemed to get. She made me stick my tongue up her ass, and told Dolores to fist-fuck my rancid little cunt. I was on the rag at the time, and she pulled out my tampon and did her absolute damndest to cram all five fingers up my poor pussy. She didn’t quite do it, I think she had four fingers inside me, and another in my asshole when Belinda finally came, kicking and wailing and telling me I was a filthy slut and a cheap little whore. I must have completely ruined her expensive high-thread count sheets, a thought that gave me some bitter solace after she threw me out of her house to limp home with a sore, shell-shocked pussy and a wounded, bruised and bloody ass. I still have scars from some of the gouges that belt buckle made in my poor heinie.

Belinda and Dolores broke up after that, and Belinda took up with one of the assistant managers, a pixie-faced seventeen year old named Cassie. I was fired, of course. Fired from Our Lady, and than fired again from El Rey for having blown my mission and not having blown Salem. I was summarily, and probably illegally, thrown out of my apartment for non-payment of rent.

I took up residence in a house that had been foreclosed upon, on a street littered with empty houses. The copper wiring had all been stripped out, but at least the water still worked, though my showers were bitterly cold.

I spent a lot of time over at the Starbucks, where I could charge my laptop, and drink overpriced, mediocre coffee until my hands wouldn’t stop trembling and my gut felt like it had been knifed. I thought about going pro, peddling my ass on Craigslist, which made for a couple pretty nice masturbation sessions, but when it came right down to actually doing it, seemed too banal and depressing for words.

Back at the house, I pirated internet from the nice young couple who lived across the street. There house was one of the few on the block that had actual, legitimate residents, and they took good care of it. It was cute. She was pretty, in a friendly, slightly chunky, carefree sort of way; he was the spitting image of a ripped Buddy Holly, with square, black-rimmed glasses, and an intricate retro heart tattoo on his upper arm.

I figured out a way to file other people’s taxes online, and have their refunds sent to an anonymous debit card that I bought at the Seven-Eleven. That was more profitable and far less risky than turning tricks. So, for a while anyway, I could live high on the hog.

Sometimes I’d watch my neighbors across the street, from behind the cracked and moldy window panes of my dilapidated American Dream house. They seemed happy.

Sometimes she’d mow the lawn, wearing nothing but hiking boots, bike shorts, and a jog bra. She had long, wavy, not-quite-blonde hair, and big boobs. I thought about what it would be like to fuck her, what it would be like to have those strong, thick thighs wrapped around my head. I thought about what they must look like when they had sex, his beefy, cut body on top of her curvaceous one, sliding his thick, hard cock into her juicy pussy, squeezing each other’s hands and whispering endearments as they fucked. I bet they looked pretty hot, doing it. I thought about what it would feel like to slide my wet finger up his tight little butt, just before he came deep inside her pussy. Pretty nice, I bet.

I continued hogging their bandwidth, committing tax fraud and watching porn, eating junk food and occasionally wishing I was a better person.

END

1.
On Sunday night I took a bunch of pills, emptying out every bottle in my medicine cabinet and swallowing them by the handful, washing them down with warm Coke. Then I sat down on the couch and watched old Simpsons reruns while I waited. When my stomach started cramping, I panicked, and called 911. By this time the EMTs knew me by name.

“Oh, sweetheart,” they said, “Not again?”

They strapped me into the gurney, and hauled me downstairs to the ambulance, and I don’t know for sure, but I strongly suspect that they didn’t close my apartment door properly behind them. I think that’s when he got in.

It was a quick ride over to St. Luke’s, and I bypassed the usual interminable wait in the emergency room because my stomach was cramping something fierce and I was really scared and just a little hopeful I might have really fucked the pooch this time, and then a tired-looking resident had my stomach pumped, and they kept me overnight for observation, and then sent me on my way in the morning with my stuff in a clear plastic bag and a promise to never do it again.

I went straight from the hospital to work, which was neither any better nor any worse than usual: meetings all afternoon, pro forma sexual harassment from Brinks, and I had to stay late debugging. At home, I sat naked on the windowsill and ate cold pizza, drinking cheap vodka out of a pint glass and looking down through my window at the web of tangled traffic below.

It rained that night, and I stood out in the middle of the West Side Highway for a little over an hour, but apparently no-one felt like running over a drunk fat white chick in her skivvies, so eventually I got dressed and went home, bored and tired and wet.

The next day at work was more of the same: ‘self-assessment and inventory’. Brinks, my supervisor, speculated out loud as to what kind of panties I might be wearing. As usual, he was dead wrong. The new intern winced visibly. She was cute. I stayed in the office until 7:30, eating greasy Chinese food out of styrofoam containers. I wondered, if I hung myself in the supply closet, how long it would take them to find my body, who would handle the paperwork, and how many mandatory team-building seminars my suicide would generate.

That night, I briefly considered masturbating. I hadn’t done it in weeks. I used to be a dedicated twice-a-dayer. I even went so far as to put one of my old tapes on the VCR, but there was nothing. I was dry as autumn leaves.

Sometimes I couldn’t believe it was really me in those tapes; I couldn’t connect with that girl at all. It had been ten years and more since I’d had sex. Does your virginity ever grow back? I slept hard that night, and didn’t dream.

Ever get the feeling you’re not alone? I’ve lived by myself for a long time, and that’s the way I like it. When you live alone, you get used to things being a certain way; nobody messes around with your stuff. Something wasn’t quite right. There wasn’t enough toilet paper left on the roll. I could have sworn I still had a slice of left-over pizza in the fridge. I looked and looked, but couldn’t find my spare keys.

Once I knew what I was looking for, it didn’t take long to find it: my apartment isn’t that big. He’d made a little nest in the back of my coats closet. There was a battered blue sleeping bag and some candy wrappers and a roll of condoms. He was using my parka for a pillow. I touched nothing, beat a hasty retreat, and rode the subway up and down town for hours, dithering about what to do about it. It was one of those days when I wished I smoked.

2.
I remember when I was a little girl, my parents were always bringing ‘friends’ over to the house. These ‘friends’ always looked more or less the same: gym-sculpted bodies, golden deep-fried salon tans, perfect teeth, plastic smiles. When I was introduced to them, they always smiled really big and shook my hand in kind of a greasy, condescending way. I generally only saw them once, twice at the most. They stayed the night, and then they were gone. When I finally figured out what was going on, it was like somebody had thrown one of those ka-chung disconnect switches that turns on all the stadium lights.

There was always a ton of porn around the house: stacks of magazines, books, and video tapes filling up the bookshelves and spilling out across the counters and coffee tables. This was before the internet had come into its own, and VHS was king.

My mom got me a vibrator for my twelfth birthday, which was absolutely mortifying, but didn’t stop me from using it incessantly.

It was sort of all downhill from there.

One day, she announced that it was time for me to learn to give a proper blowjob. It was a Saturday morning, we’d just finished breakfast, and next thing I knew, Dad was sitting on the kitchen counter with his pants around his ankles, and Mom was slurping up and down his erect dick, licking his fat hairy balls, lavishing her tongue around the purple head, and pausing now and then to give me pointers. “Don’t try to cram the whole thing in your mouth, at least not at first.” “Keep up a good rhythm with your hand” “If your mouth gets tired, guys like it when you rub your boobs on their cock.” Which she then proceeded to do, peeling off her tank top, and capturing my dad’s penis between her breasts, so that only the head peeked out. He slid his dick up and down her cleavage, and she stuck out her tongue to lick the tip. He was juicy. Her boobs completely enveloped his cock, so it looked sort of like a pig-in-a-blanket. My own breasts were still just speed bumps, not yet developed enough to capture anything of the sort; but my nipples were suddenly achingly hard.

Mom turned to me, releasing Dad’s hard cock, which waggled and bounced like a jack-in-the-box. “Do you want to try it, Honey? Here, have a lick!”

I fled upstairs to my room, and locked the door. My panties were sticky wet. I masturbated on my bed, pressing my vibrator hard against my agonized clit, coming over and over again.

“Do you think she’s ready?” Dad asked. We were in the car, driving home from the mall. I was in the back seat next to Sherry, another one of my parent’s ‘friends’.

“I think she’s ready” Mom replied, “What do you think, Sherry?”

“Oh, I think she’s definitely ready.” Sherry squeezed my hand and smiled at me, and I felt my tongue go dry and my cunt get involuntarily sopping wet.

“Why don’t we start her out on Eric?” Mom said thoughtfully, “He’s got a pretty small dick.”

Eric was an Asian guy, in his late twenties or early thirties, with a lot of tight, compact, toned muscles, and a receding hairline. He was actually pretty cute, except for his orange salon-bed tan. His dick was not “small” in any normal sense of the word. Dad prepped the cameras while Mom got Eric ready to go downstairs in the rec room and I sat in a chair and watched; horrified, on edge, nervous, and intensely turned on. Then we all went upstairs to my bedroom.

Mom and Dad swarmed around us, dancing and weaving with the bulky video cameras balanced on their shoulders. I sucked Eric’s dick a bit, which I enjoyed, though I had the distinct feeling I wasn’t really doing it right; and then he went down on me for a little, which actually didn’t do much of anything for me. Then he came up and snuggled next to me, and played with my titties while my hand discovered his cock, and suddenly, quite insidiously, I wanted him inside me more than anything.

I wasn’t really prepared for the idea that it might hurt. Eric held my hands and gazed into my eyes and slowly slid his dick straight up my pussy. “Ouch!” I cried out, “Ow, fuck!”

Eric looked questioningly over at my mother, who nodded and gave him a ‘thumbs up’. He was reasonably gentle about it, sliding his dick rhythmically in and out, a little deeper and a little harder with each thrust. Mom was zoomed in tight on my crotch. Dad had his camera jammed right in my face. I gritted my teeth and held on tight, clinging to Eric’s hands as he pistoned mechanically in and out of me, grunting audibly, his brown eyes vacant and fixed on my forehead. I couldn’t look. It felt like my pussy was being turned into hamburger. Suddenly he pulled out, leaving me vacant and gasping, scrambled up the bed, and jerked off onto my face, splashing his hot sticky semen all over my cheeks, nose, and into my eyes. That was the one part I never understood. When I asked Mom, she said “That’s the money shot”, as if that explained everything.

Torn-up, sore and tender, I was still ridiculously turned on. I lay on my stomach and masturbated, squeezing my thighs together and tracing circles around my swollen clit while Dad filmed and Mom hissed at me to roll over and to spread my legs. There was blood on the sheets, blood smeared on my thighs.

When it was all over, I was definitely sore and tender, but not actually torn to shreds. I wanted to try it again, and my parents were more than happy to acquiesce. Before I knew it, I was addicted.

The other girls at school had a view of sex that was completely alien to me. They talked in hushed and giggling tones about French kissing and heavy petting and blowjobs in cars, and getting felt up, and the various bases; trying to walk an impossibly fine line between being a prude and a slut. I think because I didn’t participate, because I didn’t date boys and get crushes and preen and pout and pose and shriek, people assumed I simply wasn’t sexual. How wrong they were!

There is a video of me, I don’t know how old I am – maybe sixteen – where I am naked, in a room full of older men. I have a penis in each hand, and I am trying to suck two cocks at once, and a bunch of the other guys are jerking off onto me, and you can see it in my face: I am an enthusiastic participant. I was having a blast, enjoying every minute of it.

I had sex with Sherry, which was a little like having sex with a dress mannequin. I guess I had secretly hoped that doing it with a girl might feel different, special, magical somehow; and the truth was it didn’t, though she did make me come.

From time to time, Mom would try to get me to do a scene with them. “Come on Honey, I could just eat you out while your Dad does me from behind. Then if you want we’ll switch” I always demurred. I’m still not sure whether they thought the idea was hot, or if they just thought an incest film would make them a ton of money. Either way, the idea made me slightly queasy.

Dad asked if I wanted to try anal, and I said “sure”. The guy they assigned the task – I don’t remember his name – was actually really good. He took his time and did it right. He got me on all fours and attacked me from behind, gently licking and fingering my pussy and my asshole until I was literally squirming with want. I was braced for it to hurt when he finally slipped his lubed-up cock up my ass, Dad right there with the camera in my face whispering “Hold that look for the shot, hold that look…”, and I was mildly surprised when it didn’t hurt at all. The sensation was decidedly strange, and not necessarily in a bad way. I started to relax and sort of get into it, as he started sliding his dick in and out of my rear end. It started to feel really good; really, really good, and I suddenly realized that this had the potential to make me come. I reached down and started playing with my clit; and that was when he pulled out and deftly flipped me over and squirted off all over my face.

I had always assumed that the money from the movies I’d been making was going into a trust fund or something, that it was going to pay my way through college. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. My mom had a penchant for really good cocaine, and my dad had a bad habit of wrecking sports cars. Even while our house was being foreclosed on, they insisted on taking lavish Caribbean vacations and calling them ‘business expenses’. In the end, I didn’t even bother finishing high school. I walked out of their lives, got my own apartment, gained a lot of weight, taught myself how to code, and got a job. The first time I tried to kill myself, I jumped out the window and sprained both my ankles.

3.
I discovered that work can be a lot more tolerable if you have a project that you are actually interested in. On the sly, I wrote a bit of code that told the camera on my computer at home to take a still photograph every fifteen minutes, and to email the file to me. It mostly turned up blanks, shots of my empty apartment, but around nine, there was an intriguing blur in one corner of the image. I finally saw my new roommate in the next picture. He was naked, and his hard-on jutted straight out from his skinny frame. I’m a lousy judge of age, but if I were a bartender, I wouldn’t have served him, no way. He had a cute face, and a pretty nice dick.

Brinks wandered by on one of his ‘I-am-a-supervisor’ mini-tours of the office, and I alt-tabbed double quick into the spaghetti code that I was supposed to be sorting out. He congratulated me on my productivity, compared my breasts to a certain variety of melon, and then he retreated to the safety of his own double-wide cubicle.

The intern girl, whose name was Holly, I suddenly remembered, asked me why I put up with that shit. “Meh” I said, “I’ve had worse.” She was cute, cute with a capital C; messy pageboy haircut, sticky-out ears, long, clever fingers with carefully trimmed nails. She was lithe and graceful in a playful sort of way: she reminded me of an otter or a mongoose. Her breasts didn’t look like melons. Peaches, maybe.

Brinks is a rodent. He wouldn’t dare sexually harass Holly. He just jerks off to fantasies about slipping her roofies and molesting her unconscious body.

I wondered what kind of panties Holly had on. Probably sexy boy shorts that don’t leave panty lines.

The pictures came in blank again for a while. Then, out of nowhere, there was a shot of a man in a shirt and tie and nothing else sitting on the edge of my bed, and my naked young roommate kneeling between his legs, blowing him.

Another picture, another man lying naked on my bed, my roommate sitting next to him, glancing up at the ceiling.

In yet another picture, he was squatting between the open legs of a thickset middle-aged lady in business attire, with her skirt piled up around her waist, her back arched, and her head thrown back in apparent ecstasy.

And then, starting around five o’clock, nothing. Just a series of blanks. He had either left, or retreated to his burrow in the back of my closet.

After work, I went straight to a bar I know and got thoroughly plastered on red wine. When I finally got home, I thought about climbing into the bathtub and slitting my wrists, but then I thought about him getting up to go to the bathroom and finding me there, cold and pale and bloated, floating in a tub full of pink water. I decided to wait.

My office has no specific sick-day allowance, which is a passive-aggressive way to shame employees into never calling in sick. On the other hand, if you don’t give a shit, it makes it really easy to ditch work. The next day, I stayed in bed, with the sheets pulled up over my head. About nine-thirty I got up to pee, and when I came out of the bathroom, I found myself face-to-face with a skinny, naked, surprised-looking kid.

“Who are you?”

“I live here,” I said, “Who the hell are you?”

His name was Jason, and he had run away from home. I didn’t ask him his age, so he didn’t have to bother lying to me. I told him he could stay as long as he wanted, but he had to stop bringing strange dudes home.

“I’m not gay,” he said defensively, “I just turn tricks to make a little money.”

“Do whatever you need to do,” I told him, “Just not in my apartment.”

Perhaps inevitably, we had sex. It was the first time I’d had sex in over ten years, the first time I’d done it with a guy wearing a condom, the first time I’d done it without a video camera pointed at me, recording every move. I’d like to say it was a fantastic, mind-blowing, life-altering experience, but I can’t. It was definitely nice though.

We lay naked in my bed together, and just kissed and touched for a while. That was probably the best part, for me. Then I sucked his dick a little bit, an activity that I’ve always enjoyed. Then he went down on me a little. For an amateur, he wasn’t bad at it. He could have stayed down there all day, as far as I was concerned. Then he put on a condom, climbed on top, and fucked me. He came pretty quickly, which I think embarrassed him, but I didn’t mind. I ordered a pizza, and we ate almost all of it, and then we did it again, and he lasted much longer this time, and I was even able to squeeze an orgasm out of the deal.

I set him up with sheets and blankets on the couch. He offered to sleep in bed with me, but I think we were both much more comfortable sleeping separately.

4.
The next morning at work, Holly asked if I’d gotten a haircut or something, and I actually caught myself blushing.

At the staff meeting, Brinks voiced the opinion that the company dress code should be amended to allow female staff members to wear lingerie to work, and suggested that he might be the ideal person to select said lingerie. That got a big chuckle all around the conference table.

After the meeting, Holly asked me completely out of the blue whether I’d ever dated a girl. I told her “No”, which was true: I’ve probably had sex with a couple dozen women, but to the best of my knowledge I’ve never dated anyone.

I stayed late, pretty much as per usual, and to my complete surprise, Holly totally seduced me while I was compiling. We did it right on the conference table.

It turns out that Holly eschews panties altogether, and prefers to go commando. Her pussy was unlike all the polished, waxed, professionally promiscuous vaginas I had encountered in the past: her kitty was covered in a dense matt of curly, soft fur, and the inner bits were petite and shy, and had to be gently coaxed out of hiding. And once she was really turned on, her pussy was wetter than I had ever imagined it was possible for a pussy to get.

She liked it when I played with her boobs, which were about peach-sized – firm, ripe, delicious peaches – and she seemed to enjoy me toying with her butt, and she definitely like it when I licked her tiny, erect clitoris; but what she really liked was getting finger-fucked, deep and hard. In the end, I had four fingers up inside her, my thumb curled up out of the way, and I fucked her pussy like I was karate-chopping a punching bag. When she came, her screaming should have brought a dozen or so security guards down on us. But somehow it didn’t.

Then she went to town on me. I had sex with a lot of different partners back in the day, and had a lot of orgasms. But I had never ever been with anyone as energetic, wriggly, playful, as fun as Holly.

She swarmed over my body like the Marines storming a beachhead. Her lips found mine and kissed me fiercely and urgently, without any restraint, as her hands roamed through my hair, down my neck, along my shoulders, across my breasts, down my torso, pausing to fondle and molest the twin mounds of my ass, before finally zeroing in on my pussy.

I rolled over onto my side and lifted one leg to give the camera a better shot, and then I remembered that there was no camera. It made me feel oddly naked.

“Is this good?” she whispered softly in my ear, “Do you want me?” It was an honest question. She really wanted to know if I was enjoying myself. One of the things that is so neat about guys is that it is always readily apparent just how turned on they are. There’s no lying: their cock is soft but firm; half-mast and mildly interested; standing up, hard and ready to go; or completely and utterly erect, swollen and rigid and drooling and practically quivering, ready to explode. That is exactly how my cunt felt at that moment. The things that her fingers were doing to me were driving me insane. Wetness isn’t an exact gauge of how horny a girl is, but it’s a pretty good barometer, and right then I felt like Niagara Falls. Sometimes we feel wetter than we actually are.

“Oh yes, oh yes I want you,” I told her, and in response, she slid down my body, kissing and licking all the way down, and dove straight into my almost painfully horny pussy.

I don’t think she had a lot of experience, but whatever she may have lacked in technique, she more than made up for with enthusiasm. She buried her face in my crotch, and her tongue and her fingers simply never stopped moving. I had to help her a little, stroking my clit while she alternated slurping at my pussy and running her fingers up and down and into my cunt, but I came, and I came good. And then I surprised myself by realizing that I was still turned on and ready for more.

She grinned up at me, and I rolled over so I was kneeling on top of the conference table, while I shamelessly masturbated, and she tongued and fingered my pussy and my asshole from behind. This time when I came, it knocked the breath out of me, and I ended up curled up into a fetal ball in the center of the big formica table, shaking and twitching and purring like a kitten. Holly snuggled up next to me, and we kissed and snuggled for a bit, and then she got herself off one last time by grinding her wet pussy up and down against the outside of my thigh.

We had made quite a mess on that conference table. The room smelled like sex, a huge improvement over the scent of stale potpourri and nervous sweat that usually pervaded the place.

When we finally scraped ourselves together and cleaned up, it was nearly eight. I felt dizzy, as if I’d just been picked up and spun around by a rampant tornado. My life, which until very recently had been depressingly monochromatic, had suddenly become a crazy-quilt of complications, and so far all the complications were pretty damn interesting. I wondered if my code had ever finished compiling; I wondered if I even cared.

“So, um, Holly,” I asked her as we strapped on our respective bras, “Did you imagine this being a one-time thing, or a recurring event?” Had I just been bushwhacked into a relationship? Because I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.

She looked sheepish. “I didn’t exactly plan this…” she pulled her sweater on over her head, and flapped her hands at her adorably mussed-up hair. “I guess I’d say a one-off… with sequels?”

“Holly?” I asked just before we parted ways at the subway station, “Do you own a video camera?”

“Sure,” she said, “There’s one built right into my phone. Why?”

“Oh, no reason.”

As I walked home, I tried to picture tying a noose, putting my head through the loop and stepping off the chair, kicking and flailing until sweet asphyxiation took over and I slowly faded to black. But I couldn’t do it. Nothing about it sounded appealing at all.

When I got home, James was home, which was bizarre to me, but not all bad. He was naked on his couch-bed, watching one of my old pornos on tv, and looking delectable.

I had planned on just having a drink and going straight to bed – alone –; I was exhausted. But James had a hard-on, and he asked pretty-please if I could do him. He said he’d blown four different guys that day in the bathroom of a Starbucks. He wasn’t gay, he repeatedly defensively, but giving out all that action without receiving any in return had given him a bad case of the blue balls. Could I just fuck him, really quick, before I went to sleep?

Well, my parts were way too sore and tender for anything of the sort, but I’m not without compassion. Besides, like I said before, he had a really cute dick.

I knelt on the floor in front of the couch, while behind us, a younger, skinnier, less damaged version of me frolicked carelessly on the television screen. He rested his calves on my shoulders. I wet my middle finger and slipped it up his asshole, and made tiny beckoning motions while I flicked my tongue at the underside of his cock. It took him about ten minutes to come, but when he did, it was the strongest male orgasm I had ever seen in my life. He shot come all the way up his chest and onto his neck and chin. His dick twitched delightfully, his body wracked and spasmed, and his asshole clenched down on my invading finger like it wanted to squeeze the damn thing off. It was deeply gratifying.

5.
Video cameras had gotten a lot smaller during my sabbatical. Holly’s was the size of a tarot card, and the video it shot was much higher quality than anything my parents’ old Panasonic could do. She cradled it in the palm of her hand as I sucked Jason’s cock, zooming in tight for a super-close-up, and then pulling back and circling around for an overview of the action.

Horny didn’t even begin to describe it.

I could tell he was getting a little over-excited, so I had him flip over, and I rimmed him for a little bit, tracing my tongue all over his balls, and darting up between his buttocks to lick his asshole before meandering back down to his nuts again. It was pretty hot on my end, and it really made him moan! Holly was capturing it all in high-def. Her shirt had, at some point, come off, and her nipples were all swollen and pointy. I knew for a fact, though Jason didn’t, that she wasn’t wearing anything at all under her jeans.

Jason rolled a condom on, and lay on his back on my bed, his dick pointing straight up like a totem pole. I climbed on, and sat down, luxuriating in the feeling of being penetrated, pleasantly being filled up with cock, stretching the walls of my pussy. I rocked back and forth, savoring the sensations. I didn’t have to worry about him coming too soon; Holly and I had given him a combined hand-job before she had started filming. I bounced up and down, like a happy kid on a pogo stick.

After just a little of that, I extracted myself from his jutting cock, and clambered up his prone body, and presented my wide-open, dripping wet pussy for him to lick. Holly handed me the camera phone, peeled off her jeans, and climbed aboard for a ride of her own. Jason kind of forgot to lick me much for the next little while, but I didn’t really mind.

I watched, my eyes flicking between the tiny screen and real life, as his slimy, latex-sheathed cock nosed its way into Holly’s furry little pussy. I had never been the one behind the camera, and I found it a shockingly sexy place to be. Addictive, even.

I zoomed in on her crotch, until it filled the little screen, Jason’s dick sliding in and out, burying itself in her folds, pulling out until just the tip remained inside her, and then plunging back inside. She was madly rubbing at her clit all the while, like she was trying to erase indelible ink. I pulled back just in time to capture her full-body orgasm. She came hard, and she came loud, yipping like a coyote, her little tits shaking and blushing red.

One of the great things about having sex with Holly is that she is both multi-orgasmic, and really easy to bring off.

“Why don’t you fuck her in the ass?” My voice would show up clearly on the sound track, and the beautiful thing was that I didn’t care. At my parents’ house, ‘silence on the set’ had been the golden rule.

He repositioned himself behind her. She grunted softly as he entered her. Holly closed her eyes and rested her face on my lap as he slowly eased his cock up her asshole. Jason was pretty considerate and meticulous about it, for such a young kid. I assume he’d been on the receiving end himself at some point, and had some idea how it felt.

They got into it, and really started to fuck in earnest. Holly lapped a few times at my pussy, which felt juicy and swollen, but she soon forgot all about that. She was growling softly and humping back against Jason’s ever-more-desperate thrusts. Each time he shoved himself into her, she slid a little bit up my body, until her head was level with my boobs. I kept filming with one hand. The footage at this point started to get a little shaky. Jason was huffing and puffing like an old-time steam engine. I reached underneath Holly and found her fluffy little muff. I slipped two fingers up inside her cunt, which was soaking wet and slippery and tight with the cock in her ass. I could feel Jason’s cock thrusting inside her, rampant inside her asshole, making her pussy squeeze my finger every time he shoved into her. They both began to make urgent coming noises, and I struggled to hold the camera steady, or at least to keep them in the frame, as I finger-fucked Holly.

“Oh shit, I’m coming!” she looked up at me, craning her neck, her brow wrinkled with concentration, “I’m fucking coming!”

Jason was right behind her. Watching the video later, all by myself once again, with a tall glass of cheap red wine close at hand and fresh batteries in my vibrator, the best part was the way he came inside her. Instead of pulling out at the last moment and jerking off onto her face, he hugged her close, buried his face in her hair, and shot of silently, his whole body twitching with the effort. When I watch that video, I always time my own orgasm to coincide with his.

Holly and Jason really hit it off, and he ended up moving in with her, which was good by me. Like I said earlier, I like living alone.

Holly threatened a sexual harassment suit against our company; it was quietly settled out of court, but that was the end of her internship. Jason gave me back my spare keys and got a place of his own. I see him and Holly from time to time. Sometimes we get together to fuck, but more often to just hang out. Life sort of meandered back toward the status quo. Except that it was different. Staff meetings notwithstanding, I no longer had any interest whatsoever in killing myself.

6.
An epilogue of sorts, because the story doesn’t really have an end, and life keeps on going on. Holly is using the money from her settlement to go to grad school. Jason got his GED and is taking classes at a community college; he wants to be a NICU nurse.

I lost weight; not a ton, but a step in the right direction, and I’ve been trying not to drink so much. I blew my Christmas bonus on a decent digital video camera with built-in image stabilizers and crap, and an expensive tripod. When I got an email from Holly telling me that they’d just bought a strap-on and wanted to try it out, and could I come over and bring my new camera with me, I literally wet my pants.

Brinks got transferred to another division, upstairs or downstairs, I don’t honestly know, and I went and got myself a promotion, which meant a little more money, and a ton more meetings. I started to put together a résumé; but more and more I realized that what I really wanted was to be a pornographer. But not like my parents.

The other day, I was sitting around the apartment eating take-out sushi and getting quietly loaded, when the doorbell rang. I certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. I opened the door with trepidation, half expecting a throng of Jehovah’s Witnesses.

It took me a second to recognize him out of uniform. He was one of my regular EMTs, one of the faithful guys who used to haul my butt over to the St. Luke’s emergency room on a regular basis. I couldn’t help but check out his package, which made a bulge in the crotch of his jeans, and looked pretty nice.

“I haven’t seen you in a couple months,” he explained, “I started to get worried. So I thought I’d, you know, swing by and check in on you. Make sure you’re ok and all.”

“I’m good.” I said, “I’m pretty good. Things have changed, I’m in a better place now. Thank you, you’re very sweet.”

“Great,” he said, standing there looking very sweet and appetizing, “I’m glad…”

We both stood there, like awkward teens on the sidelines of the school dance.

“Hey,” he said, “Would you like to get together sometime? Like for dinner, or whatever?”

“As in a date?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“That sounds great.”

He stood there in the door, still hesitating, so I felt compelled to ask him in.

His name is Henry. I wonder how he would feel about being videotaped.

END

I met her at a self-help seminar, one of those awful twelve-step things. I’d had it about up to here with human misery, and I had filled out the Saturday Times crossword puzzle until I got stuck, and I was just about to bag it all and go back home to the ranch, when something passed between us and ignited a spark.

The motivational speaker droned on and on. The girl next to me sneezed –I don’t know why I hadn’t even taken her in before, but she was that kind of girl – and I said ‘Bless you’ and put my hand comfortingly on her thigh. Her leg was pleasantly thick and warm through the denim, and I let my palm rest there longer than was strictly necessary. When I did move my hand away, she adjusted the way she was sitting so that her jean-clad leg pressed lightly against my own. Gotcha.

She was fat, or maybe ‘thick’ is a better adjective; but not in a happy, healthy, lounging-around-and-eating-too-much-French Provencal-sort-of-way. She was the kind of overweight one gets from too much stress, unhappiness and bad food. Underneath all that though, I could see that she was beautiful. I whispered in her ear that we should get out of here, go get a cup of coffee or something, and she immediately agreed.

We sat together at an outdoor café. When I offered to make it my treat, she looked insanely grateful. Her hands had a slight tremble. She spilled her guts to me over iced lattes, telling me all about her money troubles, her ex-husband, her on-again/off-again struggle with alcoholism. I listened sympathetically, and then steered the conversation toward sex, which certainly wasn’t difficult.

It turns out she had only ever been with one man, her ex, and she was eager to try new and different things. I asked her about her fantasies, and she blushingly confided in me that she would like to have two men at once. She was perfect.

Then she told me that she’d like to try being with a girl too, and I got all hot and gooey between my legs.

I explained to her what we were all about. She asked if I was serious, and I said yes. She said she’d have to think about it, which was fair enough. And then I seduced her, which was totally against the rules.

I fucked her in the back of our pickup, in a far-flung corner of a mostly-empty shopping mall parking lot, under a clear blue sky and the watchful eyes of a couple dozen reeling, crying seagulls.

She had a pretty, petite little pussy, hidden under a tangle of soft mousey grey-brown hair and nestled beneath protective pillows of pale flesh. It blossomed under my touch, parting eagerly like a blooming rose, and we kissed like that, naked under the glare of the morning sun, my fingers playing up and down, up and down the slit between her thick thighs for a long time. She was worried at first that we’d get caught, but I assured her that we wouldn’t, and as it turned out I was right. Finally, she relaxed, laying back and spreading her legs wide, exposing her secret parts to me, and I dived in, a little shocked myself at just how horny I was to lick her pussy. My own clit was screaming to be touched, and I took perverse pleasure in not touching it, making it wait.

It was amazing how wet she was. Her little pussy was drooling under my tongue, copious amounts of slippery, tangy wetness, soaking both of us. She was tight, as if she hadn’t been touched in a very long time, and with one finger up inside her pussy, my tongue danced tiny circles on her clit, she started to come, sprawled across the bed of our pickup truck, shaking and twisting and writhing, her pussy clenching down on my finger, her hands opening and closing, her head lolling back and forth as she called out my name to the sky, imploring me not to stop, not ever, begging me for more, more, more.

Like I said before, she was fat; maybe not clinically obese, but definitely overweight; which made it hard to see, but there was something just below the surface, trying hard to get out. When she came, she positively glowed. Her skin was pale and flaccid, her hair was dirty blonde and frazzled, her boobs sagged; but her eyes were bright and full of life. I was in love.

She wasn’t lying when she told me she’d never been with a girl. Her attempts at cunnilingus were eager but awkward; earnest and sweet, but incredibly frustrating. She’d lick at me once or twice, then come up to look for approval before diving back in. It was hit-or-miss on my poor, aching, frustrated clit. Finally, she lay down on top of me. She was heavy but I didn’t mind, and she kissed my mouth hard and deep while I guided her fingers. When I came underneath her, it was the most intense orgasm I’d had in months, and I kissed her back with ferocious hunger.

We got dressed, shyly and sheepishly, like a pair of teenage lovers on a hot-and-heavy first date, and I dropped her off at the downtown bus station with my cell phone number and a promise to call whatever she decided to do. She kissed me one last time, and I sat there behind the wheel of the truck after she had gone, sticky and wet between my legs, wondering what I had just set in motion.

She didn’t call for over a week. At first I obsessed over her, and then I just sort of wrote her off. When she did call, it was late, I was sitting on the back porch reading by moonlight and contemplating going to bed, when my cell phone rang. She kept it simple: “I’m in” was all she said.

I picked her up at the same bus station I’d dropped her off. All her belongings fit inside one lumpy black duffel bag, which seemed tragic and sad. We didn’t talk much on the long, bumpy, dusty ride out to the ranch. She was in an introspective mood, and I was hesitant to break into her thoughts.

The next four weeks was paradise squared. She spent her days lounging by the pool, reading books and sipping cocktails, or strolling through the woods, getting massages, and eating Jack’s fabulous, over-the-top meals. He outdid himself, cooking omelets and crepes for breakfast; fabulous lunches of fresh picked salad greens and ham and cheese croissant sandwiches or quiches; and intricate, seriously epic dinners of duck a l’orange, braised lamb, Normandy chicken, roasted Cornish hens, or ratatouille. There were mouth watering puddings too, his specialty — tarte tatin, almond and pear clafouti, mille-feuilles, chocolate and fig flan.

Her body subtly changed shape: a doctor would still have tut-tutted and made noises about losing weight and exercising, but she started to look more like one of those beauties from a French Renaissance painting, and less like a refugee from the Jerry Springer show. She liked to sunbathe nude in the vegetable garden, and I liked to just sit and watch her.

There was sex play too, though orgasms were strictly forbidden. We instructed her in the art of fellatio, and she was an eager student. She ravenously devoured Jack and Martin’s cocks (sometimes both at the same time) like a woman half-starved, while Melissa watched approvingly. She would drink their come as if it was some exotic delicacy, slurping up any stray droplets, and squeezing their penises like a spent tube of toothpaste to wring every last bit out. She got good quickly, and it was beautiful to watch. She learned to swallow their (sizeable!) cocks whole, taking virtually the whole shaft down her throat without gagging. She would carefully and tenderly suck their testicles, eventually opening her mouth wide and engulfing their entire ball sacs in her mouth; she would wet a finger and slide it up Jack or Martin’s tight asshole while she sucked, exciting delighted moans of pleasure and earning a quick mouthful of hot semen. She also learned how to slow it down, how to not gobble like a hungry dog; how to draw it out and torment the guys until they were literally begging for release. Now that was hot to watch!

Martin would give her backrubs. She would lie naked on her stomach on a folded-out deck chair, and he would knead the tension out of her shoulders, his fat dick nudging at the cleft of her buttocks. He would work his way down her back, working her lumbar region with the heels of his hand, and then he would play with her pussy, tracing his finger up and down her slit, teasing her clit and her asshole, and even penetrating her vagina, but never bringing her anywhere close to coming. This inevitably resulted in a big fat blowjob for him.

She may not have been allowed to have orgasms, but she had orgasms all right. Late at night, when everyone else was asleep, I would sneak into her room, and we would get it on, like a pair of horny tigresses. If Melissa had found out, she would have slit my throat. I gave her multiple, muffled-screaming-into-her-pillow orgasms in her bedroom, and she learned to give as good as she got. I enjoyed pushing her limits, straddling the knife edge between pleasure and pain. She would clasp the pillow to her mouth in anticipation, as I pinched her clit, and fucked her pussy with two and even three or four fingers, until she came, her whole body shaking and clenching, howling uncontrollably into the goose down. I gazed with lust at her tiny, sensitive asshole; but aside from a few tentative brushes across her anus with my tongue, which made her shiver and inhale sharply, I left that part of her anatomy alone. She got really good at licking my pussy; any remaining shyness or hesitation disappeared as she buried her face in my crotch, flicking her tongue at my engorged clit, and sliding her soft, plump fingers up my pussy and asshole, playing me like an erotic finger puppet. Sometimes she would lie on her stomach on the bed, and I would lie down on her back, taking one large soft breast in each hand, and grinding myself to orgasm against her ample buttocks. Other times, we would lie face-to-face, her big breasts squished against mine, her warm tummy pressed against me, and we would kiss and finger each other’s pussy until we shuddered and came, lips mashed together, bodies trembling with desire. Then I would tiptoe back to my own bed.

She feasted well, on Jack’s exquisite French cooking, and occasional forays by the rest of us into Tex-Mex, American Southern Home Cooking, and Thai; and she grew pink and fat and sleek. Her large breasts, which had been kind of sad, droopy things when we first met, seemed to fill out and perk up, like a neglected houseplant that has finally been watered. Her stomach was full and round, and her cheeks blushed red. Melissa announced that she was ready.

We told her after breakfast that morning. She looked around, at all our faces, and nodded. She was ready too.

She asked me if she could make one last phone call, and I gently told her ‘No’. She nodded, understanding.

She took a long hot bath, with honey-clover scented oils, and the boys scrubbed her all over. Then we shaved her, all of her. She cried a little when Martin drew the buzzing electric razor across her scalp, and her dishwater-blonde curls fell on the tiled bathroom floor. I could understand that: her hair might not have been best feature, but even so it was hers.

We took her down to the basement, and had her lay down on the block. The block was an elevated slab of concrete, stained black, with intricate channels carved into the surface. It had hot water pipes running throughout it that radiated heat, and made the surface warm as sun-baked asphalt. First Martin gave her a good long massage, notably non-sexual in nature, methodically kneading and rubbing every part of her body, from her freshly-shaved scalp and temples down to each individual toe. When he was done, she rolled over onto her back, and we each licked her pussy for a while: first Jack, then Melissa had a few licks, then Martin took a turn, and then me. I buried my face in her slippery wet folds and let my tongue dance all over and around her erect little clitoris, whispering ‘Don’t come yet, don’t come yet, don’t come yet…’ silently into her cunt.

Then we rolled her over, and she got up on her hands and knees, and I poured heated olive oil all over her backside, and down the valley between her ass cheeks. As the others watched, I spread her soft cheeks, and gently toyed with her little puckered anus, eventually working my oil-slick finger inside, slowly and carefully butt-fucking her with my index finger.

Martin took over. Of the two guys, her had the bigger dick, though neither of them was what I’d call ‘small’. I oiled him up. The bulbous red head of his cock seemed to swell eagerly from under the hood of his foreskin as he pressed up against her tiny, puckered anus. She whimpered softly as he slid up inside her delicate, virgin hole, grunting as he shoved it home. She didn’t seem distressed, though she took deep, measured breaths as he started sliding his cock slowly in and out. Her big tits hung down, swaying like the pendulum of some erotic clock.

They rolled over, so that Martin was on his back on the slab, and she lay atop him, his cock buried balls-deep in her asshole. Melissa and I spread her legs wide, wide apart, and Jack speared her pussy with his own erection. She made a muffled mewing sound as the two cocks competed for space inside her body, stretching and squeezing her. Slowly, haltingly, after a few false starts, they found their rhythm, and started really pummeling her. They were fucking competitively, each one implicitly daring the other to fuck her harder, daring the other guy to come first. Sandwiched between them, she was breathing raggedly, in sharp little gasps.

“I’m going to come!” she cried out, “Oh my God, I’m going to come! I’m going to come! I’m fucking coming!”

Melissa reached deftly into the fray, and with the skill and precision of a surgeon, slit her throat with a matte knife, opening up a gaping crescent-shaped wound from just under one ear to just under the other ear, severing tendons, trachea, veins and arteries along the way.

Bright red arterial blood sprayed everywhere, spattering me and Melissa, soaking Martin and Jack, and running in rivulets down onto the black slab, where it filled the intricately carved channels, tracing a macabre design in the concrete.

Jack cried out and came in her still-twitching pussy, which sent Martin off, growling like a bear and shooting off, filling her rectum to overflowing with his milky-white semen.

Quickly and efficiently, we cleaned and dressed her carcass, and transferred her to the oven, putting her in a big roasting pan on a bed of yams, potatoes, and garlic cloves. We sprinkled her with salt and rosemary and set her to broil, basting her occasionally with her own juices.

When she was done, when her skin was brown and crisp, when her flesh was tender and juicy, we took her out of the oven, and served her up along with an arugula salad.

Before we ate, we all raised our glasses in a toast to her. Then we dug in, eating our fill. She was delicious.

END

What does a guy look like, the kind of guy who would cheat on his wife, sight unseen, with some stranger from off the internet? I can tell you they’re all over the spectrum, but this one was a bit of a knuckle-dragger.

I’d scheduled three appointments for the day, which was kind of a lot; but not, I thought, excessive. This one was early.

I was in the shower, of course, when he knocked on the studio door. We are four stories up, and the bell is broken. I got out, wrapped a towel around myself, showing off plenty of cleavage, and answered the door, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the grimy hardwood floor. My hair was wet and straggly, and I wasn’t wearing any make-up, but I didn’t care. My breasts are, I think, my best feature anyway. And that isn’t really saying all that much.

Like I said, our boy “Roger” (and I am willing to bet that wasn’t his real name) was a gorilla, a real meat-head. He was my height (and I’m a big girl), but he probably outweighed me by fifty or sixty pounds. He’d been an athlete in high school, football I’m sure, and he’d let himself slide. He had pink, shiny skin, and a receding hairline. He wore cut-off shorts, Teva sandals, and a white t-shirt that should have been a size larger. There was a diamond stud in his left ear, and a circular indentation around his ring finger where a wedding band belonged.  I let him inside, and he shut the door smugly behind him. How do you shut a door smugly? I don’t know, but Roger managed it.

“So,” I said, “What’s your bag?” When he looked blank, I added “What do you want to do to her?”

He grinned. “I wanna rape the shit out of her. I want to throw her down on the floor and rip her panties off, and I wanna fuck her cunt. Then I want to shove it up her ass. Then I want to cram it right down her throat. And then I want to come all over her face and wipe it around with my dick.”

“Ok.” I stifled a yawn.

He seemed a little taken aback that I’d agree so readily, but the play-rape thing is so common with these guys that it’s less appalling and more just boring. “What’s the catch?” he asked suspiciously.

“You know the rules.” I said. I was dripping shower water, forming a little puddle on my studio floor. “You don’t do any permanent damage, and you wear a condom.” I’d had to pry one of these dudes off Tiffany by spraying him with a fire extinguisher and threatening him with a cell phone. I have a Taser too, in case things really go south.

He nodded eagerly.

“And you have to pose for two pictures: a before and after shot.”

“No way,” he said immediately, “No pictures.”

He obviously hadn’t bothered to read my email. Jerkoff. I sighed. “It won’t show your face, Jackass.” I gestured over to the unpainted sheetrock wall, which was covered with paired photos of penises, erect and flaccid, side by side. I’m working on a coffee table book, and I let my little sister Tiff live with me rent-free in exchange for helping me out with the material.

“I’m going to go get dressed. She should be here any minute. Go crazy. Do you need a rubber, or did you bring your own?” He leered and pulled a chain of four or five condoms out of his back pocket. In case he fumbled the first three times, I supposed. I was betting he didn’t make it through the first item on his little agenda without shooting off. I stepped back into the bathroom and got dressed and started putting on my makeup. My lipstick of choice is French Whore Red; I should buy the stuff by the case.

I heard the front door open and shut; I heard her scream; and then I heard the thunk of her body hitting the floor. That was my cue: I grabbed my camera and stepped out into the big open room of the studio.

Tiff was wearing her red plaid little-catholic-schoolgirl skirt, complete with fishnets and a stuffy white blouse that was just begging to be ripped open. He obliged me, scattering buttons everywhere, and yanked her bra down around her middle, setting her perky little tits free, the pink, puffy little nipples pointed up at my studio lights.

Tiffany can blame her name on our parents. At school, she calls herself ‘Jezebel’. I’ve asked her why she doesn’t just legally change her name, and she just gives me the finger. She’s working on her doctorate, but she looks all of about fourteen. We’re both tall, but unlike me, she’s a skinny little waif, the kind you could break in half like a stick of kindling.

With a knee placed squarely on the center of her chest, he lifted up her skirt, and with a sneer, tore off her plain and boring white panties, exposing her brown furry muff. Tiffany, unlike a lot of girls of our generation (myself included) doesn’t believe in waxing or shaving. Her pussy was already pouting wet. She gets off on this kind of shit.

He slapped her open-handed across the cunt, and then punched her in the gut for good measure. I heard her ‘whoof’ as the wind was knocked out of her. Then he grabbed a fistful of her hair, and rolled her over onto her stomach, encouraging her with a kick or two from his sandaled feet.

He placed one foot right on the back of her neck, and favored me with a big fat grin. She was weeping piteously and protesting incoherently, and he was absolutely eating it up.

As she whimpered at his feet, he pulled down his cut-off shorts. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Classy. His dick was straining eagerly up and out.

“Hold it right there!” I swooped in with my camera. The shutter clicked, I got my shots, and I got out. “Carry on.” I said.

I have this theory that every guy’s dick is like a miniature version of himself, in the same way that dog owners tend to look like their dogs. ‘Roger’ was no exception. He had an ok dick, I guess. It was about average length, but definitely on the thick side. He was circumcised, and the head was shiny and pink, disproportionally small compared to the shaft. It reminded me of the nose cone of an ICBM, and the pee hole was red and irritated-looking. He had a neatly trimmed triangle of pubes, but his balls, which hung down like ripe fruit on a vine, were completely shaved, which made for an oddly disturbing look.

He carefully rolled the condom on, which would have been the ideal time for Tiffany to kick him in the nuts, if that had been her inclination. Then he got down on one knee, muscled her legs apart, put a big meaty hand around her throat, and jammed his cock straight up her cunt.

She wailed, a long, high-pitched scream of terror and pain, saccharine-fake, and kicked her legs wildly, struggling underneath him. My money was that he would come just from that.

Our boy Roger proved me wrong. After two or three brutal strokes, he pulled his cock out of her cunt, all wet and glistening; spread her little butt cheeks, and with a series of low grunts like he was power-lifting, he proceeded to cram his dick right up her anus. Tiff howled again, and this time maybe it wasn’t quite so fake.

He was fucking her asshole like a bulldozer, one tit clutched in each hand and gnawing on the back of her neck. Suddenly he yowled, “Ah, you fucking bitch!” That was it for Roger. So much for fucking her throat and wiping his come all over her face. He bucked and squirted into the condom. Tiff milked him for all he was worth.

They’re contrite afterward, always. ‘Roger’ was no exception. He tenderly pulled out and removed the condom, and I got my ‘after’ shot of his dick all limp and sperm-slimy. Then he got dressed, apologizing profusely to Tiffany, who was curled up on the floor whimpering with one hand clutched between her legs. He’d never know that she was masturbating. He got dressed, said he was ‘so sorry’ one more time to Tiff, who never acknowledged him, and then he left.

Tiff had a nasty split lip, and a bunch of fresh finger-shaped bruises on her neck. She loves that shit, later on she’ll highlight the bruises with purple makeup, accentuate the cuts and scrapes with scarlet eyeliner, and make up elaborate lies about where she got them, just to fuck with people. For now we had another appointment coming right up, so she took a quick shower and changed into her prom dress outfit.

What does a guy look like, the type who would cheat on his girlfriend with some stranger from off the internet? Alex knocked on the studio door while Tiffany was still pinning on her corsage.

Alex threw me for a bit of a loop. She wore grey gas station attendant coveralls, with a white jog bra underneath, and Birkenstocks. She had hairy toes, and one lock of her unruly brown hair kept falling down her forehead in front of her eyes, which she would then impatiently brush back into place.

She stepped confidently into the studio, and shut the door behind her. She was stocky, shorter than either me or Tiff, and she had wide hips, and two circle-cross Venus symbols intertwined, tattooed on her neck.

“So what are you after?” I asked.

“You know,” She smiled knowingly and winked. It was kind of obnoxious. “What everyone wants. The usual.”

“So spell it out for me,” I said. To the best of my knowledge, Tiffany had never been with another girl. I didn’t know if she was interested, but that was sort of beside the point.

Alex sighed. “Ok. I want to sit on her face and have her lick my kiki while I play with her pussy, but I won’t let her come. At least not until after I get off. Ok?”

“Ok,” I said, “You know the rules?”

“Sure,” Alex said, “Before and after shots. Just don’t show my face, my girlfriend would kill me.”

She shrugged off her coveralls right then and there. She was commando underneath, what was this, a theme for the day? I took a close-up shot of her twat. She was one of those girls who waxed everything. Her pink and crinkled inner labia peeked eagerly out from in between smugly pouting soft and puffy outer lips. She was already glistening with excitement.

Tiffany lay down on her back on the floor, and Alex straddled her face. She lifted Tiff’s dress up and pulled her lacy red panties aside, wetting a finger and brushing it lightly up and down Tiff’s furry cunt. Tiff started to make a noise that was quickly muffled by Alex’s pussy covering her mouth.

Alex rode her like a cowgirl in the saddle, mashing her pussy all over my kid sister’s face; sometimes lifting up so that Tiff had to crane her neck and stick out her tongue to reach Alex’s juicy bald pussy; sometimes shifting forward so that Tiff could lick her asshole. All the while, she was playing with Tiff’s pussy; tracing her fingertips up and down Tiffany’s twat, occasionally bending over and giving her frustrated puss a quick lick or two, which made her squirm and kick. The lips of Tiffany’s pussy were swollen, pouting out and drooling; she must be dying of frustration. She likes it rough, and all that teasing had to be absolute torture for her.

When Alex came, she let loose, bearing down and almost violently grinding herself against Tiff’s tongue, reaching behind and yanking on her hair for emphasis, while she howled like an opera singer belting out an aria. When she was done, she climbed off Tiff, who was practically writhing with frustrated lust, and let me get my ‘after’ shot of her sticky, satisfied pussy. Then she got dressed and left us.

Now I bet Tiff was glad I’d made three appointments for us that day. The next one was due any moment; she barely had time to change into her Raggedy Ann costume before he was knocking at the door.

What does a guy look like, the kind of guy who will cheat on his wife, sight unseen, with some stranger from off the internet? Andrew looked shockingly normal; innocuously cute. He had a high forehead and hairy arms, he was slim and well-muscled, he wore jeans and a button-down shirt and a wedding ring, and he smelled faintly of marijuana. He looked slightly shy or befuddled, so I asked him in.

“So what’s your bag?” I asked.

He stepped bravely up to the plate. “I want to lick your pussy” he told me, “I want to lick it until you come all over my face.”

“O-k…” I said, “Only my pussy isn’t the pussy in question here. Then what?”

“I want to lick your pussy,” he repeated, “Until you’re satisfied, and then I’d like you to jerk me off. With a finger up my butt.”

Well, he certainly knew what he wanted. “My sister provides all the action here,” I said, “I just take the pictures.”

“But I came here to see you.” He was twitching a little bit, like he might just cut and run; but he stood his ground. And there was a nice-looking lump in the front of his jeans. He was cute. I figured what the hell.

“You know the rules?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I read the email.”

He dropped trou, and I snapped a couple shots of his cock. He had a really nice dick: big without being scary big; nice and straight and thick, with a purple bulbous head that was modestly hidden behind foreskin, and peeked eagerly out at me. His pubes were neatly trimmed, his balls fat and compact. I wondered if his wife knew what she was missing.

Feeling inordinately self-conscious, I stripped out of my own tight jeans and stretchy black top. Feeling his eyes, and Tiffany’s eyes on my naked body, I arranged myself on the little studio futon. Sure as shootin’, our guy Andrew hustled down between my legs, like a puppy after a chew toy. Rarely have I been so glad to have been freshly showered.

When was the last time I got my kitty licked? I mean really licked, not just a polite slurp or two, a perfunctory excuse for some dude to get his dick wet? It had been, my friends, a really long time. And Andrew, whatever else he may have been, was shockingly good at it.

He started off slowly, warming me up, teasing me, getting me into it. By the time the tip of his tongue made contact with my clit, I was sopping wet, and my legs were splayed shamelessly wide. He lapped eagerly away at me, sliding the flat of his tongue up and down my cunt, flicking at my asshole, drawing meticulous circles around my aching clit, sliding two fingers up my juicy pussy, pulling them out and licking them off, and starting all over again. He found my groove, and ran with it. I came all over his face, not once, not twice, but at least three times. By the time he finally came up for air, grinning like a madman, his fat cock bouncing and rigid, I was glowing and exhausted. I don’t know when I’ve come that hard, ever.

He sat on my lap. He had kind of a bony little butt, but I didn’t mind. I wrapped one hand around his dick and started jerking him off, whispering sweet nothings in his ear about how good it had felt when he had eaten my pussy. I felt his cock swell and strain in my hand. I whispered that he was a sexy little pervert, and I wet one finger and slid it up his asshole.

He was tight. His body stiffened, and his anus clenched down on my invading digit, but his dick got even harder. As his asshole relaxed, I started finger-banging him from behind, in time with the hand jerking off his cock. He was going wild, moaning aloud, rocking back and forth on my lap. I was determined to draw this out as long as possible and then some. I removed my finger and released his dick, and he whined. I ran my fingers up and down my still-drooling cunt, and then slipped two slick fingers back up his naughty little hole and he gasped. I resumed the handjob, with just my thumb and forefinger barely petting his quivering cock.

Of course Tiffany had to get in on the action. She got down on her knees and started lapping at the bright red head of his dick, now boldly exposed, free of his foreskin. It took about three licks, and he went off like fireworks. His dick pulsed under my fingers and his asshole spasmed and squeezed, and squirted about a bucked of semen straight into Tiffany’s pretty little mouth. Together, we milked out every last drop.

Tiff shot a couple ‘after’ pics of his soft, worn-out cock, which still looked mighty nice, and then he got dressed and took his leave.

Together, we printed the pictures we’d taken. Alex’s pussy made a nice contrast to all the dicks. The differences ‘between’ before and ‘after’ were subtle and sexy; she clearly belonged right at the center of the book. We worked on the order of the rest, arranging and re-arranging all the cocks, hard and soft, into a rough proof. The book wasn’t complete. I still needed more material.

Tiffany was fidgety and antsy; she still hadn’t gotten her rocks off. She’s a tough nut to crack, but her sexual frustration wasn’t my problem, and even if I chose to make it my problem, she was out of time. She was supposed to be giving a lecture on Woolf to a roomful of uninterested undergrads in a little less than twenty-five minutes. Resentfully, she took of her Raggedy Ann outfit and changed into a more professorial outfit, before heading out the door. The bruises on her neck were turning purple and livid; her split lip was swollen and crusty with blood. She knew, and I knew, but her students wouldn’t know that she wasn’t wearing any panties under that charcoal-grey wool skirt. Maybe she’d find some nice young English major to help scratch her itch.

I shrugged, and started to get dressed myself. I thought about masturbating, then thought better of it; my parts had received more attention than they’d gotten in a coon’s age, and were feeling more than a little tender and sore.

I switched off the tiny video camera that looked just like another unused studio floodlight, and pulled the memory card. Before I burned a disc, I considered editing out the part where I got my own kitty licked, but then I decided ‘fair’s fair’, and left it all in.

I sell the dvds to my landlord, a creepy Albanian octogenarian with halitosis, erectile dysfunction, and a decades-long drinking problem, in exchange for a fistful of crumpled, greasy twenty dollar bills, and a significant break on the rent, all under the table. Someday I’ll finish my coffee-table book and the rent will go up accordingly, but for now it’s a work in progress.

END

I used to hate flying. No, that’s not true. I had no problem with the actual flying. It was the process I hated: the airlines, the airports, the god-damned TSA.

The flight looked to be pretty full. I settled into my window seat and watched my fellow-passengers trudge up the aisle like so many portly zombies, dreading spending the next seven hours dueling elbows with some obese, halitosis-ridden, armrest-hogging businessman.

A guy sat down in the aisle seat. Scruffy dude, about my age, skinnier and shorter than me, with a pointy nose and chin and unruly copper hair. He looked like a hiker, a mountain biker, a musician. I suddenly had the strong feeling I should recognize him, that I had seen him on TV or Youtube or something. He nodded to me as he settled in, and I returned his nod with a friendly-ish half smile, and went back to my book.

And then we were pushing back from the gate. The middle seat between us was vacant, almost the only empty seat on the plane. Guy and me exchanged another look: Score! In the land of small blessings, we had just hit jackpot. He wasn’t bad looking, not at all; pretty cute actually. I was nearly certain I recognized him. Some band du jour? A face from the news? I’m lousy at spotting famous people.

We leveled out, high above an unbroken layer of clouds, and the stewardesses started driving their carts down the center aisle: crappy meals for sale, soft drinks and booze and water for sale, no cash, all credit cards accepted.

“I can’t believe they make you pay for water now,” he said to me. He had a nice voice, a baritone, deeper than I had expected, with just a hint of a southern accent. “What’s next, bathroom fees?”

This was almost too good to be true. I checked his hand: no ring. He was really cute, in a hillbilly/hipster sort of way. The thought of an extended flirtation, followed by a surreptitious make-out session tickled my clit, and made me feel pleasantly warm between my legs. I pictured snuggling up next to him, the cabin lights dim, laying my head on his lap, carefully unzipping his zipper… Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad flight after all.

Just as I was trying to come up with a response that was both witty and vivacious, the plane lurched violently. Drinks were spilled up and down the cabin.  Somebody screamed. We exchanged a look. My hand more or less inadvertently landed on his jeans-clad thigh and squeezed: it was partly an automatic startle response, partly me seizing an opportunity.

The intercom crackled to life. Garbled, staticky noises came over the speakers. Grunts, thunks, somebody yelling in what sounded like a foreign language. And then, “Shit! Put that down! Put it down! Mayday! Mayday!”

There was a single gunshot, an unmistakable, final bang that echoed through the airframe, and the loudspeaker went dead. A moment of silence, as everyone in the plane collectively sucked in a breath. My hand stayed on his thigh, strong and tense.

The engines revved up to an agonizing howl as someone’s hand pulled the throttle all the way to maximum. The pitch they reach when the plane is taking off is nothing; those big engines sounded like they were going to tear right off the wings. We were pushed back into the seats by the force of the acceleration. The nose of the plane angled radically down, and we pierced the clouds like a spear. There was screaming, and the crash of a drinks cart careening down the aisle. I clenched the hand on his thigh, so hard I probably left bruises. All around us, people were hysterical; we sat there wide-eyed and petrified, like a pair of Easter Island statues.

After what seemed like an impossibly long power dive, the aircraft finally pulled up, groaning and complaining. We were crushed into our seats, and the wings bowed up so far I thought they must snap. For a few moments, there was dead silence in the cabin. Then pandemonium broke out once again.

I looked out the window. We were low, way too low, skimming just above treetops and suburban homes. I knew, right then, I knew that I was going to die.

People had more or less settled down. Some were trying their cell phones.  A contingent was performing CPR on a lady. Maybe she’d had a heart attack, or been injured during the sudden dive. Flight attendants were circulating up and down the cabin, shakily telling people not to panic. Up front, a burly group of passengers was using a drinks cart as a battering ram, trying to bust down the armored cockpit door. It wouldn’t work, I knew that. The designers had done their job too well; nobody was going to break into that cockpit.

He placed his hand on mine. Turned to me, raised one eyebrow ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t normally ask this,” he said. Where the hell did I recognize him from? Was he in a rock band? On some reality tv show? “But what the hell. Do you want to fuck?”

I’ve never understood the cachet of the mile-high club. Airplane bathrooms are gross and claustrophobic. I don’t even like going into one to pee, never mind to get some quick and dirty illicit action. My guess is that it’s a notch in your belt type thing, bragging rights or whatever, and that’s never really been my cup of tea.

My pussy was wet, wet in a deeply inappropriate way for this situation. My nipples were hard, threatening to poke straight through my bra. I should have been pissing my panties or praying; I just wanted him to stick a hand down the front of my pants and touch my clit. If he had so much as pinched one of my nipples, I would have come right there in my seat. The thought of fucking him, right here and now, made me even wetter. I squeezed his crotch through his jeans and found him bone-hard. We were in agreement.

We got up and made our way to the bathroom at the rear of the cabin. Getting there was tricky. The plane was shuddering through what I would have thought of as scary turbulence, if I hadn’t known that we were now riding an oversized cruise missile, and had more to worry about than choppy air. We had to dodge other people, panicked, petrified, and otherwise, all with agendas of their own. Once inside the loo, two people crammed into a space designed for barely one, it was like we had stepped into a separate reality.

We didn’t waste any time. There wasn’t any time left to waste. Tripping, tangling with each other, we pulled off our pants. His cock jutted obscenely out, trapped under the waistband of his undies. He lifted me up onto the tiny plastic sink, and I wrapped my legs around his backside. He pulled my boring blue panties aside, took his dick in one hand, and skewered my juicy cunt. We kissed, hard and violently, as we fucked.

I had a strange cock in my pussy, unprotected by so much as a condom. I tensed up, pulling involuntarily away. What, I wondered for a millisecond, the fuck was I thinking? And then I remembered that it didn’t matter, not one little bit, and I relaxed and let myself enjoy the sensation of being fucked, fucked hard and deep.

He smelled of fresh-cut cedar, and his red hair was all mussed up. His cock felt amazing in my pussy. He grabbed my ass with both hands, pulling me forcefully toward him as he thrust.

The plane lurched hard, and I fell awkwardly against the bulkhead. I heard the snap of my wrist breaking, and saw, as if from a long way away, my hand flapping at an unnatural angle at the end of my arm. “That,” I thought to myself, “Is really going to hurt later on.”

He was fucking me with a renewed energy, puffing and panting like an Olympic sprinter. He was sweating hard. One finger was buried in my asshole. I could see the look in his eyes, and I knew he was going to come soon, and that was fine by me. I was right there with him. I wanted to feel his cock twitch, I wanted him to flood my pussy with his semen, I wanted to see his face as he came inside me.

The plane lurched again, banking hard, rolling through at least ninety degrees, and we were tossed together across the tiny lavatory. His head struck the ceiling hard, flattening the back of his skull with an ugly-sounding thunk, breaking his neck just like a swimmer diving into the shallow end of a pool. His eyes, wide and staring, were glassy and fixed, and his head lolled sickeningly atop his neck.

I was now fucking a dead man. His body was like a big sandbag, neither stiff nor especially limp; but his dick remained obstinately hard. There was a lot of blood from the massive head wound, smeared all over the tiny bathroom. I was weeping, tears streaming down my face. I suppose I should have felt something, but all I had left was the overwhelming need to come. I kept on riding his hard cock, too far gone to stop, nudging myself viciously toward the edge of the precipice.

We were flying even lower now, insanely low. I could see through the tiny lavatory window. It was a wonder we weren’t taking out church steeples and telephone poles. I made fleeting, startled eye contact with a lady hanging up her laundry to dry. My broken hand was already swelling up like an eggplant. I was going to come.

The intercom crackled to life, a garbled, disembodied voice yelling into a microphone “God is great! God is great! God is the greatest!” and my orgasm hit me, and I let loose, screaming and flailing through wave after wave of toe-curling, clit-trembling, pussy-slurping pleasure.

I never even felt the impact. There was one final lurch, a horrendous screaming-rending noise that was the fuselage snapping in half and the wings sheering off; a bright light, and then nothing. Darkness and the reek of jet fuel.

END