http://nattel.com/900.html
every 900 page has a different image each time you come back, along with a text fantasy.
FREE!




===============================================================================
        Well, friend and neighbors, this particular story is from the Dawg's
own files. That's right, this one actually happened to the 'ol Dawg, and he
thought that you'd like to know what kind of erotic, perverse situations the
Dawg gets himself into...
        It was a Friday night, and the Dawg decided to take in some of the more
interesting night life in Las Vegas. First on the hit parade was, of course, a
local titty bar. Now, Las Vegas has more than its share of titty bars, but
everyone knows that the Insane Stallion Deuce is the best one in town. The
Dawg arrived at just after ten, when things were just starting to get into
swing. As any good connoisseur of female flesh knows, the best girls work the
nine PM to five AM shift at the bar. Arriving any earlier would just be a
waste of good money. And the Dawg, thanks to a generous employer, had more then
enough cash to enjoy the night in the right way.
        Almost immediately, a waitress appeared.
        Blonde, tall, with sparkling blue eyes that seemed to promise everything
and nothing at the same time. She was not dressed like most of the girls, and
the question I posed to her she probably answered at least twice every five
minutes.
       "Do you dance?" I asked her.
   As she placed the napkin on the table in front of me, a small, coy
smile played across her face. "Sometimes," is the only answer, albeit cryptic
at that, that I got. I ordered the Dawg's favorite drink (beer, 'natch...) and
turned my attention to the half-naked woman writhing on stage 1. 
      Like most dancers she had an air of practiced detachment as she moved
to the pounding beat of the music. Large breasts capped with silver-dollar
size aureole and tiny pink little pencil-eraser nipples bounced lightly with
her movement. I was mildly interested in meeting this woman a little closer
up, perhaps with a table dance. Then I started to look around and see what
other talent might grace my vision.
        And then I saw her, the woman I knew I would be spending a lot of my
money on. She was diminutive, with long blonde hair and a tiny little body. She
looked just barely old enough to be dancing, and she had this sexy way of
biting her lower lip when she was dancing.
        As Raymond Chandler once said, "She was a blonde. A blonde to make a
bishop kick in a stained glass window."
        She was walking down the isle between the square-shaped bar and the
individual tables when I caught her eye. She smiled at me, nodded once, and
then the contract was sealed. She raised an eyebrow in silent question and I
nodded at the pile of dead presidents on the table between us. She reached
over and pulled an Andrew Jackson out of the pile and raised the eyebrow again.
My expression conveyed...maybe.
        She pulled another Jackson out to join the first one, and I nodded. She
smiled at me, sat down next to me and opened her mouth. "I'm Brandy." And I'm
the pope. I've been to titty bars in almost every state in the union, and never
ever has a dancer given her real name to me. And I always answer the same.
        "Tell me your real name."
      She was one of the good ones. Instead of laughing in that you're-so-
silly way that really annoys most men, she looked at me steadily across the
table and said, deadpan, "I'm not allowed to tell you."
        I told her my name as we waited for the song to end. "But everyone
calls me the Dawg," I added.
   "Why...do you like to do it doggy-style?" she asked.
   "Sometimes..." I said. 
        The next song started, and Brandy began to dance for me. She was
wearing a peach colored bikini, and her first order of business was to remove
the top and place it on the table next to me. I handed it back to her. "I don't
want to see your breasts," I said. "I want to see your eyes." The eyes widened
for a moment as surprise and suspicion flashed across her face. I reached out
and lightly touched one breast while gently cupping her mound with the other
hand. "Sex isn't here," I said, immediately removing my hands from her breast
and vulva, and cupping her face in my hands. My forefingers tapped her temples.
"It's here. Your most erogenous organ is your brain. Use your brain, not your
body."
        The suspicion flared again, and I'm sure she was thinking that she had
a weirdo on her hands. "Sit down for this song, and I'll explain it to you."
   She sat down next to me with an expression of frank curiosity on her
face. "If I want to see your body, anyone's body, a stranger's body...I can buy
a magazine or rent a movie. I want to see your body, but only when you want to
show it to me, not when you reach a certain point in whatever mental meter
you're running. Do you understand?"
    "You don't do this often, do you?"
        "More than you would ever think, Brandy."
        "Well, what do you want me to do?"
        "I want you to dance for yourself...and let me watch. Don't dance for
me. Pretend you are dancing by yourself...that's what I want."
 She smiled shyly at me. "That's different. No one has ever asked me to
do that before."
        "Try it," I said. "You might just like it!"
        The song ended (I planned it that way....NOT!) and Brandy stood again.
She looked at me looking at her and began to slowly writhe to the new music.
It was a slow song, a ballad by an artist I didn't recognize. What I did
recognize was a new expression on her face. 
   Brandy slowly traced the length of her legs with her hands, looking
into the mirror above my head as she touched herself. A quick spin, and her
ass was an inch from my face as her fingernails slowly traced the silken slope
of her buttocks. Every pore of my body called out to bury my face between those
cheeks. I was reminded of two things at once. First, in a popular movie last
year, one character refers to another character as "Three fingers on the finger
scale.' When I first heard it, I thought that it meant she was loose enough to
fit three fingers inside. Only later did I come to understand that what the
character actually meant was, "I'd cut three of my fingers off to fuck her."
Brandy was definitely three-fingers good. Three fingers-lickin' good, as a
matter of fact.
        The second thing I was reminded of was what a friend of mine and I
called 'Marmalade.' We had been working a job in one of the casinos when an
outrageously stacked and dressed woman strutted past. My partner looked over
at me and whispered, 'Marmalade.' I shot him a quizzical expression and he
elaborated. "I'd like to lick Marmalade from between her sweaty butt cheeks."
I almost broke up, but professional discipline kept me from showing any outward
signs of emotion.
      Brandy was definitely Marmalade material. Without a doubt. By the time
these thoughts flittered through my head, Brandy had turned to face me again.
Her nipples were pushing through the material of her bikini top, two
unmistakable signs that she was aroused. She placed one high-heeled foot on the
bench between my legs and put my hands on her ankle.
   Now folks, the Dawg has always considered himself an ass man. Nothing
turns my head more than a perfectly-formed rearend packed tightly in skintight
jeans or a short miniskirt. But at that moment in the Dawg's existence on this
wretched planet, a new light shone.
    Brandy's ankle was small and well-formed. Her legs were smooth, too
smooth to have been shaved. She had to wax. I looked up into her deep brown
eyes as I ran my hands up her legs and over her knees. She bit her bottom lip
again, and we locked glances.
  The music faded into silence and everyone around us disappeared as we
looked into each other's soul. I knew in that moment that I would be seeing
Brandy outside of the club, outside of this existence. It might not happen
tonight, or tomorrow, but I would.
     The first song ended and Brandy stopped dancing. Her fingers lightly
traced my face as we continued to gaze at each other. Her hand dropped to my
chest and then around my left side. I felt her stiffen as she detected the
Ruger P85 9mm hanging in a shoulder holster.
   "It's OK," I said. "I'm not a cop. I'm a professional bodyguard." That
wasn't the entire truth, but that could wait for another day. I reasoned with
myself that I'd tell her what I really did for a living when she told me her
real name. She relaxed a little and hefted the weight of my leather-clad piece.
         "I like a man who can take care of himself," she said.
        The second song began and Brandy stood up. This time, she put her high-
heel clad foot directly on my thigh. As she began to get into the music and
the moment, I could feel the pressure of the heel digging into the muscle of
my thigh. 
     What happened next was both a test and an experience in erotica. As
she slowly applied more and more pressure to the heel, Brandy checked my
expression to see when I would feel pain instead of pleasure, when I would ask
her to stop...if I would ask her to stop.
      Brandy's hands cupped her breasts through her bikini top, slowly
running her thumbs across her nipples, even more slowly increasing the pressure
of her heel into my thigh. I ran my fingernails up the skin of her right leg,
past her knee, and then towards the juncture of her thighs and the mysteries
that lie between them. My hands were far enough away to satisfy the bouncer,
but I knew that she could feel the warmth of my hands inching slowly towards
the center of her sex. 
        Brandy lowered her head, making as if to kiss me. We both knew the
rules of this dance, and inches before we would have locked lips, we each
turned our heads, our noses lightly brushing. The small smile that played
across her face was mirrored by my own. 
       The pressure on my thigh was becoming a little much, but I had sworn
to myself that I wouldn't give in, wouldn't let her know that I was feeling it,
that she was getting to me.
    Suddenely, Brandy shifted feet, placing her left foot on my right
thigh, and the dance began again. Her breathing was shallow and quick; she
sounded like a panting dog. In the middle of her bottoms, a little low, a
small circle of wetness appeared and began to grow. The music swelled and
surrouned is, covering us in our own little cocoon. I could feel the
beginnings of an erection stirring in my jeans.
        Too soon, the song and dance ended. I palmed two business cards from
 my jacket pocket and wrapped them around a fifty. I tucked the fifty into
Brandy's bikini and mouthed the words, "Let me know," patting her ass as she
walked away.
   The waitress had appeared during my dance and left a beer. I called
her over and asked if she'd gotten paid. She shook her head. "You looked pretty
involved, and policy doesn't allow me to touch your money." I thanked her for
her honesty and paid for the beer, adding a five-dollar tip while asking her
to make sure that I had enough beer for the night. She smiled and left me alone.
       As the night wore on, I watched Brandy dance on the stage twice,
although I didn't ask for another table dance. I wanted to watch how she
danced for the other men in the place, knowing that when she danced for me,
she was really dancing for herself. I was hoping to do two things with Brandy
(Well, actually more than two, but you know what I mean.) I wanted her to have
a feeling of emancipation, a freedom from the bonds that dancing for money
brought with it. By telling her to do what she liked for me, I was also telling
her without words that her happiness was more important to me than mine. And
that, I thought, would get me what I really wanted, which was to see Brandy
outside the confines of the Insane Stallion.
   Two hours later, as I was finishing a shot of Cuervo 1800, I saw
Brandy making her way across the room to me. Her gaze was locked onto me again,
and we traded soft, quiet smiles as she settled into the booth next to me.
     "How can I get a hold of you?" she asked.
      "It's on the card. Office, home, portable and pager. All numbers are
answered twenty-four hours a day. My address is on the card. But always, always
call first. I keep strange hours. I never know when a client is going to feel
threatened. More importantly, how can I get a hold of you?"
    Again, she gave the expected answer. "I'm not supposed to give any
information out to clients. They watch everything on the cameras." She pointed
to the reflective spheres on the ceiling that were disguised to blend in. She'd
made a horrible mistake, because by pointing she had now indicated to whomever
was watching that she had told a non-employee something she wasn't supposed to. 
       "Call me tonight at home," I said under my breath. "Just call me. You
don't have to tell me anything, but just call me."
        Slowly she nodded, and I made my way out of the bar. Just as I was
about to step outside, I felt a hand close over my shoulder. I turned and
looked at the owner of the hand. It belonged to a huge gorilla, the kind of guy
that spends most of his time pumped up in front of a mirror, his body covered
in some greasy substance. He was the kind of guy who looked like he used his
size to intimidate and stop problems from happening before they even got
started.
       "What did Brandy tell you?" he asked, gruffly.
 "To get lost. So I am. I can tell when I'm not wanted." He looked at me
hard, and I felt the hand on my shoulder tighten. "We don't like it when
someone gives the girls trouble," he said, low and I guess what he considered
to be 'with menace.'
   I looked pointedly at his hand. He smiled at me, a shark's grin that
seemed to say, 'Try and remove it.' So I did. I reached across with my right
hand and gripped his fingers, pulling and twisting at the same time, until I
had his entire arm and upper body contorted.
   "And I don't like being touched by fag bodybuilders. If this is the
way you treat all the customers, perhaps I should have a word with your boss."
        "Leggo!" he pleaded. I applied a fraction more torque to his fingers
and hand. I could feel the tendons and ligaments stretching. Just a fraction
more, and every bone in his wrist would shatter.
       "Just stop fucking with the customers, man." I let his hand go and
gave him a shove. He stood slowly, rubbing his hand. I saw his shoulder turn,
and I knew he was going to sucker-punch me.
    "If you throw that punch, I'll break your arm." My voice was just low
enough to be heard over the music. The goon considered a moment and finally
decided not to test me. I left the Insane Stallion and drove home, parking the
car in the garage.
     The mail was waiting for me, most of it bills or junk mail. No letters
from my parents or siblings, but that was no surprise, since I was an orphan
and an only child.
     I undressed for bed while drinking the last beer of the night. The
Ruger came out of my shoulder holster and went into the bedside table to join
its brothers.
  I flopped into the bed and turned the TV on. While watching the late
movie (why is it always a damn Western on at two in the morning?) my eyes
caught sight of my thighs. There were two small, perfectly round welts on
either of my thighs, were Brandy had pushed the heels of her shoes into me.
    My cock jerked at the rememberence of Brandy's face and the pressure
of her shoes against the skin of my legs. I briefly considered masturbating,
but discarded that notion almost immediately. There was a chance, a small
chance, that Brandy might call, and I didn't want to be stuck with a gun that
wouldn't shoot. 
       I dropped off into sleep almost immediately. I dreamt of a blonde
goddess named Brandy.

                         * * * * * * * * * *



        The ringing phone brought me awake instantly. The TV was showing snow
 and the small digital clock over the set read 5:45. I let the machine get the
 phone.
        "You have reached Stone Security. At the tone, please dial your
identification number." The answering machine was interfaced with a PC that
held the account numbers of every one of my clients. When they dialed their
number, everything I needed to know was instantly displayed on the screen.
In addition to that, the caller ID function had already traced the call,
identified the number, and was running it through the Cole's directory I have
on CD-ROM. (A Cole's directory is a reverse-phonebook. It goes in order of
number first, and then the location. If the caller was calling from a pay phone
or a phone  that had been installed for more than a year at one location, then
I'd know where they were calling from. A handy little feature.)
        The answering machine-cum-computer beeped, and I heard the goddess'
voice. "It's Brandy. Are you there?"
        I snatched the phone. "Hold on a sec." I disconnected the computer.
"Where are you?"
        "Home. Can I come over? I want to see you." I thought about it for
perhaps a microsecond.
        "How long have you been home?" I asked.
        "I just walked in."
        "Have you showered yet?"
        "'No...why?"
        "Don't. Come over here as you are, covered in sweat and smelling like
smoke and sex."
        The shocked silence from the other end of the phone didn't faze me in
the least. "You...like that?"
        "It turns me on to see you dance for other men, to watch you showing
them your body. I want to feel that when you get here, get a sense of what it's
like from the smell and taste of your body."
        "Give me twenty minutes." She disconnected, and I got up, dressed,
made coffee and breakfast, and waited for Brandy to appear. More often than
not, when I used the 'I want to see your eyes, not your breasts' line, I got a
phony number or never got called back. Every once in a while, though, it worked.
       I was sipping coffee and reading the morning paper when the doorbell
rang. I answered it to find Brandy standing there, dressed in an outregous
outfit: White tank top stretched tightly across her braless tits, the nipples
poking through the material, a red leather microskirt that barely covered her
ass, black seamed stockings and high heels; the same heels she'd been wearing
at the club.
   "Come on in," I said. "Breakfast is on the table." She attacked the
meal eagerly, and I watched her wolf the eggs, toast, bacon and coffee down.
        "God that was good," she said after she was done. She backed away from
the table and came over to where I was sitting. She straddled my lap and draped
her arms around my neck, wiggling her ass on my growing cock.
  "Did you mean what you said on the phone?+"
        "I meant every word."
        "You like watching me dance?"
        "No. I love watching you dance...showing your body, touching yourself,
that expression on your face that says, 'tough luck, jerk. You can't have any
of this!"
      "Every one of my other boyfriends liked watching me dance, but when
they asked me out, they only wanted me to dance for them. They all tried to
make me quit. Are you going to make me quit?"
        "No," I breathed in her ear. My mouth finally tasted her skin, that
soft patch just behind and beneath her ear.
    "Mmmmm," she moaned. "Why do you like watching?"
        "Why do you like showing off?"
         We kissed then, for the first time, her little pink tongue wiggling
into my mouth, dancing with mine. We traded saliva for a few moments as my
hands found their way to her tight little ass and began squeezing.
     She was slowly, sensously thrusting her crotch at me, rubbing against
me, getting off on the friction through our clothes.

       She was swaying for me, bringing her breats into contact with my chest,
and then moving away from me, looking into my eyes. "Play some music," she
said. "Watch me dance for you. Just for you."
        The remote control for my Sony sound system was in my right hand before
she finished the sentence. I pushed a few buttons, and 'Pour Some Sugar On Me'
began blasting from the speakers.
      Brandy stepped to the center of the living room and began to move to
the music. Our gazes were locked again as she practically tore the front of her
tanktop to let her breasts out into the early morning air. Her nipples hardened
instantly under her touch, and she looked directly into my soul as she lifted
one heavy, full breast to her mouth and stretched her tongue to her nipple. I
started rubbing my cock through my pants as I watched Brandy turn herself on.
  When the lyrics arrived at 'Hot and sticky sweet/from my head to my
feet' Brandy had raised her red leather skirt the fraction required for me to
see that she wasn't wearing any panties. Her pussy hair was mostly shaved,
except for a small patch on the top of her vulva that pointed down towards the
lips like an arrow. She ran her finger along her seam, groaning at the self-
pleasure. 
     Brandy dipped a finger inside and then raised it to her mouth. Before
it vanished inside her sucking mouth, I could see that it was slick and shining
with the juices of her arousal.  She slid her hands around her crotch, then
turned her back to me and lifted the skirt so that I could see the well-shaped
ass hidden beneath. My always-facination with female asses reared its ugly head
again, and I felt my cock lurch inside my pants.
       "Touch yourself," she said. "While you watch me, touch yourself." I
nodded, dry-mouthed, and unzipped my jeans to reveal my throbbing erection.
Six inches of pink beef dart followed Brandy's movement like a cobra being
entranced by the flute-playing charmer. That's about as apt a description I can
give for her actions that early Saturday morning; Brandy was a cock charmer.
   I began to slowly jerk off as Brandy dropped down to the carpet. She
spread her legs and began to frig herself off in earnest, watching me watch
her watch me and so on.
        She forced two, then three fingers into her overheated trench and began
to softly frig herself off, the other hand doing laps on her clitoris. "God, I
wish I could do this at the club. I get so hot on stage, watching the men get
excited looking at me. They all want the fantasy, they all want to know what I
look like, what I taste like, what I smell like."
        "You look like sex," I said, my voice hoarse with passion. "You sound
and taste and smell like sex, like hot sweat and leather and jizz. You are the
 incarnation of sex. Of what it means to be a female. You know the power you
have over them, Brandy-"
        "Trish," she gasped, flicking her clit. "My name is Trish!"
        "You know the power you hold over them, Trish. The power you held over
me, when you were digging your heels into my legs..." I moaned as a little drop
of cum seeped out of my dicktip.
       Hearing my mention of the shoes gave Brandy/Trish an idea. She took one
of the shoes off and promptly stuffed the heel into her slot and began to frig
herself with it.
       "I'm getting close," she said. "I want you to cum with me. I want you
to come on me!" I stood up and walked, stiff-legged, constrained by the jeans
around my ankles to Brandy/Trish, jerking my cock the entire time.
     From my height, looking down at her frig herself with the shoe, I knew
that I was going to blow any second. I tried to wait as long as I could, so
that we could explode together. Just as I thought I couldn't wait another
single microsecond, Trish exploded into a violent climax.
      My testicles contracted, and I was suddenely raining semen down on
Trish, on her face and throat and tits and thighs. Seven or eight strong shots
of jizz painted her from head to toe, covering her body with my sweet, creamy
essence.
       Trish licked at the cum on her face, wanting to taste me. She rubbed
the cum on her tits into the skin, and then the jizz on her thighs. She gleamed
in the early morning light, covered with my spoo.
      I dropped to my knees and kissed her cummy face, licking some of my own
seed from her cheek and feeding it to Trish in a sloppy tongue kiss. She
moaned when she tasted and felt my own jizz being passed into her mouth and
sucked on my tongue eagerly.
   "Let me taste you," she moaned. "All of you."
        I stood and discarded the remainder of my clothes and then dropped to
my knees, placing one thigh on either side of her head. I was just getting
ready to lower my cock into her mouth when I felt her tongue lightly tickle my
balls.
 I groaned and began to stroke my cock as her slavering, licking tongue
bathed my nutsack with warm, moist saliva. Her hands were gripping my asscheek
tightly as she hummed around my nuts and tried to suck my entire scrotum into
her mouth. She was lightly chewing my nuts, her jaws masticating and giving me
a thrill. 
     Then her tongue was licking the small patch of erotically charged skin
between my testicles and asshole. I hadn't showered, so I knew the masculine
aroma of sweaty crotch was filling her nose and mouth. The fact that Trish
licked my little trench with even more gusto than she had attacked my balls
with made my newly-rejuvinated cock throb even harder.
 And then lovely Trish did it. Her hands pulled my ass foward, and her
mouth and slippery, moist tongue glided between the cheeks of my ass. She began
licking softly at my tight little browneye, and I bagan to slowly lower my ass
onto her head, wanting to bury her face between the cheeks of my sweaty butt.
  The last time I'd had this done to me, I'd had to pay a working girl
almost $500 for that single act alone, and here was Brandy/Trish eagerly
thrusting her tongue into a place where most women would gag at the thought of
kissing.
        Trish gurgled happily in my ass for a few minutes before pulling back
and licking my balls again. Her eyes were closed in either pleasure or
concentration; I couldn't tell. She seemed to be in her own world, lost
somewhere between this world and the next. I knew then that I wanted to give
her as much pleasure as she had given me.
        I popped my dick and nuts out of her mouth and hands and scooted over
her body, covering her with me. Our chests crashed together, and I felt her
tits crush flat against my chest. Her legs went around my waist, clutching the
lower halves of our bodies together. We kissed, softly at first, and then as
the passion and heat grew between us, we kissed hungrily. Everywhere I touched
was hot, sweaty female flesh. The body-to-body contact was almost too much. She
was warm and sweaty and moist for me, eagerly wriggling against me, getting off
on the contact and friction.
        My cock found her opening seemingly of its own volition, and I began
to slowly penetrate her, inch by inch. I'd seen more than a few porno movies
in my time, and always wondered where they found those horse-cocked mutants to
fuck those poor chicks. I knew that I wasn't hung half as large as most men
claimed to be, but I always made up for length with enthusiasm.
        Trish groaned and arched her back. She had the smallest waist and hips
I had ever seen. She splayed her legs as widely as possible to help accept my
thrusting dick. Our bodies were slick with the effort.
 "God, I love the feeling of your dick in me, thrusting into me,
splitting me wide open. Go slow, lover. Go slooow." I grunted and tried to
resist the temptation to spear into her very center, to join our bodies as one
at that instant.
        When I was training in the martial arts, we were given complete
lectures regarding anatomy and physiology of the human body, both male and
female. Nerve endings were discussed, killpoints indicated. I knew that the
most sensitive nerve endings in the female vagina were in the first four
inches; after that there were still nerves, but just not as many, not as
concentrated to detect and transmit pleasure to the sexual centers of the brain.
       As I hit bottom inside Trish and began to slowly withdraw, my mind
split into two distinct thought patterns. In the frontal lobe, where the
pleasure centers were, my mind was screaming about the buttery smooth warmth
of Trish's cunt, how it clung to my thrusting cock like a silk, velvet glove
and made me never want to leave her tightly clutching vagina. The other half
of my brain, the so-called 'intellectual' side, began a rather lengthy
discourse on the nature of sexual arousal and satisfaction.
    I had known many a male friend in my life that claimed to be an
awesome lover, a true stallion between the sheets. I never made that claim,
and left it to the after-sex critique. After the first time with a new lover,
while we were holding each other in the afterglow, I always asked questions.
Many women were afraid to answer, afraid to bruise my fragile male ego. Ego is
only as fragile as a man's security. If he's secure in his masculinity, he
won't care. You can't be expected to read minds, and many women are still held
back by puritanical ethics of sexuality; good girls don't like sex, don't
want to admit that they like things that might be called 'dirty.'
        Always ask. For two reasons. The first being that if you find out
something about your lover, something that you're not doing that she'd like
you to do, or something you are doing that she'd like you not to do, even
something you are doing that she'd like faster, slower, higher or lower, or
just...different, you will bring that person closer to you, closer inside that
magical shell that captures two people sharing the most intimate moment two
people can. And secondly, intelligence, tactical intelligence, can always be
used again. There may be a technique or a style that you havn't heard or read
about that she can teach you. The more arrows you have in your quiver, the
better chance you have of hitting your target.
 And I have always felt that nothing is dirty between two consenting
adults. I have had women that have wanted me to do things to them that I
considered a little weird, but the operative phrase here is 'consenting.' If
she tells me that she likes to bay at the moon while being butt-fucked by a
llama, and I agree that yeah, that'd be pretty hot, then we were both
consenting to the idea, the actuality of her sexuality. But if I find the llama
trick a little out of my bag, it's up to me as a man to tell her two things:
Firstly, that her own sexuality is her own business, and I am no one to judge
what makes someone wet between the legs, and secondly, sorry, but that's just
not my scene.
  This attitude, this way of dealing with all the sensitive issues of
adult sexuality has garnered something that many men don't think about. All
the women that have shared my bed on a regular basis are still my friends.
Even today, I still talk to the woman I terminated my virginity with at the
tender age of 14 on her kitchen floor with her parents in the living room.
She's married now, with a wonderful husband and three great kids.
        But she and I are still close, still talk at least twice a month. And
every time we've been together, we've made love again. I don't, and she
certainly doesn't see it as cheating on her husband. Some might argue that it
is, but there is no romantic attachment, no emotional involvement. Her husband
was brought up to believe that women in general, and mothers in specific, were
sexless, 'Modanna' type creatures, who couldn't or shouldn't enjoy sex.
Especially not being tied to the bed and being 'forced' to suck cock for hours
on end, which was what my friend liked more than anything.
     I can't count the number of times I've encouraged her to tell her
husband about her particular 'kink.' She has told me that she's tried, and
every time she even brings the subject up that her husband hushes her, tells
her that 'nice girls don't do that."
        We finally solved the problem. The last time we were together, I
videotaped our entire session and then sent the tape to her husband. The call
I got the day after he viewed the tape was quite hilarious. Apparantly the
husband had come home, flipped her over his knee and spanked her bare ass
(something else she likes but was afraid to ask for,) and then tied her to the
bed for the night, feeding her his hard cock for hours on end. When he finally
blew his load over her face, she had the biggest orgasm of her entire life.
        The point of all this, I guess, is to talk to each other. If you admit
to yourself that you don't know every damn thng about making another person
happy, you will finally be able to find out what does make that person truly
happy.
 These thoughts were forced from my mind in an instant as Trish clutched
her pussy around my cock and groaned, thrusting her little colt's hips up
against mine. I rolled over onto my back, pulling Trish with me.
       She started jamming herself up and down on my cock, biting her bottom
lip in that sexy way that made my nuts throb. Her eyes were still closed.
      "Open your eyes," I gasped. "Let me see your eyes!" Her eyelids snapped
open and we locked gazes. Trish slowed down, letting my cock fill her
completely, rotating her tight little ass, and then starting the slow steady
rise until only the tip of my cock remained inside her. 
       Her chest was flushed and sweaty, the tips of her hair sticking to her
skin. I watched as a droplet of sweat started in her hairline and began sliding
down her face, down her neck, down her chest until it dangled off one erect
nipple. It hung for an instant in time, gathering mass and weight until it
finally fell and splashed against my chest.
    Suddenely Trish rolled off me and got down on the carpet on all fours.
She reached behind her and started frigging herself.
   "From behind," she gasped. "Fuck me from behind!" I walked on my knees
until I was behind her wildly undulating ass. Lining myself up with her slot,
I thrust my entire length inside her with one quick snap of my hips.
   Trish groaned and ground her ass against my thighs, pulling on her
nipples as we rode each other. Her cunt was so buttery smooth and hot and wet
and tight, I never wanted to leave. Watching her long blonde hair whip around
as we rode each other was turning me on. I felt the first rumblings in my balls
signalling my impending climax.
        "Gonna blow!" I moaned. Quick as a whistle Trish popped my dick out of
her quim and turned until her mouth was sliding up and down on my cock. 'Mmmm,
she said, popping me out, "I love the way I taste on you." She slid my cock
back into her mouth and started bobbing her head.
        I clapped my hands around her head and began fucking her face, slamming
my cock down her throat again and again. My left hand found its way to her
right tit and began hefting its weight, feeling her silky, sweaty skin.
        Trish popped my cock out of her mouth for the last time and began
rapidly jerking me off. "On me," she whispered urgently. "Come on me..."
        Well, never one to dissapoint the lass, I blew my load all over her
face. She began using her fingers to spoon my slime into her mouth. She licked
me clean, suckling on my cock until it grew soft in her mouth.
 We fell together to the carpet, clutching our sweaty bodies together.
When our breathing returned to normal, we laughed and talked quietly for a few
moments, and then I began to ask her the questions.
    "Was there anything else you'd like me to do...next time?"
        She was playing with the hair on my chest, and she didn't answer for a
long time.
     "Dirty talk," she finally said. "I really like it when the guy talks
dirty, uses a lot of smutty words and stuff. I don't know why. You probably
think I'm a pervert."
        "Not at all. If that's what you want...."
        See how easy life can be?




==============================================================================
If you liked this story, tell the SYSOP of the BBS you got it from, and look
for other exciting adult erotic stories from Dirty Dawg. If your favorite adult
BBS doesn't carry Dirty Dawg, ask them WHY?! Dirty Dawg stories are available
from Big Joe's BBS in Las Vegas, Nevada, and from the MotherBoard BBS in
Pelham Manor, NY. Check your local BBS listing for node numbers and modem
speeds supported.

If you have a favorite sexual fantasy that you'd like turned into an adult
erotic fiction story, leave a message for the Dawg on either Big Joe's BBS
or on the MotherBoard BBS. Leave the following information: 1) Basic story
category (ie, straight, bisexual, cheating, group sex, etc.) 2) Character
names, if you want it truly customized. If you do leave character names, please
leave a brief physical description you would like used. 3) A plot outline, or
just a starting point. If you trust the Dawg to take you places you've never
been before, indicate that in your message. And finally, the most important
part: 4) Lewdness Level. There are four basic levels of Lewdness: a) Clinical
and Puritanical, which uses phrases like "He thrust into her depths, cutting
a swath into her core like a hot knife through butter." Not much 'dirty'
language, and it gets the imaginative juices flowing. b) Slightly Lewd, which
uses, using the same example as above, "He thrust his manhood into her very
center, feeling the sugar walls of her vagina contract around his penis like
a vise." Etc. Level C) Medium Lewd, is more of the Penthouse Forum or Penthouse
Letters level of graphic description. Lots of euphamisms for female and male
genetila, like "He jammed his pink beef stallion into the waiting warmth of
her quim." Level D) Maximum Lewd, is for the hard-core reader that likes words
like "Cunt" and "Cock", like "He thrust his throbbing cock into the welcoming
walls of her overheated cunt, feeling her tighten her muscles around his
invading meat."

Because of other literary (haha) demands made on the Dawg, personalized
stories may take up to a month to be created. There is NO monetary consideration
REQUIRED, but any contributions to the Dawg's Dish will be appreciated, and
just might 'speed things up.' If you wish to make a contribution to hasten the
creation of your story, leave that information also with the message addressed
to the Dawg. NOTE: Any readers giving a contribution to the Dawg will also be
given a diskette (3.5" or 5.25") in IBM Text file format containing up to 25
other adult erotic stories. Some of these stories are NOT available on the BBS,
and have been written from the Dawg's own experiences. Again, please understand
that monetary contributions are >>>NOT<<< required to get a personal story
written. All I want to do is hear your ideas for a hot, erotic story, and then
turn it into literary reality.

Copyright Notice : This and all of the Dirty Dawg stories are Copyright (c)
1992 by Dirty Dawg. These stories may be distributed freely, as long as this
and all other copyright notices are included. It is the responsibility of
anyone handling these stories in any format or medium, including electronic,
printed, or otherwise, to ensure that no one under the age of 18 views, reads,
or has access to the materials contained herin. Dirty Dawg and the BBSs that
carry the Dirty Dawg stories hereby ABSOLVE themselves of all responsibility
as to the suitability of these files for a particular purpose. Dirty
Dawg will retain ALL copyrights to this and any other materials created
under the 'Dirty Dawg' trademark name. Personalized stories remain the
property of Dirty Dawg for distribution as he alone sees fit. For
stories that are personalized, all names will be CHANGED after the
person or persons comissioning said story have recieved their copy. Unless
otherwise noted, this is a work of ficton, and all characters are
creations of the author's imagination, and any similarity to any persons,
places or situations are purely coincidental.

Copyright (c) 1992 Dirty Dawg Productions
All Rights Reserved
"Woof Woof."