Date: Wed, 24 Apr 2002 00:37:23 -0400
From: Marc P <miniegg69@hotmail.com>
Subject: Gentlemen Prefer Blondes

GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES

-by Marc P.  (e-mail miniegg69@hotmail.com)

The following story contains acts of a sexual nature between a
consenting minor and consenting adults.  If you are offended by
heterosexual and/or homosexual acts, by all means continue reading;
just be prepared to be offended.  And remember, sex with minors is
illegal and wrong.

If you are interested in reading more of my work, I encourage you to
read "Corrupting A Minor" in the bisexual college section of the
Nifty archives.


*********************************


"Goddammit, Bukowski!"  Tony cried.  "Can't you do fucking anything
right?"

I had just dropped a tray of salads in the kitchen and I was
scrambling to pick up the bits of iceberg lettuce and cherry
tomatoes that were covering the floor in a puddle of Italian
dressing.

"I'm sorry, Tony," I mumbled, desperately trying to clean up the
linoleum.

"Sorry doesn't fix the mess, you little shit," he fumed.  "If your
mother wasn't such a nice piece of pussy, I'd've fired your skinny
ass weeks ago."

I cringed at the reference to my mom.  I hated that this low-class
restaurant manager was sleeping with her and the fact that he made
it a point to mention her in the lewdest manner imaginable at every
possible moment made me hate him even more, especially when he
mentioned her in front of the other staff.  But the job paid well
and by hiring me he was doing a favor for my mom, which he never let
me forget at least a dozen times a day.

"And don't get any of that dressing on your shirt," he hissed.  "I
can't have the customers seeing you look like you just crawled in
off the boardwalk."

I cursed the fat bastard out under my breath, almost a bit too
loudly, and I was lucky he didn't hear me because he probably
would've broken my teeth.  At least he never hit my mother.

The only really good thing about the Lobster Claw, your typical
Jersey shore seafood grill, was that all the shoobies who came in
from Philadelphia usually liked to tip well, especially if their
waiter was a cute, strapping, young local lad.  And I had that part
down cold.  My mom used to tell me growing up that I would be quite
the looker, and I was just starting to make her proud in that
respect.  I'd just turned sixteen, and had shot up six inches, to a
healthy 5'11, in a little less than a year and I'm sure I had some
more growing to do.  Mom told me that my dad was over six feet.  My
blond hair I kept playfully unruly and since this working gig was
generally at night I had plenty of time to hang at the beach and tan
my skin to a smooth golden brown.

After I cleaned up the mess I'd made in the kitchen and collected
another tray of salads, I went back into the dining room and served
a large family of seven their first course.  On my way back I was
stopped by one of my other customers.

"Scott," the woman called, summoning me over.  I liked it when the
customers used my name instead of `sir,' or the occasional `boy,'
which really ticked me off.  The couple that had called me was very
attractive.  They were both in their mid-thirties I would guess, tan
and built.  She had long, peroxide blonde hair, which cascaded over
her shoulders, and her low cut blouse did virtually nothing to keep
her voluptuous breasts from spilling out onto the table.  He had
thick, brown hair and filled his navy golf shirt nicely as well, all
the collar buttons unbuttoned revealing a smooth, tan chest.

"Can I get you your check, ma'am?" I asked as I approached their
table.

"That would be great, Scott," she answered.  "But I have another
question for you first, and stop me if I'm being too forward.  Are
you working Friday?  We were wondering if you'd like to make some
extra cash?"

I wasn't at all taken aback by the question; a lot of the out-of-
towners assumed the local boys could help them with their boating
problems cheaper than a professional and I assumed these two were no
different.

I smiled coyly.  "I'm off on Friday.  And I'd always like to make
some extra cash," I answered.  "I'm not so good with some of the
older models, but any boat built in the past ten years I can pretty
much handle?"

"Oh, that's not what we need help with," she continued. "See, my
husband and I are new to the area, we just bought a house on the
bay.  We were throwing a little party on our new boat and we were
looking for someone to do a little serving.  Oh, it won't be
anything huge, just basically keeping glasses filled and pass around
a plate of hors d'oeuvres now and then."

"Oh, I don't think that I'd be the right person," I answered, now
totally taken aback since I hadn't been expected to be asked a
catering question.

"Nonsense," she replied.  "You'll be fine, and there'll be a cook
there to help you out.  Besides, it's just a few of my husband's
colleagues.  He's the new surgical resident at the hospital.  We're
just trying to make a good impression."

"I really don't know if I'm your best choice," I said.  "There are a
few guys here who've had catering experience, I can ask one of them
if they'd want..."

"We want you," the man said evenly, looking up from his plate and
bringing his gaze to meet mine.  I was startled.  It was the first
time he'd spoken to me.  His wife had even ordered for him.  I noted
that his voice was deep and very masculine.  It resonated through my
head and sent chills up my spine.  I don't know why, but I suddenly
found myself very attracted to him.  He seemed to ooze raw
sexuality.  We stared at each other intently.

I swallowed hard; my mouth had gone very dry all of a sudden.  And
when I did manage to speak it came out as more of a squeak.  "Um,
sure.  I'd, uh, love to."

"Great!" the woman said cheerfully, as she pulled a pen and business
card out of her purse.  "My name's Cynthia and this is Martin," she
said scrawling a few things on the back of the card.  "We'll expect
you around six.  Black pants, white shirt.  If you have a bow tie
that's great.  If you don't, it's not really a problem.  Like I
said, it's nothing too formal.  My number's on the front if you need
to contact me about anything."

She held out the card for me to take.  I stood silent, a bit
stupefied.  Cynthia cleared her throat and I was snapped out of my
reverie.  I took the card and slipped it into the breast pocket in
my shirt.

"Excellent!" she exclaimed, quite perkily.  "I also think we're done
here.  You can clear my plate, if you'd like."  She looked over at
her husband.  "Honey?  Are you finished?"

Her husband just glanced up at me, nodded, and brushed his hand
nonchalantly over his empty plate indicating silently that I was
allowed to clear his place.  In a daze I cleared off the table and
brought the couple their bill.  I was rewarded with a very
substantial tip as they left without actually saying goodbye.

That night, before I went to bed I looked at the business card that
the woman from the Lobster Claw had given me.  It read:

Cynthia Devereaux
C&T Collectibles
"Antiques and Americana"
1543 Boardwalk
(609) 231-8100

I flipped the card over and on the back, in beautiful feminine
handwriting was written "'The Angora Gay' Pier 4 @ 6pm -- Cindy".
Interesting name for a boat, I mused.  I put the card into my wallet
and changed for bed, falling asleep immediately.

A few days later I realized that I had no idea how much or even if I
was going to be paid for helping out at this boat party.  I pulled
the business card out and decided it might behoove me to call and
find out.  Yet I wasn't sure if that was rude or not.  I did want to
know, however.

I nervously dialed the telephone number on the card and as the phone
began to ring my palms began to sweat.  I don't know why I was so
scared of making a simple phone call.  Perhaps it was basic teenaged
fear.  Or maybe it was something else.  Cynthia and Martin seemed
nice enough but something about the whole situation didn't really
jive.

Someone picked up the phone on the fourth ring and was confronted
with a high, upbeat voice.  "Hello, C&T Collectibles, Cynthia
speaking.  How may I help you?"

I froze.  I don't know why, but I panicked.  I almost hung up the
phone right then.

"Hello?  Is anyone there?"

I cleared my throat and managed to speak.  "Um, Mrs. Devereaux?"

"Yes," Cynthia said.  "With whom am I speaking?"

"Um, this is, uh, Scott Bukowski.  We, uh, met at the, uh, Lobster
Claw, um, a few days ago, and . . ."

"Scott!"  Cynthia's voice perked up immediately upon recognition.
"How are you?  What can I do for you, hon?"

Her pleasant demeanor eased my mind, and I was able to talk more
easily.  "Well, I was just calling because, well, not to be rude or
anything, but we never really discussed, um ..."

"Payment?"

I blushed, even though she couldn't see me.  "Um, yeah."

She chuckled.  "No, it's not rude at all.  I'm sorry we forgot to
discuss it.  I should probably talk it over with Martin, but how
does $150 sound?  It'll be only about 5 or 6 hours of work really."

My jaw dropped.  One hundred and fifty dollars!  I did the math in
my head and that worked out to twenty-five bucks an hour!  For an
unskilled caterer!  I didn't know what to say.

"Um, Scott?  Is that ok?"

"Oh, yes, yes," I sputtered.  "Totally fine."

We ended the conversation with pleasantries and I finished off the
rest of my week, content that for a little night of serving I'd be
making more money than I usually made in a week at the Lobster Claw.

I arrived at Pier 4 promptly at six o'clock, dressed in a pair of
black slacks and a long-sleeved white cotton oxford.  It was a
little warm, but I knew when the sun went down on the bay it was
going to get chilly.

Cynthia greeted me warmly, wearing a light blue cotton sundress that
accentuated her slender features quite nicely.  I didn't see Martin
anywhere.  Cynthia led me down to the kitchenette where she
introduced me to Robert, a rather rotund cook, complete with his
white chef smock.  I was a tad bit disappointed he wasn't wearing
the hat.

I was given my instructions.  The guests would be arriving around
seven and my initial job was to make sure they all had enough
champagne.  And as Robert prepared various plates of hors d'oeuvres
I was to come out and serve them.

As it turned out I basically stood around with my hands behind my
back listening to doctors and their wives talk about drivel.  I
became very bored very quickly.  Cynthia and Martin let me have some
of the food while I was out of sight, and it was very good.  I even
stole a bit of champagne so by the end of the evening I was a bit
tipsy.  I suspected Martin knew because he kept giving me knowing
glances.  But the rest of the guests were too sloshed by that time
to notice that their sixteen-year-old steward was drunk.

There were about ten guests in total, which fit snugly on the deck
of the boat.  I kept brushing up against people and this slightly
frumpy middle-aged woman kept winking at me and pinching my ass,
making me very uncomfortable.  She reminded me a lot of my Aunt
Louise, only sketchier.

But around eleven o'clock the party was winding down, the guests
were satiated, and said their good-byes.  Cynthia let Robert leave
shortly afterwards and told me that I could go as well, but if I
wanted an extra fifty dollars I could stay and help cleanup some of
the mess.

A little drunk and completely baffled as to why she would offer me
fifty bucks to do what looked like twenty minutes worth of cleaning,
I eagerly agreed.

Martin and Cynthia stayed on deck to work on straightening the mess
and I remained below in the kitchen doing the dishes.  Just as I was
finishing up, Cynthia called me into her cabin.

She was sitting on her bed, clawing behind her at the zipper of her
dress.  "Scott, darling," she cooed, "Could you be a dear and help
me unzip this.  I need to get out of this awful thing.  It's
ridiculously uncomfortable."

I hesitated.  I'd helped my mother in and out of tricky clothing
before but never a stranger.  Shouldn't her husband be doing this
for her? I thought.

Cautiously I backed away from the bed.  "Um, let me get Mr.
Devereaux.  I'm sure he'd..."

"No, don't bother him.  He's having a cigar outside and he'll be
pissed if he's interrupted."

I shrugged my shoulders and walked over to the bed.  Carefully I
brushed her long blond hair over her tan shoulders and unzipped the
dress.  Cynthia let out a sigh and slouched back, the open dress
casually draped over her shoulders.

"Much better," she said and then gestured toward two empty champagne
flutes and an uncorked bottle of the bubbly on the nightstand.
"Scott, do be a darling and pour me a glass.  And pour one for
yourself if you'd like."

"Oh no, ma'am," I said politely, uncorking the bottle and pouring
her a glass.  "I shouldn't be drinking."

Cynthia eyed me suspiciously then rolled her eyes.  "Like you
weren't stealing sips every chance you got tonight," she said dryly.
I tried to stutter a response as my face turned three different
shades of red.  Cynthia laughed.  "Oh, I'm not mad at all, Scott.
Boys will be boys.  Have some champagne.  Kick off your shoes.
Relax.  You've done a good job."

I breathed a small sigh of relief, poured a second glass, and took a
seat on the bed next to Cynthia as I handed her the drink.  I
slipped off my shoes and sipped my beverage cautiously, afraid to
get drunker than I already was.  Young and naive, I had no idea what
was in store for me.

Cynthia and I stared at each other in silence for a moment.  I was
beginning to sweat, even though the night had cooled off a bit.
Shakily, I sipped at my champagne.

"Do I make you nervous?" Cynthia asked soothingly, smiling.

"Um."  I swallowed hard and stared at my knees.

"Because I shouldn't," she answered.  "You're a very charismatic
young man."  She lightly brushed a probably non-existent fleck of
lint from my left shoulder, but continued to softly stroke it.  I
fidgeted nervously.  "And cute, too."  She placed her hand under my
chin and raised my head to look her in the eye.  Softly, she stroked
my beardless cheek.  Then she traced her finger around my trembling
lips.  I started to breathe heavier.

All of a sudden one of her gentle caresses sent a disturbing chill
down my spine, and I shuttered, pulling away.  She dropped her hand,
looking slightly disappointed.  I needed to change the subject
quickly, so I pointed to a picture on the nightstand of very
beautiful young lady with wavy brown hair framing her face.  "Who's
that?" I asked.

Cynthia looked over at the picture and chuckled.  "That's me!" she
said cheerfully, and looked back into my face.  I was a bit
confused, considering her hair was straight and blonde.

Assessing the cause of my confusion she clarified; "When I got
together with Martin several years ago I dyed my hair.  He says he
likes it better this way."

"Gentlemen prefer blondes," I mumbled absentmindedly.

Cynthia smiled coyly, playing with her bleached hair.  "Are you a
gentleman?" she asked.  I swallowed hard.  She ignored the fact I
didn't answer her question and leaned in whispering, "Can I tell you
a secret, Scott?"  She reached up and began to caress my own unruly
golden locks.  "Ladies prefer blondes as well."

Continuing to stroke my hair, Cynthia leaned in and pressed her lips
against mine.  I held my breath.  I'd kissed a few girls before but
nothing like this.  Her lips were warm and powerful, devouring my
own in a steamy embrace.  Softly I felt her tongue attempt to wedge
itself between my lips, parting my mouth.  Gently she ran her tongue
over my teeth and slowly caressed the roof of my mouth.  I couldn't
help my notice that my penis had begun to respond to her advances,
even if the rest of my body remained somewhat reserved.

She pulled away and nudged me back.  I fell backwards, propping
myself up on my elbows, with my legs still dangling over the edge of
the bed.  Cynthia stood, positioning herself in front of me.  Her
dress slipped off of her shoulders and landed in a crumpled heap
around her ankles.  She had not been wearing a bra so her breasts
were bared, round and perky, with two large red nipples standing
erect.  Her stomach was flat and tanned.  Her hips were slender, and
the black silk low-rise panties she wore barely covered what my
horny teenaged mind was practically begging to see.

But I was nervous, not only because of my virginal naivete but
because Cynthia's husband was less than thirty feet away, on deck.
Slowly she walked towards me and told me to scoot back so that I was
lying completely on the bed.  Of course I quickly obliged.  Cynthia
then crawled onto the bed, my eyes riveted on her bouncing breasts,
the first pair of tits I'd seen up close and personal.  I was well
versed (or so I thought) in the female anatomy but I was quick to
discover that a few Penthouse pictorials didn't do a woman justice.

Cynthia straddled my waist and began to unbutton my shirt, exposing
my smooth, tan chest.  I still had some of my baby fat and while I
was by no means chiseled, I had the beginnings of some pecs and
biceps and tight, flat tummy.  Opening my shirt all the way, Cynthia
had gained access to my nipples and she twisted them between her
fingers.  I let out a sharp gasp, the first sounds I'd uttered since
she had made her first move.

She smiled slyly as she dove in, sucking on my neck, pulling at the
flesh with her teeth and lips, all the while continually tugging at
my nipples.  She began to lick her way down to my chest, alternating
between kissing, licking and sucking, until I felt her warm breath
on my now rock hard nipples.  I started to moan freely as she bit
and sucked.  Instinctively I placed my hands on her head and ran my
fingers through her thick, blonde hair.'

Her supple breasts pressed into my flesh and her long hair tickled
my bare skin as she kissed her way down to my tummy.  Her tongue
flicked in and out of my navel, which caused me to giggle.  I felt
her begin to unbuckle my belt and unzip my pants.  My teenaged cock
was straining to get out, and I obediently lifted my hips so she
could slide my pants down.

In one fell swoop she had my pants and boxers around my ankles and
my hard cock leapt free.  She ran her fingers through my blond bush
and her warm breath on my dick made it twitch in anticipation.  My
friends and I liked to talk about all of the experience we'd had and
I'd heard about blowjobs before.  Hell, I'd even seen them one time
on this porno flick a few of us had snagged from my friend's older
brother.  But I'd never had one before.

Cynthia opened her mouth and went in for the kill.  And I panicked.
Quickly I pushed her head away from my crotch.  "Mrs. Devereaux," I
muttered, "I don't think that..."

"Nonsense," she said, interrupting me.  "You can't show my your
beautiful cock and not let me at least get a taste."

I swallowed hard.  "But, it's just that..."

"Awww.  Am I your first?"  I nodded, meekly.  "Oh, that's a shame.
A shame that I'm going to have you ruin you for any other woman
you're ever going to be with."  And before I had time to respond, or
even register what she had said, her mouth had enveloped my dick.

And I was suddenly hurtled headfirst into heaven.  Slowly she slide
her warm, wet mouth up and down, making my six-inch boy-cock nice
and slick.  With one hand she softly massaged my ball sack, while
the other hand gently stroked my bare thigh.

With each upward stroke, Cynthia's tongue flicked back and forth
across my tender head before thrusting her mouth back over it.  She
easily swallowed it all down to the base.  But the suction she was
creating, combined with the gentle ball-play was driving me crazy.
I started bucking beneath her.  She had only been going down on me
for a few minutes before I felt the familiar tingling sensation at
the base of my penis and in my balls.

"Oh, fuck," I moaned.  "I can't -- I mean, I'm not -- I mean -- OH
FUCK!"  I tried to stifle a scream as I came like I'd never come
before.  Torrents of sweet, sticky boyjuice shot out of my cock into
Cynthia's awaiting mouth.  My toes curled, my fingers clutched
feverishly at the sheets, and every muscle in my body spasmed as
what seemed like gallons of cum flowed from my aching balls.  She
slowly milked every last drop, and as my orgasm subsided, my body
relaxed and I lay back on the bed, eyes closed and in utter,
unimaginable bliss.

Cynthia removed her mouth from my dick as I regained my breath.
"Ok," I heard her say, "My turn."

I slowly opened my eyes, no longer a virgin and thirsty for more.
Cynthia had removed her panties and she was straddling my crotch,
pressing her neatly trimmed bush into my quickly rehardening penis,
and advantage of youth that I was soon to discover.

And then my heart skipped a beat and half when I saw that Martin was
standing in the doorway, leaning against the door jam, his arms
folded across his chest.  I panicked and pushed Cynthia off me,
scrambling to pull up my pants and trying to sputter out an
explanation.

"Don't stop on my account," he said wryly.  I froze and stared
blankly at him.  He shrugged his shoulders.  "From the looks of
things you really seem to be enjoying yourself.  And I don't think
my wife's come yet.  One thing you need to learn, son, is that it's
just downright rude to leave a woman unsatisfied once you've shot
your load."

Cynthia nodded in agreement.  "Good advice, Marty.  He definitely
needs to know that.  And the sooner the better."  She turned back to
face me and started stroking my cock, now totally limp from fear.

I pushed her hand away.  I was blushing furiously and wanted to cry.
I had no idea what was going on and was actually pretty scared.

Martin glowered at me.  "So, are you going to fuck her or not?"

I looked back and forth from husband to wife.  Martin was staring at
me, his face stony, showing no emotion.  Cynthia had a look of
bemusement on her face, sitting next to me on the bed, stark naked.
She had returned to stroking my cock.  "I don't think that..."

"Oh, are you gun-shy?" Martin asked.  "Because if you are I could
leave the room.  Although I'd much rather watch."  Suddenly, he
smiled.  "But it looks like you're not all that shy after all."  I
looked down at my crotch; my cock was indeed steadily growing.
Somehow, I was getting turned on by this bizarre, albeit admittedly
hot, situation.

"I knew it wouldn't take much, Marty."  Once again Cynthia straddled
my midsection, my hard cock rubbing against her moist folds.  I
suddenly hit me how amazing this was.  I was going to have my first
fuck.  And it wasn't going to be with some inexperienced schoolgirl
who didn't know her ass from her elbow.  It was going to be from a
woman who knew what the hell she was doing, in fact had proven it by
one hell of a blowjob.  And it was going to be in front of her
husband!

"No, Cindy," Martin said.  "On your back.  I want to watch his cute
little ass as he plows your cunt."

Cynthia obediently rolled off me and onto her back.  "You're the
boss," she said.  "C'mere, tiger," she said to me, spreading her
legs wide.  She seductively stroked the insides of her smooth thighs
and around her moist pussy.  "I want to feel you all the way inside
me."

My heart rate quickened.  There was no going back now.  I kicked off
my pants and shorts and slid between her legs.  She grasped my cock
and guided me inside.  God, her cunt felt better on my dick than her
mouth did.  Once I was all the way in, she drew me closer to her.  I
propped myself above her with my hands, looking into her face, which
was aglow with pleasure.  She placed her soft hands on my hips,
wrapped her legs around my waist tightly, and whispered seductively,
"Fuck me, Scott."

She didn't have to ask twice.  I started to slowly slide my dick in
and out of her moist folds.  With each thrust I felt her muscles
contract and squeeze gently on my cock.  Each stroke was faster than
the next until I had worked up to a nice, steady rhythm.  Cynthia
followed suit and matched her thrusts with mine.  Having just come,
I wasn't feeling the same urgency I had when she had given me the
blowjob and I was able to enjoy this more.

"Oh, that's so fucking hot."  I was startled by Martin's talking.  I
had forgotten that he was in the room.  But I didn't really pay him
any mind.  I was more enthralled by Cynthia's moaning, and by the
fact that I was having my first fuck.

"Damn, you've got a nice ass," I heard him say.  "Smooth and round
and yummy."  And then I felt a slap.  I whipped my head around and
saw Martin standing over us.  He had removed his shirt, revealing a
chiseled chest, rock-hard red nipples and massive pecs.  His skin
was dark and tan.

"That's right, boy, keep fucking her."  Slap.  "Keep fucking my
wife."  He slapped me a few more times.  They were more playful than
anything else, but still stung a bit.  He stopped slapping and
started to massage my smooth globes with his hand.  "Mmmmm," he
moaned, "Damn fine ass."

Cynthia was groaning and panting harder as she bucked and writhed
beneath me.  "Play with her breasts," Martin breathed in my ear.  He
had pressed up against me, continually rubbing his hand all over my
ass, sliding his fingers up and down my crack.  Every now and then
he'd tickle my hole.  I had a vague idea of what he wanted to do but
at that point my mind wasn't willing to accept it.  Instead, I
followed his orders and, keeping myself propped up with one hand,
began to knead one of Cynthia's breasts with the other.  She let out
a sharp moan when my hand touched her erect nipple and she thrust
her hips hard into my crotch, squeezing my cock tighter and making
my body shiver.

"That's it, Scott," Martin whispered huskily, "fuck my wife."  He
had moistened his fingers and was now paying very close attention to
my hole.  "Fuck her nice and good."  My hole was twitching each time
he stroked it, wiggling the tip of his forefinger inside slightly.
"Fuck her with you beautiful teenaged meat."  His finger was
lingering a dangerously long time at the entrance to my chute.
Dangerously.  He licked at my ear lobe.  "FUCK HER!"  And he shoved
his finger in, all the way passed the second knuckle.

I let out a scream, a scream of pain mixed with pleasure mixed with
fear mixed with desire.  Martin began to thrust his finger in and
out of my hole, matching the rhythm his wife and I were keeping up.
He covered my ear with his mouth, the tip of his tongue exploring
the inside, tickling me, his five o'clock shadow scratching the side
of my face.  My senses were being overloaded, by the moist cunt
surrounding my dick, by the supple breast in my hand, the large
rough finger of a man (a man!) pumping in and out of my ass, and the
rough oral manipulations of my ear and neck.

Soon Martin had a second finger going inside me, my tight, virgin
asshole being stretched farther than it had ever been before, the
pain searing through my loins.  But every now and then his fingertip
would hit something inside of me that would turn that pain into an
intense euphoria.  Each time that would happen I cried out.

Out of nowhere, Cynthia took her hands off my hips and grabbed both
my nipples between her fingertips.  She pressed down and twisted.
Hard.  I screamed.  But my cock didn't soften and I didn't slow my
fucking.  I was being abused and pleasured simultaneously by this
spectacular couple.  My breathing ragged and rapid, I tried to
concentrate on just one of the sensations I was feeling, but
couldn't.  Everything was just too much.

Martin removed his fingers from my ass and I temporarily I felt
empty.  But I was thankful for the opportunity to focus on fucking
his voluptuous wife.  Yet that moment didn't last very long.  I soon
felt his hands on my sides, rough and callused and manly.  And
something warm and supple was poking at my empty hole.  I may have
been only sixteen and naive, but I knew what was coming.  I had yet
to see his dick, but judging from the rest of him it was probably
pretty massive.  And even if it weren't, I was certain it was bigger
than his fingers.

I felt his chest press against my back as he leaned in and placed
his mouth to my ear.  "Well, Scott, are you ready?"

"Ready?" I asked, knowing full well what he meant.  "For?"  I hoped
to God it wasn't what I thought, but I was pretty positive.  All the
signs were there.

"Well, my wife got to take one of your cherries," he said, "I think
it's only fair that I get to take the other."  He rubbed the head of
his dick up and down my crack, positioning it at the entrance to my
chute.  "That is, you still have your cherry to give, don't you?
Ever been fucked by a man before?"

"No," I managed to squeak out.  I was now terrified.  I'd never had
sex with a man before.  Well, I'd never had sex with a woman before
either. I wasn't sure I wanted to be fucked.  I needed time to think
about it.  But it was obvious I wasn't getting the choice.

"Well, I'll be honest, kid," Martin said.  "I tried to loosen you
up, but this is probably going to hurt like a motherfucker."  And
then he impaled me on his cock.

And I screamed like I'd never screamed before.  I took him to the
hilt, his hairy thighs pressing against my asscheeks.  I felt as
though I was being torn in two.  Slowly he slid out and I thought,
briefly, I would get some relief.  But he thrust almost immediately
back in.  But this time he grazed my prostate and since my ass was
just beginning to get used to feeling filled, a twinge of pleasure
surged through my loins.  Cynthia continued to fuck my cock while
her husband plowed my ass, twisting and pulling on my tortured
nipples the entire time.

And then I came.  Oh fuck, did I come!  My whole body became wracked
with orgasmic bliss.  I convulsed and spasmed and swore as I shot my
second load of the evening, this time into Cynthia's tight, dripping
folds.

As my dick unleashed spurt after spurt of my seed into her, Cynthia
started convulsing too.  "Oh God, oh God oh my fucking God!" she
cried, interspersed with shrieks of lust.  She squeezed my nipples
tighter and I swore she was going to rip them off.  But I couldn't
care, because her cunt was clamped down around my already pulsating
cock.

Still tightly gripping my nipples, Cynthia pulled me into her.  I
fell over, pressing my chest into her breasts.  She covered my mouth
with hers and began to feverishly probe the inside with her tongue
while she orgasmed.

As we both fell into the post-orgasmic calm that I became yet again
acutely aware of Martin fucking me up the ass.  He continued to
pump, faster and faster, his heavy balls smacking the underside of
my ass with each thrust.

"Goddamn, you're tight, kid," he said as he fucked me mercilessly.
I was again and again overcome with jolts of intense pleasure as his
fat cockhead stroked my prostate.  But with my own dick spent, I was
also well aware of the pain.  After a few minutes of his attacking
my ass, he yanked me off of his wife, and pulled out of my ass with
a plop.  I breathed easy with relief, relief that was to be very
short lived.

"Roll over," he barked.  "I want to see your face while I fuck you."
Cynthia slid out from under me as Martin flipped me over onto my
back.  He grabbed my ankles and raised them above my head.  I stared
into his face.  He had a look of determination, a look of lust.

He placed my legs on his shoulders, and readied his cock for the
onslaught.  I got my first glimpse of it.  It was huge.  Long and
thick, and glistening with lube and sweat and God only knows what
else.  I had little time to look at it, however, because no sooner
had Martin gotten it into position then he was fucking me again,
harder and faster than he had before.

"You like this, don't you?" he said, sweat pouring down his face.
And I had to admit that I did like it.  "You like me fucking your
ass, ramming my fat cock into your tight hole.  And goddamn you're
tight!  Tell me how much you like it, kid.  Tell me!"

"I like it," I managed to groan, as he continued to fuck my ass raw.

"Of course you do," he answered.  "Your dick doesn't lie."  He gave
my cock a tug, and goddamn if it wasn't hard yet again.  "Tell me to
fuck you."

"Fuck me," I cried, "Oh God, fuck me!"  I was shocked at how readily
the words came out, how much I wanted this big, strong man to fuck
me.  I almost wanted him to fuck me more than I had wanted to fuck
his wife.  No, let me be honest.  I did want him to fuck me more
than I wanted to fuck his wife.

"Look at him, Cindy," he said.  "Look at this beautiful blond boy
getting fucked.  Getting fucked and loving every second of it."  He
gave my cock another tug and I shuddered again.  "Want to help him
out a bit here, Cindy?  Just don't block his face.  I want to see
his pouty little lips when I unload in his ass."

I glanced over at Cynthia.  Her long, luscious hair was disheveled
and her makeup was a mess.  But her breasts looked more voluptuous
and more suckable than ever and I was momentarily aware that I
hadn't gotten the chance to suck on them yet.  But I was snapped
from my reverie by Martin redoubling his efforts of destroying my
ass.  It was at that moment that Cynthia began to furiously jack me
off.

Yet again I was sent into sensory overload.  My balls began to
tighten and I was surprised at how quickly I was ready to come
again.  It was as if Martin was fucking the cum out of me.

"Get ready, boy," he said, his face contorting with strained
pleasure.  "I don't think I can hold out much longer."  With that he
began to fuck me even harder and faster, if that was possible.  Each
thrust pushed me closer and closer to the top of the bed, until my
head hit the headboard.  I pressed my hands against the board to
brace myself.

All of a sudden Martin let out a strangled cry and stopped
thrusting, driving his cock as deep into my ass as he could.  He
started cursing and crying.  I felt his dick pulsing inside me,
shooting his thick creamy load deep into my virgin ass.  His orgasm
raked across my prostate, sending waves of pleasure up my spine.  I
couldn't take it anymore either.  Martin's orgasm, combined with
Cynthia's jacking, made me shoot my third load.  Spurt upon spurt of
sweet, sticky teenaged cum splattered across my body.  The first
shot hit my chin and neck.  The second and third went on my chest
and the rest spattered and dribbled on my stomach and cock, also
coating Cynthia's hand.

When Martin was finished he pulled out and collapsed backwards.  I
lay there panting yet again.  Cynthia licked my cum off her hands
and began to lap up what had spilled onto my smooth tummy and chest.

"Save some for me," I head Martin say.  Cynthia just smiled and sat
back as Martin crawled forward and licked the cum from my face and
neck.  He finished by pressing his lips over mine and prying open my
mouth with his tongue.  Briefly, our tongues mingled, and I tasted
my cum.

Our kiss didn't last long, however.  Martin sat back on his haunches
and I got my first good look at his naked form.  He was built as
perfect as his wife, strong muscled thighs, wide shoulders that
tapered to a slim waist.  His cock was thick and heavy, even when
flaccid, sitting amid a thick patch of dark brown pubic hair.  He
tweaked my right nipple, which was terribly sore.  I winced.  "Enjoy
yourself?" he asked.

I nodded meekly.  I did enjoy myself.  My mind was a bit muddled.
Sure, my alcohol buzz had worn off, but I was flying high.  Along
with being viciously confused.  Cynthia brushed some of my hair out
of my eyes and stroked the side of my face.

"You're a very beautiful boy, do you know that?" she asked.

"My mother says so," I said absentmindedly.

"She's a smart woman," she replied.

Martin was stroking my leg.  "You can stay the night, if you'd
like."

"It's getting late," I said.  "Maybe I should go home."  I sat up
and glanced around trying to locate my clothes.

"If that's what you want.  Looking for these?"  Cynthia tossed me my
boxer shorts, smiling.  Slowly I put them on.  I found the rest of
my clothes and dressed in silence.  Cynthia and Martin remained
naked on the bed.

I stood in the doorway and said goodbye.

"Thanks for a wonderful evening," Martin said.  "You did a very good
job.  Oh, wait, I almost forgot."  He went to the dresser and
returned with two one-hundred-dollar bills.  "That's $150 plus fifty
more for helping clean up, as promised."

"Thanks," I said and stuffed the bills into my pocket.

"Oh, and Scott? You're going to a heart-breaker, I can tell.  But
there are a lot of women, and men, out there that are going to find
you simply too irresistible to let pass.  Be careful, will you?"  He
ran his hand through my golden hair.

I smiled coyly.  "Gentlemen do prefer blondes, don't they?"

Both he and Cynthia laughed.  I gave them both a wink and climbed up
the stairs into the night air, filled with tons of questions and yet
at the same time, immensely satisfied.

And I had a feeling this was only the beginning.



The End.


Marc,
miniegg69@hotmail.com

All questions and comments welcome (i.e. I like mail).

This had been a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to persons living
or dead is purely intentional.  "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes" is a
copyright of the author and my not be used, copied, quoted, recited,
performed, sung, chanted, printed out and shredded for kitty litter,
buried out in the back yard in soft peat for three months, or used
to wipe your ass without the express written consent of
aforementioned author.  However, feel free to jerk off at will.