Date: Sat, 1 Nov 2014 19:55:02 -0700
From: ian wylde <wyldenights@yahoo.com>
Subject: The Erotic Adventures of Jack, the Omni-Sexual Detective, Installent 6
The obligatory disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. As such, all
characters are figments of the author's twisted and deliciously dirty mind.
Any resemblance to actual people is strictly an unintentional coincidence.
If you are under eighteen or are offended by things of a decidedly sexual
nature, you shouldn"t be reading this. For those under eighteen,
experience has taught me, as it will teach you, that life will mess with
your mind enough after you reach adulthood. You really don't need a head
start.
A Brief Note for the Continuing Reader: This next part has a lot of
charactor stuff in it, mainly concerning the Good Reverend. It is
important, in fact, essential for the progress of the story. Sadly,
however, there isn't a whole lot of sex. Since I am aware that many (if
not most) of you are reading this for its masturbatory possibilities, I
have included a totally unconnected little story at the end of this
installment. It has nothing whatsoever to do the ongoing Adventures, but I
believe in rewarding loyalty. Enjoy!
Now, without further delay, back to the story!
11
Hardon at the Clinic
The next afternoon, following my American History class, where I spent most
of my time playing
Let's-See-How-Many-Fingers-I-Can-Get-in-There-Before-You-Squeal with a
delectable little sophomore whose name I can't recall at the moment, I sat
in the waiting room of the local clinic, awaiting the results of my blood
test. Trepidation sat with me. Understandable though this may be, it did
not help to have a dirty mind looping sloppy wet blowjobs within my frontal
lobe.
Serious business took place there, people's lives and sexuality and the
future propagation of the human race hung in the balance. Needing a copy
of Mother Jones to conceal the bulge in my trousers from the potentially
judgmental eyes of my fellow waiters did not keep with the serious nature
of the establishment in which I waited. I should have been ashamed of
myself, but I wasn't.
Instead, my perverse mind busied itself with images of phallic symbols and
mushroom heads and the taste and feel of hardened flesh between my moist
lips. There could be no denying it: I had an oral fixation. Ever since
the early feverish days of kissing Karen Swenson while hiding from her
father in the alley behind her house, my mouth had craved sensation.
Freudian psychoanalysts could make careers of writing about the
disappearance of my mother and the premature ripping away of the
psychological tit. It changed nothing, and neither did the ongoing
physical exploration of my burgeoning cocksucking talents, nor my desire to
carry it onward. And so, as I waited to discover whether or not I had
contracted some horrible disease, a phantasmagorical, multi-orgasmic,
cum-splattered suck-fest played over and over again inside my head, sending
blood and electrons to my pulsating vas deferens.
??
A dirty mind may be a terrible thing to waste, but did it have to rear its
ugly head in the middle of a VD clinic waiting room?
??
I attempted the Hillary Clinton gambit with no success. This might have
had something to do with the large cock my imagination kept putting in her
mouth (or possibly the lingering aroma of sophomore and yes I washed
my hands after) but I could be wrong. One can never tell about such
things, and in any event, it had failed, and so I chose instead to
concentrate on the dιcor of my surroundings.
The Johnstone Clinic had been decorated with understated taste and
elegance. Okay... That's bullshit. The place looked like one of Abby
Hoffman's old crash pads. Rather than the typical vision-neutral tones
ordinarily found in medical offices, this one appeared to have been the
victim of a radical graffiti artist. Posters and painted slogans adorned
the multi-colored tie-died walls: Choice is Your Constitutional Right;
Censorship and Discrimination The Choice of the Stupid and Ignorant;
If You Haven't Pissed off a Conservative Today, You're Not Trying, along
with safe-sex axioms such as: Don't be Stupid, Use a Condom.
Shocking though this may be to accept, the clinic had been the sight of
numerous protests and anonymous bomb threats. The fact these remained only
threats may have had something to do with the presence of the rather large
(and reportedly armed) individual named Bob who stationed himself outside
the front door during operating hours. This of course is speculation. I
could be mistaken.
None of which helped with either the pressure inside my pants or the
inappropriate nature of a public erection. Something needed to be done.
As if proving the ironic nature of Life, television the soul-sucking
idiot box I generally detested provided the answer.
In one corner, beneath a blood-red banner extolling viewers to "Know Thy
Enemy," the local Conservative network shoved its biased propaganda down
the willing throats of its ignorant demographic, thus confirming the
not-unwise belief in the radical liberal leanings of the Clinic's
proprietors.
At the moment, the screen showed a properly coiffed and thoroughly rectal
Talking Head standing outside the City Hall, apparently awaiting the start
of a news conference. The person in question bore a physical resemblance
to a woman, but this distinction hardly mattered. Everyone involved with
the local bullshit factory carried the same uniform cookie-cutter-ness
required by a belief in their own moral superiority.
If they were right then everyone else was wrong, and how could one tell the
wrong from the right unless the right all looked (and talked and acted) the
same? This, in any case, appeared to be the edict from up on high to the
Human Resources personnel responsible for hiring on-screen talent.
But none of this helped with either the throbbing problem between my legs
or the self-made porno movie playing across the widescreen of my brain. I
needed something drastic, something cold and ugly and not-at-all erotic.
Again, television provided the answer.
Through the muffled (but not silent) tones of the broadcast, I could
discern the beginning of the press conference. Background chatter ceased
and the clicking and clacking of photographic shutters rose to a cacophony
as no less a personage than the Mayor of our fair community took the stand.
He shuffled the papers of his speech like a deck of Bicycle cards and
smiled his best politician's smile for the cameras as the rat-tat-tat of
photographers began to ebb and die like the waters of the Columbia River
Bar at slack tide. All stood in readiness, waiting for the breaking news
as an expectant father (or a horny bastard who'd engaged in less-than wise
anonymous sex) might wait for results in a medical office quite like the
one in which I now sat watching out of desperation the
about-to-be televised malarkey-fest.
It started thusly: "My friends," the Mayor opened, utilizing the tried-and
true greeting of politicos everywhere, "Our Community has long been known
for its permissive attitudes. We were the first city of our size to offer
free AIDS testing," he proffered an example which the receipt for
one-hundred twenty-five dollars in my wallet might justifiably call a liar.
"We have cared for the Homeless," (in cockroach-infested shelters), "We
have seen to the needs of the Addicted," (perhaps because the Mayor's own
wife had been hooked on pain killers and Peppermint Schnapps for the past
twelve years), "And we have embraced the Gay Community and the annual Pride
Parade," (amidst a Mount St. Helens of bureaucratic paperwork, permits,
fees and the requirement for privately-funded event security).
Having trumpeted the Good much like the person who says "He's a great
guy," right before ripping into some poor, unfortunate and not-present
individual, he set his mirror-practiced expression into a mask of serious
solemnity and launched into the Bad.
"But this attitude has allowed an undesirable undercurrent to grow and
threaten our city and our families and the welfare of our children," he
ripped, playing the "It's for the children" card, as lying sack of shit
pseudo-statesmen who have proven time and time again that they couldn't
care less for your kids if they were so many of the afore-mentioned roaches
always seem to do whenever faced with a hard-sell idea. And like a sugar
pill to a hypochondriac, the collective societal We, the People have bought
it hook, line, and politically correct sinker.
And from all indications, this time proved to be no exception as the
collected City Hall crowd broke into a resounding cheer as he finished his
public pronouncement with a "NO MORE" flourish.
And then, having declared the problem and having placed the unstated, yet
certain blame squarely upon those enlightened souls with liberal views of
how we should treat each other, His Honor performed the obligatory
political two-step and passed the baton of actual legislation away from
himself and his responsibility and toward the Conservative-dominated City
Council. "I am proud and honored to present the Good Reverend Artemis
Collingswood."
And there, upon the stage, arrived the cure for my trouser problem in the
ironic form of the very person who'd played a significant role in creating
it: the distinguished gentleman who had so recently cum in my mouth.
12
Cautionary Tale of a Hypocritical Bastard
AUTHOR'S WARNING: The following description of my principal opponent in
this tale of hypocracy and moral turpitude and sloppy wet blowjobs should
be taken with a grain of salt. Some of it of course is fact, but no small
amount is pure supposition, colored by my distinct dislike for the useless
piece of shit.
They say writers are supposed to remain objective. I suppose that's all
fine and good when discussing biochemistry or animal husbandry or the inner
workings of the internal combustion engine. People, life, and most
particularly sexual relations are decidedly subjective. Masters and Johnson
notwithstanding, attempting to remain dispassionate when discussing the
mating rituals of human beings is quite a bit of like showering with your
clothes on.
In any event:
The Right Reverend Artemis Collingswood was born in 1952 to (presumably) a
motherand a father in some backwards-ass country-fuck town in the Midwest.
I actually have no idea where he was born and could care less, but the date
is correct, as (I believe) is the general location within the Bible Belt.
The fact of the matter is: I just like the idea of his being a
backwards-ass country-fuck, which should in no way be construed as a
condemnation or pejorative statement concerning the good and kind and most
importantly human people who hail from either the "country" or the Midwest.
It should only be construed as a condemnation and pejorative statement
about him.
Grain of salt.
His early academic career could best be described as parochial, in that he
attended a series of religion-based elementary, primary and secondary
schools prior to matriculating to the University of Who-Gives-A-Rat's-Ass
in 1970, where he majored in religious studies and minored in political
science. Achieving his Master of Fine Arts degree in 1976, he became
ordained as a Baptist minister this same year, and got involved with a
certain church group out of Topeka, Kansas, who would later become famous
for creating the ever-so enlightened website "God Hates Fags."
That this had little or nothing to do with the teachings of Jesus Christ
(you know, the guy they named the religion after) and his philosophy of
tolerance, was, I am sure, an accident. They didn't mean to go in diametric
opposition to what the man from Nazareth had preached. They didn't intend
to bypass Jesus' edict to Judge not, lest ye be judged. I'm sure this
could be passed off as a simple oversight - a blooper, if you will; an
ecumenical faux pas.
Could've happened to anybody, right?
Be that as it may, the ecclesiastical hate and ignorance propounded by this
church had apparently been insufficient to meet the Good Reverend's needs,
and so he moved on in 1985, and proceeded to drift from one psycho wing-nut
religious order to another, until finally discovering what the author Tom
Robbins has called the politics of the Divine in the little town of
Anaheim, California.
The nature of politics - its point, its purpose - is not to better serve
the people. It is, quite simply, the acquisition and maintenance of power.
Consider, for a moment, the constituency our elected representatives
actually represent. Is it average people? Or is it the Special Interests
and lobbyists and big money donors who help keep them in office and in
power? The answer, I would submit, is obvious.
The politics of the Divine, then, is the use of religion to acquire and
maintain political power. This is an old, old, old, old story. It is
possible a case could be made to suggest the history of the Christian
Church is also the history of the politics of the Divine, but this,
perhaps, would be taking things a bit far afield from our tale of
questionable morality and sloppy wet blowjobs.
Nestled in the heart of Orange County, the California bastion of
Conservatism, Anaheim proved to be an excellent training ground for the
young, impressionable and ambitious Artemis Collingswood, providing him
with both the knowledge to bring his ambitions to life and the political
contacts to help make it happen. And although not the first place he'd
ever explored his latent homosexuality, it was the first place he got
caught doing it.
This information didn't come out until much later, having been handily
covered up by some of those political contacts. And like (though far less
extreme than) John Wayne Gacy and the shenanigans he got up to in Iowa
before moving to Illinois and starting his little body farm in the
crawlspace beneath his house, had it been made public, what happened later
might have been avoided. Such "what-ifs" are pointless, however.
What happened was this: On October 22nd, 1991, Reverend Collingswood, then
an up-and-coming politico with not-unrealistic designs on the California
State Legislature, picked up a young man named Charles Goodenow at a bus
station in a section of town known for its homosexual prostitution. They
went to a nondescript, out-of-the-way hotel and proceeded to have sex.
Up to this point, everything about the scenario was just peachy, as far as
I am concerned. The guy wanted to have sex with a man, decided he would
pay for the pleasure, a transaction was made, and a reportedly good time
was had by all - just good, clean, thoroughly gay American fun. But then
Mister Goodenow (from all later indications, a greedy little prick) decided
to open his mouth.
It seems he wanted money; specifically, money from the Good Reverend for
the service of keeping his mouth shut in the future. Collingswood, perhaps
seeing his aspirations fly away on gossamer and sequined and politically
destructive wings, paid him.
It should have ended there. It did not.
Two weeks later, Chucky decided he needed a hot tub for his bungalow and so
he went to his old pal, Artemis for funding.
The tit, however, had run dry.
Three days after that, when Mister Goodenow awoke from his coma in a
strange hospital bed, he began to sing like a Cher impersonator.
Unfortunately for him, the person to whom he performed his aria of alleged
aggravated battery happened to be an equally ambitious Assistant District
Attorney and friend of the person accused of beating the shit out of the
greedy little bastard. No charges were filed against Reverend Artemis
Collingswood.
The fact Charles Goodenow was shortly thereafter arrested for prostitution
and possession of narcotics he claimed were not his, and subsequently
sentenced to a twelve-to-twenty-five-year prison term must, I'm sure, be
another one of those coincidental incidents.
I am in no way, shape, or form condoning what Charlie did. If he wanted to
sell his body, fine. Most of us do, in one way or another. A professional
athlete sells his athletic ability; musicians, artists, actors and (dare I
say) writers sell their talent; soldiers, firefighters and police officers
sell the potentiality of their lives; to suggest models sell their bodies
is like saying birds fly or the sky is blue. But to sell information about
a moment of what should have been nothing but pleasure was, I think,
reprehensible.
Should he have been beaten into a coma? No. Should he have been (in all
probability) framed and sent to prison? Doubtful. Okay I'm hedging on
that one. Point being, he deserved a penalty. What he got was admittedly
extreme and probably unjustifiable, which brings us back to the Good
Reverend.
Old Artie, from all indications, vowed he would never again be put in such
a position.
Please note, this says nothing about him never again having sexual
relations with another man; it simply suggests he would never be caught
doing it, or if he were would maintain sufficient political cover to make
it all go away. His preferred method for executing this regimen of guilt-
free (or at the very least plausibly deniable) gay sex was to initiate a
tried and tested, historically precedent procedure of blaming the cause of
his temptation, rather than his inability to control his libido and keep
his cylindrical traitor in check.
Since Biblical times, when male dominated society suppressed the Goddess
and placed the female of the species firmly beneath their societal thumbs,
women have taken the blame for men's inability to control their urges. The
concept of Original Sin places the entire mantle of responsibility for all
the evils of the world squarely on the shoulders of the half of the
population who, historically, has had no control over it.
Eve - that little slut - screwed up and disobeyed God (a masculine figure,
if ever there was one) there in the Garden with the snake and the apple;
and poor, dumb, Adam, with his previously innocent penis, allowed himself
to be duped by the brazen hussy, and so found himself - through no fault of
his own - kicked out into the Bad Old World right square on hisblameless
keester. That this shifted responsibility from those who had taken charge
and dropped it at the feet (so sore and tired from being in the kitchen
barefoot, pregnant, and rattling those pots and pans) of those who had no
control was, once again, pure coincidence.
Funny how it keeps happening.
The problem with this scenario in regard to the Good Reverend was that
since gay male sex indicates the absence of women, it leaves no room for
the historically convenient patsy. Luckily for our dear friend Artemis,
however, our Western penchant for slapping labels on pretty much everything
provided him with the necessary scapegoat: those pesky homosexuals.
You see, it wasn't that Artie was gay - after all, he had a wife and three
children by the time he enters our tale of woe and strange sucking noises.
It's that those damned homos, those fags, those rump-ranger butt-pirates,
with their cute bottoms and pretty mouths and flaunted sexuality caught him
at a vulnerable moment and manipulated the situation, leaving poor,
unfortunate, blameless Artemis Collingswood unable to resist the
temptation. It was all their fault.
It is of course (and again) coincidental that these vulnerable moments kept
happening every few days. Damn the luck! And damn the gay people!
And since it was all their fault, and since the Right Reverend Artemis
Collingswood was nothing, if not civic-minded, he decided to devote his
life to eradicating the source of his temptation so that those other poor,
unfortunate (and male) citizens in similar dire straits would never have to
face the same dilemma.
Naturally, of course, he did this on the Q-T, the down- low, the hush-hush,
and the discretion-is-the-better-part-of-valor; because true charity and
civic-mindedness are to be performed with discretion and anonymity, never
trumpeting one's own accomplishments, unless doing so would allow a person
of humble and unselfish nature to achieve and maintain elected office, so
that said person could continue the Good Work.
This posed a problem - a bit of a sticky-wicket, as it were because no
entirely male political constituency existed. At least half (and in many
places, more than half) of the voting population had ovaries, rather than
testicles, and so focusing on male homosexuality to the exclusion of all
else, simply would not do. Since sex (in his and his ilk's twisted minds)
was the problem, the culprit, the cause, and the smoking gun at the center
of our societal ills, sex itself would need to be addressed. But not just
any sex.
Propagation of the species needed to be maintained, after all, provided it
could be restricted to the white bread, non-offensive and thoroughly
vanilla missionary variety. All other forms would need to be stamped out,
crushed, and shoved back into the foul pits of Hell from whence they came.
And so Reverend Artemis Collingswood had himself a genuine, Capital-P
Purpose, a calling, a vocation; he was on a mission from God.
Unfortunately for him (and perhaps fortunately for the good people of
Anaheim) the Goodenow incident had been a bit too public. And so, while he
had not been charged, his aspirations in the area were pretty much
toast. He headed north, which is where he enters and we continue Our Story.
13
Municipal Moral Codes
As I sat there with shocked and open (and formerly blowjob-giving) orifice,
the man whose cum I'd tasted launched into an attack upon the people who,
according to him and his narrow-minded, sexually-repressed, morally
superior friends, would be the very sort to allow the wet and orgasmic
expulsion of bodily fluids into willing oral cavities to which he, himself
had been privy just the previous night. The bald-faced audacity of it
stunned me into flaccid repose, proving that silver linings come in all
shapes and sizes and hypocritical viewpoints.
"Fellow citizens," he greeted, using the alternate version of the standard
politico hello, "A deviant element has been allowed to flourish in our
city. Pornography and prostitution and homosexual activity and drag queens
and gay bars have filled our streets and pushed their filth onto the good,
God-fearing people whose only sin has been to be permissive. Why just the
other day, I saw two men French-kissing on a street corner not three blocks
from an elementary school," (and just last night he'd had his hypocritical
dick in my mouth). "There are drag-queen shows on the Lord's Day and sex
movies available twenty-four hours. There are women of ill-repute plying
their wares right out in the open and stores selling leather and whips and
chains right in amongst our antique shops and restaurants and tourist
destinations."
He paused to fix the assemblage with a stare daring anyone to dispute his
claim. None did. This may have had something to do with the police-cordon
around City Hall and the page they took from Dubya's playbook regarding
non-partisan crowds at political events, but I could be wrong.
"My friends, this must stop," he declared with righteous indignation. "And
starting tomorrow, it shall!"
A cheer rose from the throng and a chill raced up and down my spine until
it came to rest in the general vicinity of my scrotum.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and a growing horror in my
recently-porno-presenting brain, I listened as The Good Reverend laid out
what became known as The Municipal Moral Codes: a list of public ordinances
dictating behavior which would no longer be tolerated. Among them were
such repressive gems as open displays of same-sex affection, the sale of
retail items deemed objectionable by the panel which would be convening
that very night, the showing or transmission of material designated by said
panel (who would, like the Meese Commission, be empowered to pick and
choose based on arbitrary criteria they made up on the spot) as
pornographic (I can't define it, but I know it when I see it). They would
put an end to prostitution and sex-based (in other words, Gay) night clubs.
There would be no more Drag Queen Breakfast at the Orpheum, no more
lingerie shops at the mall, no more Zebulon.
This, in any event, was the proposal on the table. None of these things
had been approved by the City Council or signed by The Mayor (who had
conveniently disappeared from the scene, and thus remained safely
unavailable for comment). At the moment, they did not have the legal
authority to do what they claimed they were going to do, but this hardly
seemed to matter to Reverend Collingswood.
Obvious constitutional questions were asked by the assembled press and
cast aside like so much superfluous frippery. The recent recipient of my
first completed blowjob cared not in the least for such things. He and his
morally questionable, yet superior cronies were going forward Damn the
Constitution and full steam ahead!
??
At this point, the beleaguered and overworked receptionist called my name
and beckoned me to receive the written results of my test for potentially
life-threatening illnesses. This should have been a good thing. This
should have lifted my spirits and removed a fear-filled weight from my
chest. Bad news would have come in the form of a solemn and stern-faced
physician in the privacy and seclusion of one of the offices in back.
Paper meant I had been declared germ-free. Yippee!
But none of this registered; none of it got past the great big You've Gotta
be Fucking Kidding Me going on in my brain. I stumbled out into the warm
afternoon air and headed for my lesbian.
...To Be Continued...
...But not before...
Smoking
Suzie had been a bad little girl. The principal at her school said she'd
been caught smoking, but I knew what was going on. She didn't smoke and
never had. She'd done it simply to get in trouble. She knew what a call
from the principal would get her.
She was waiting when I got home, wearing skintight Lycra sweat pants, a
sports bra and an impish smile. She was ready and she wanted me to know
it.
"I guess Mrs. Dean called," she said, looking me right in the eye.
"Yes, she did," I said, beginning to feel the sweet anticipation between my
legs, but wanting to play along. The game was part of the fun.
Technically we were cousins, her mother and my father having been siblings,
but our roles were a little bit different than usual. I, at age twenty,
became her defacto guardian after her mom skipped town with a rock musician
that was about three seconds older than her eighteen year-old daughter.
Legally, Suzie was an adult, but she still had about two months left to go
in high school.
Staying in school had been her decision, and I had to hand it to her for
that. But I suspect part of the reason was that it provided her with a
series of excellent excuses to get into trouble, the results of which were
always the same.
She'd come to live with me about six months ago because my apartment was
only a few blocks from school. She'd stayed because I gave very good
spankings.
"What do you think I should do about it?" I asked, knowing the answer.
"I promise I'll never do it again."
"Why do I have a hard time believing that?"
"A hard time?" she asked innocently. She was looking at my crotch.
"Enough small talk," I said. "You know what's coming. Assume the
position."
She smiled, slid her hand into the folds of tight fabric between her legs,
then turned around and bent over the arm of the couch. I stood there
admiring her teenaged ass and she knew it and gave it a wiggle.
"You're getting to like this a bit too much," I said. "So today I think
we're going to have to do something more."
"Like what?" she asked, looking at me over her shoulder.
I reached out and ran my hand between her butt cheeks. Her cunt was warm
and gave a little twitch. "Spread your legs," I commanded.
She did not at first comply, so I gave her a resounding swat to compel
obedience. The lower half of her body jumped and she gave a little squeal.
But she still didn't open her legs. Four or five more swats in rapid
succession did the trick.
I ran my hand down and across her pussy, giving it a nice squeeze. "I'm
not just going to work on your ass this time," I said and gave her mound a
good whack. She moaned, arched her back and raised her rear end. This was
going to be fun.
I slapped her pussy a half-dozen times, each harder than the one before,
then stopped and lightly tapped the fabric over her clit. "You like this,
don't you?" I asked, more than able to answer the question for myself.
She let out a lusty "Ohh," and opened her legs a bit wider.
"Do you want more?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"Too bad," I said and pulled my hand away.
She started to protest but I silenced her right quick with several
well-placed blows to her ass. She squirmed, her perfect posterior
undulating across the arm of the couch. The tight sweat pants revealed
every contour, but it wasn't good enough. I couldn't see my handy work. I
reached out, grabbed the waistband on either side of her hips and pulled.
She wasn't wearing any panties.
The cheeks were pink and the area between them glistened with delicious
moisture. Her sweats were bunched up around her upper thighs, forcing her
legs closed, but that was okay. My cock began to protest the restriction
of my own clothing, but I ignored it and instead began to spank her in
earnest.
"Yes," she cried out. "Spank me. Spank my ass. I've been so naughty." I
was happy to comply.
The flesh of her globes began to glow red. She whimpered and squealed and
screamed with each contact of my bare hand half pain / half ecstasy.
But I wanted more. So did she.
"Stand up and take off your pants," I ordered.
She propelled herself off the arm of the couch, spun around and did as I
told her, then just as quickly resumed the position, spreading her legs as
far as she could. Her hand thrust between them and I saw her finger
disappear into the glistening folds of her quim. She let out another long
low moan as her digit moved in and out, the sweet nectar flowing over her
hand. But I had other plans.
"No one said you could do that. Stop it right now or I'll fuck your ass
with no lube." She paused, looking at me over her shoulder as if
considering the alternative, then slowly moved her hand away.
The moment her pussy was no longer obstructed, I began to slap it as hard
and as fast as I could, without actually hurting her. She let out a
yelling moan, her juices splashing out of her hole and coating my hand.
Now it was ready.
I stepped back, undid my belt and dropped my pants. "You want my cock,
don't you?"
"Yes!" she cried. "God yes!"
"That's not good enough. You need to beg."
"Please," she whined. "Give me your cock. Fuck me. Oh please fuck me."
How could I refuse?
I grasped my rock hard member at the base, positioned myself between her
legs and began to slap her clit with the mushroom head. Her knees buckled
and she would have crumpled to the ground had the couch not been there.
Her juices flowed across my dick like a flooding river, dripping her
essence onto the carpet. Her orgasm ripped through her like an earthquake,
her body vibrating, her hips thrusting uncontrollably. It was time.
I moved the tip to the mouth of her pussy and jammed my cock inside her.
She grunted. In and out, in and out, I slammed against her, the hole warm
and slippery, her muscles gripping me like a vice. My balls felt like
they'd swollen to twice their normal size as I sped toward my own orgasm.
All it took was a few more thrusts before I went off like a nuclear bomb,
my cock spurting its creamy love into her sopping wet pussy.
I stumbled back, slipping out of her, my head dizzy, my heart thumping. I
nearly fell. I stood there with the world spinning around me. The only
thing that kept me from fainting was staring at her ass, red and hot,
jutting out from the couch like a dripping prize. It felt like victory.
My senses came back, albeit slowly, and I bent down and returned my pants
to their normal position. I was still breathless, still swooning from the
power of my orgasm. She lay there bent over the arm of the couch in a
delectable heap, softly moaning.
"Did you learn your lesson?" I asked, finally.
"Yes," she mumbled.
"Are you ever going to smoke in school again?"
"No," she replied, glancing back at me. Her eyes smoldered with lust.
I believed her, too, believed she would behave. Until, that is, the next
time.
The End
...I hope you enjoyed that little tidbit. The rest of Jack's story
continues next time without further interruption.
As always, I look forward to your comments. Thanks, keep reading, and by
all means, Support Nifty!
-Ian Wylde-