Date: Mon, 10 Nov 2014 09:06:52 -0800
From: ian wylde <wyldenights@yahoo.com>
Subject: Erotic Adventures of Jack, etc., Installment 9

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.

Now, without further delay, back to the story!

                             19

                   Mushroom-Headed Asshole
                           Meets
                      Moral Hypocrite

The following day – a Wednesday, if memory serves – I put in another
desultory appearance at school, if only to say I had.  The academic year
and (as it happened, although I couldn't have know this at the time) my
career as a student were coming to a close.  I'd long since passed all my
finals, and had handed in all but one of my term papers.  I showed up
simply because my Asian Philosophy professor happened to be an
extraordinarily hot Forty-Something woman named Mary, with whom I had
enjoyed a few highly entertaining student-teacher conferences.

Unfortunately for my desire to seek solace following the previous night's
utter lack of intellectual prowess (and its subsequent shattering of what
could have been – should have been – a soft and warm and unfettered
sharing of mostly platonic love), however, said professor proved to be
otherwise occupied, and so couldn't provide me with the quick slap and
tickle I wanted.  I handed in my term paper, gave her the most
inconspicuous pat on the behind I could manage, and turned to go – but
not before she admonished me for taking such liberties with her backside.

"Stop that!" she hissed at me in a strained whisper.
 The decreased volume of her admonition was a result of the fact there were
three other students in her classroom huddled around a desk at the far
corner.  "You can't just come in here and grab my ass whenever you want to,
Jack.  You'll get me fired, and for what?  So you can cop a feel?"  She
seemed honestly upset by my salacious advances, something I had certainly
not been used to – particularly from her.

She had been the one who initiated our previously innocent little tryst by
purposely sitting on her desk in front of my position in the first row and
nonchalantly advertising the color of her undergarments on any given day.
She did this by wearing skirts long enough to conceal her unmentionables
from the general population, but short enough to provide yours' truly with
an excellent view.  I'd thought it was a damned nice thing for her to do,
and had told her so the first time we found ourselves alone.  The fact this
revelation led to our ending up in a tangle of semi-clothed groping upon
her desk had seemed a natural extension to her bit of exhibitionism.  And
so we did it again.  And again.  And again.  And so I found myself more
than a little stunned by her whispered outburst after providing her with an
innocent pat upon her posterior.  She, however, held a different view.

"The semester is over, Jack, and so are we.  Get out, and don't come back."
My brain felt numb at this declaration, but what choice did I have?  Her
statement left no wiggle room, so I simply left the classroom and then the
building, feeling stunned and confused and on unfamiliar ground, which
brought me back to my profound idiocy with Frank.

Perhaps the proverbial chickens were coming home to roost, I thought as I
wandered the idyllic courtyards of the university.  Maybe all my previous
behavior – all that sex on my brain – had finally brought me to my
just deserts.  And maybe Frank was my ultimate penalty.  No less than I
deserved, or so my guilt-riddled brain told me.

She was – and is – my favorite person in the known universe. My love
for her could easily be described as deep, and complete and abiding.  And
last night, I and my smart-assed, dumb-shit mouth had taken great strides
toward screwing it up.  I needed to do something bold and positive and
immediate to rectify the wrong I had committed.

Instead, I went in search of sex.

                            ??

Mushroom-Headed Asshole...

                            ??

Izzy had decided to forgo the pleasure of academia altogether that morning,
and so I wandered off toward his house once I'd finished showing my face at
the college and being denied the sexual possibilities my
single-yet-empty-minded soldier of love had sought.  I figured that if I
couldn't get laid, the least I could do was smoke far too much of my
friend's marijuana and drift off into a stoned and junk food-craving haze
while immersing myself in my friend's extensive porn collection.

I could have saved myself the trip to Izzy-Land, however, as the young lad
had apparently decided to sleep in.  When that boy dwelt in dream land, the
loudest heavy metal concert in recorded history would not have disturbed
his slumber, and so, after knocking and ringing the bell about twenty
times, to no effect, I wandered toward home.  Halfway there, I ran headlong
into moral hypocracy.

                           ??

My thinking (if you could call it such) went something like this: Well, if
I can't get laid, and I can't get stoned, then maybe I can go watch some
porn and suck an anonymous cock or two or three through a glory hole.  If
this does not indicate the depths of my depravity and the sheer stupidity
of my mushroom head, then I do not know what will.

As luck (?) would have it, however, Providence (and irony), in the form of
Reverend Collingswood and a contingent of his ever-so enlightened
followers, intervened.

As I rounded the bend in the road which had been geographically blocking my
view from the black and purple edifice of Zebulon, my eyes were assaulted
by the vision of thirty or forty sign-waving, condemnation-chanting,
morally-superior dipshits gathered in the chewed-asphalt of the parking lot
scene of much of my recent homosexual explorations.  The subject of one
such oral investigation into man-on-man sex stood upon a
hastily-constructed platform ten feet from the purple portal to my
pornographic fantasies, barking through a bullhorn.

"This den of iniquity must close!" he declared.  "We cannot and must not
allow this purveyor of filth, this refuge of faggot degenerates to remain
open."  And then he offered the verbal coup de gras. "CLOSE IT DOWN!  CLOSE
IT DOWN!" to which his fanatical and bereft of original thought gaggle
replied by taking up the chant.

"CLOSE IT DOWN!  CLOSE IT DOWN!"

What choice did I have?  I crossed to the other side of the street and
walked right on by, noticing, but scarcely registering the presence of the
Neanderthal portion of Izzy's recent ass-kicking at the mall.

He stood off to one side amongst a gathering of what my prejudiced (toward
them) mind would like to call jack-booted thugs, but was in reality five
black-shirted men and two of the town's police officers.  My mind should
have registered this odd combination of Rick Santorini, future candidate
for America's Most Wanted, and members of the local constabulatory, but it
was otherwise occupied with thoughts of pouty, pointed breasts, delectable
female backsides and large cocks moving smoothly in and out of my mouth.

The Hell of being me...

I moved on.

So much for glory hole blowjobs...

                           20

              Solace in the Arms of a Tranny

Having exhausted the academic, herbal, pornographic, and anonymous sex
possibilities, I was left to wander the streets of our fair community.  I
suppose I could have gone home and engaged myself with two-hundred and
forty channels of cable, but I've always likened the experience of
commercial television to injecting several bales of cotton into my
cerebellum, and so I did not avail myself of the opportunity.

Izzy resided within his nightly coma, Izzy's Mom was working her day job,
and Frank was both working and pissed at me, and so my options, at first
blush, appeared limited, at best.  And then I remembered my bit of retail
shopping from the night before.  The memory stirred a certain demented and
intellectually questionable thing in my stone-washed jeans, and so I
followed its unwavering compass back to Cloth Dreams.

As I entered to jangling bell, Connie came out of the storeroom and, seeing
me, paused in mid-stride.  She raised a single eyebrow and smiled, and I
detected a sudden flush of color on her pretty face (as well as a
definitive swelling of the groin portion of her tight jeans), spurring me
on toward feelings of power and glory and a desire to fuck her brains out.
We stood there, separated by several racks of erotic clothing and
contemplated each other.

Said jeans were accessorized with a thin red belt in the loops and a wider
white one around her waist, beneath a blue and white flowered, off the
shoulder, long-sleeve blouse.  One strap of her black bra ran up and over
her back like a trail I wished to follow, treading the previously uncharted
territory (uncharted by me, that is), as Stanley might have done in the
wilds of Africa, perhaps reaching his goal on the savannah of her lower
back: "Doctor Livingston, I presume."  Or maybe I could traverse the
mountains of her chest, and if asked why, I could answer like Sir Edmund
Hillary following his climb to the top of Everest: "Because they were
there."

Such historical analogies aside, the effect might as well have been a
race-day announcement to my libido of Gentlemen, start your engines.

"Hi there," I greeted, and then popped out of my hypnotic state long enough
to notice the petite brunette Asian browsing through the racks off to one
side.  Had I not, I might have added something highly inappropriate and
filled with sexual overtones, as for example, "Could I possibly fuck you up
the ass, please?"

I never said the overtones had to be oblique.

I needn't have censored myself, however, as Connie blurted, "Jack, you
darling boy!  Bring your delicious cock over here!"

I glanced at the little brunette long enough to register her outfit: a
black spaghetti-strapped blouse with a black and pink schoolgirl skirt
revealing her belly and hip bones, over three-inch heels with straps
running up to her calves, naturally drawing the eye to her silky thighs,
and from there to the wondrous possibilities of what might be found beneath
the dual-colored skirt and below those delicious bones – and then,
shaking my head and metaphorically wiping the imaginary drool from my chin,
I did as Connie directed.

To call the embrace she gave me lewd would, I think, not be understating
the facts.  Grabbing the back of my head, she mashed her mouth into mine
and proceeded to perform an imitation of an eye, nose and throat specialist
with her tongue, as her other hand found its way to my butt, adding the
potential for proctology to the mix.

We came up for air after several moments, and then she introduced me to her
assistant.  "Jack, this is Rebecca; Rebecca, this is Jack," with emphasis
on the last, giving me the idea that she'd already described the previous
nights' activities in intimate detail.

"Ooh, I see what you mean," Rebecca offered her assessment.
  The gap between her blouse and skirt seemed to call to me, beckoning my
mind in a direction some might consider ill-advised, seeing as how I had my
own hand on Connie's bubble-icious backside as she massaged mine, rubbing
the tender and newly-developed entrance as one might seek a genie in a
bottle.

"You can't have him," Connie declared, solidifying her grasp upon my
posterior, as if sensing where my dirty mind was headed and determined to
change its direction, and thus dashing any three-way hopes I might have
been entertaining.  The disappointed expression on Rebecca's face mirrored
my own internal visage, but discretion being the better part of not being
embroiled in a jealous tug of war with me as the rope, I retained a poker
face. All-in-all, I felt rather like a piece of meat.

I could live with that.

"You're no fun," her assistant pouted.

"And you get to mind the store," she countered, and having done so, took me
by the hand and dragged me right back out the front door.

                           ??

The faux red-brick building housing the store sat alongside an alley, and
this is where Connie led.  About halfway down, a metal stair ran up the
side of the exterior wall to a steel gray door, and through this door, I
discovered, laid Connie's apartment.  We entered a pleasant studio
subdivided by ornate oriental screens into a livingroom, kitchenette and
bedroom, with a separate bathroom off to one side through a pair of French
doors.

A variety of potted plants – some ceiling-height, some as tiny as
sprouts – speckled the dιcor with green to nice effect.  The room
felt warm and smelled of jasmine with an undercurrent of coffee.  I liked
the place.

I also liked Connie's ass, which I grabbed with both hands as we resumed
the kiss begun in the shop below.

                           ??

There's something about a woman's bottom in tight jeans that just does it
for me.  Some men like large breasts the size of their head, others prefer
legs or lips, and there are even a few who take the time to notice female
eyes.  I like butts.

Under ordinary field conditions, this appreciation carries the same
aesthetic value as would a beautiful sunset: there to admire for a moment's
pause before moving on.  I do not dwell on it, try not to stare, and it
does not carry any greater sexual connotation for me than does every other
thing on the planet (which is to say of course I think of it in terms of
erotic possibilities, but then the same could be said about a great many
things and yet I somehow manage to make it through my day without any undue
accusatory outbursts resulting from my having been caught ogling – most
of the time).  But to grasp fleshy cheeks encased in tight blue jeans (or
black, or white, or any other color of the spectrum, but especially the
traditional blue) is one of my favorite things.

I'm just saying...

                            ??

As a side-note, this fondness for feminine posteriors was (and is –
thank God) I think one of two major reasons I derived such great pleasure
in taking Frank over my knee (or bent over or on her belly or whatever
position her little lesbo heart desired).  The first was that I loved her
(and thinking – however briefly – of this fact caused no small degree
of angst, and I knew I would have to repair the bridge I'd detonated pretty
damned quick), and out of loving her came the natural desire (natural for
me, anyway) to give her repeated orgasms; but such things aside, the second
reason was that she had the single most gorgeous heart-shaped bottom I'd
ever seen.

Again, I'm just saying...

                           ??

After what could have been hours or days or weeks of tongue-tied,
ass-grabbing bliss, we staggered apart.  I bounced off the wall near the
door.  Connie managed a more dignified collapse onto the pink and gold
futon within the screened confines of her "livingroom."  Somehow her white
belt had disappeared and her red one had come undone, along - by happy
coincidence - with the top button of her jeans.
  Not quite sure how that happened.

I stood across the room, staring, with no small amount of throbbing taking
place within my own denim.  She lay on her side, leaning on one elbow, with
one leg curled beneath the other.  Her eyes were on fire, her face appeared
flushed the color of one of those previously mentioned sunsets, and her
lips were open.  So were her pants.  I wanted to grab her everything and
commence an exploration worthy of Lewis and Clark (or Stanley or Livingston
or Sir Edmund Hillary or all of them put together).  But first, I took a
moment to enjoy the view.

"What are you waiting for?" she asked.

"Not a thing," I replied.  "Just admiring the scenery."

"Flattery will get you a nice blowjob."

"Hmm," I said.  "Actually, I had something else in mind."  Oh my, did I
ever!

"Really?"

"Yeah," I smiled and licked my lips.  "Roll onto your belly and I'll show
you."

She did as I asked, and there it was: the true focus of my fascination:
twin moons worthy of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldren and the entire cast of
Apollo Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, and, well, you get the beaten-to-death
picture.  They lay there, beckoning to me, begging to be fondled and kissed
and licked, singing the entire soundtrack of An American Werewolf in London
(Blue Moon, Moondance, Bad Moon Rising, etc., etc.).

Leaving the cinematic and NASA-related references behind us, the maneuver
produced two immediate effects (aside from a marked increase in my
arousal): it caused her blouse to ride upward, and her jeans to ride
downward, revealing both the small of her back and the top of her black
thong.  The expression on my face must have shown my delight, because she
remarked: "You are so good for my ego."

"I hope to be even better for something else."

She smiled and squirmed upon the futon in a most delicious manner.  "Come
hither," she said, and so I did.  It seemed the polite thing to do.

Kneeling beside her, I placed a single gentle kiss upon the small of her
back.  She moaned a deep "Ohhhh," and we were off to the races.

Racing metaphor notwithstanding, I proceeded slowly, enjoying each bit of
luscious skin as I exposed it.  My hand caressed the contour of her legs
through the rugged material of her jeans, somehow finding its way to the
junction between them.

Funny how that seems to happen, isn't it?

I massaged the object of my admiration, reveling in the feel of her firm,
fleshy goodness.  My other hand slid beneath her belt line and grabbed a
handful of heaven, as she continued to moan her approval.  I held her pants
in captivity: one hand on the outside exploring the possibilities, and the
other on the inside, confirming the facts – and thoroughly enjoying
myself in the process – but under current conditions, rendering it
impossible to move forward in my discovery of the wonder that was Connie's
ass.
 What to do?  My lips and their voracious appetite for the taste of her
skin broke the impasse.

"That's it," I declared, coming up for air.  "I have no choice but to get
you naked."

"Well, if you have no choice..."

"I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is," I apologized.  "If the
interests of scientific exploration are going to be served, then you are
going to have to be naked," I completed, adding a not-too ham-handed
justification for my desire to see her sans clothing.

She gave a sighing smile and replied, "Anything for the benefit of
science."

"You have the thanks of a grateful nation," I said, standing and backing
away from the futon to give her room to move.
  It seemed appropriate to render her a salute, and so I did.  She returned
it by grasping the mountain in my pants and escorting me to her bed.

"I want this," she said as she sat down onto her gold bedspread while
maintaining her grip and squeezing what she wanted.  "And I want it now."

"You can't hurry science," I admonished, swatting her hand away.  "Now
please follow procedure and remove all your clothing."

"Slave-driver," she pouted in mock fashion.  Kicking off her three-inch
spiked heels, she leaned back onto her elbows, stretched out her legs, and
said, "A little help, if you please."  As pleasing Connie had been my goal
from the start, I felt happy to comply.

One of my favorite things about a woman in tight jeans is the act of
removing said garment.  I love the way the constricting nature of them
causes the woman to wriggle as they come off.  When done slowly (certainly
the case on this auspicious occasion, as I gasped in lustful wonder while
each bit of flesh revealed itself to my ravenous eyes) it has a tendency to
expose certain body parts in a dramatic and erotic manner.

First came her hips, framed above by her flat belly and below by the top of
her black silk panties, followed by the panties themselves.  They featured
pink and white roses along the waistband above the shear material of the
front panel.  Her rather large clit (and the star attraction of the blowjob
portion of the previous night's festivities) had been tucked down and in,
but upon releasing it from the confines of her jeans, it created a very
nice triangular bulge between her legs, pointing downward toward her smooth
thighs.  Once past the knees, of course, the pants were quickly discarded
into a heap at the foot of the bed – gone, and (for the moment)
forgotten as I gazed at her half-clothed body.

The effect proved to be a wonder to behold, but my job remained incomplete.
"Sit up, please," I directed.  She rolled her hips back and forth, and
thrust them upward in a delightful fucking motion, but I was not to be
deterred.  "Come on.  Get to it. You must be naked," I added.  She sat up,
but seemed reluctant for some reason.  "Is there a problem?" I asked.

She demurred for a moment, and then answered: "I don't want you to be
disappointed.

"I hardly think that's possible," I said, and I meant it, but still, she
hesitated.  It started me thinking, and under aroused circumstances, that
was never a good thing.  Images of horrible scarring or the possibility of
a garish hula girl tattoo across her chest popped into my
head. Nevertheless, the interests of science were at stake, and so I
carried on.

Feeling caution was in order, I began by taking her gently by the neck with
one hand and planting a nice, soft kiss on her lips, while the other hand
busied itself pulling upward on the bottom of her blouse.  We broke our
lip-lock briefly to let the garment slip by and then continued with deep
concentration (and quite a bit of tongue).  After several moments of this,
however, my curiosity got the better of me and I simply had to look.

To my great relief, I saw neither scarring nor hula girls; only a black
underwire c-cup bra with next-to nothing inside of it.  This, it seemed,
had been the cause of her consternation.

She had breasts (I discovered upon removing the brassier), small and perky
though they might have been; mere nubs, if truth be told, hills when the
advertised real estate indicated mountains – a turn-off for some, a
deal-breaker for others, but they were just fine by me, as I prefer small
and perky to large and pendulous.  As discussed earlier, however, not all
men share this preference, and that, I suppose, had been her concern.  I
quickly assuaged her fears.

"They're beautiful," I said, and then proved the point by sucking the
nearest tiny nipple into my eager mouth.  This, in turn, had an immediate
effect on her sole-remaining garment: the panties.

The triangle swelled into a rounded oval.  I exacerbated this condition
with the use of an exploring hand, and before you could say Bob's your
Uncle (though why anyone would do such a thing is beyond me) the
restraining material had disappeared onto the pile at the foot of her bed
and Connie lay finally and completely naked.

I stood and stepped back to admire my handiwork.  She facilitated this by
rising to her elbows and spreading her glorious legs.  The effect was the
stuff of poetry (or maybe limerick, I'm not quite sure).

"Well?" she asked, giving a toss of her golden locks.  Her eyes smoldered
with green fire, her red lips parted with invitation, and her tongue
wiggled out of her mouth and said hello to the tip of her nose.  "Have your
scientific interests been served?"

"Fuck science," I said.  "I just want your body."

"Come and take it," she replied.  And so I did.

And then I did it again.

And again...  And again...

...To Be Continued...

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