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!
6
Outside
As I said earlier, Zebulon sat in the middle of a chewed asphalt parking lot. A single street light illuminated the corner and a smaller, dimmer lamp above the purple door showed where to enter. Beyond that, it was pretty damned dark, particularly in this one section, furthest from the street near the nine-foot high wooden fence at the back, where sat a beat up old picnic bench. I stumbled toward it.
Time to take stock: I was at an adult bookstore late at night, wearing cum fuck me pants, with an enormous erection sticking out for the whole world (which at the moment consisted of fifteen or sixteen cars in the lot) to see. I'd recently had a large dick in my mouth, and I had come obscenely close to committing the cardinal safe sex sin: unprotected sex with a total stranger (or two, or twenty).
On the upside, my anal virginity (Izzy's Mom not-withstanding) remained (for the moment) intact. On the downside, I was alone in the dark with the fuck me clothing and the erection and the delicious tingling in my mouth and throat, and infused with enough sexual energy to light Manhattan.
I sat on the table part of the bench and adjusted my package (which had thankfully subsided to the point where it seemed no longer about to explode through the front of my pants) and tried to pull my tee shirt downward to cover things as best I could. This (of course) brought my hand into contact with the pulsating, throbbing, tingling, blood-pumping, mushroom-headed near-cause of my almost gang bang, which helped matters not in the least, so I tried to focus on something else.
??
If I seem a bit preoccupied with the notion of being fucked by several men, it is only because as I write this part of my story (a number of years later), I happen to be sitting on a pillow as a result of the fact that last night I was the focus of just such a gang bang and my anus is still quite tender. Four men and four delightfully hard cocks found their lecherous way into my warm and wet mouth and eventually up my tight and willing ass.
It began as a simple photo shoot (although, given the overtly sexual nature of the sessions, they're rarely simple), with me starting out in a skin-tight one-piece black mini-skirt, black lace thigh-highs attached to black silk garters over red crotchless panties and with a rather large red butt-plug as a prop. Ordinarily, I work with a photographer and perhaps one lighting assistant, but last night for some reason I find myself unable and unwilling to complain about, there were four in attendance.
It is possible the additional spectators came as a result of the fact I had previously allowed the photographer to fuck my brains virtually out during each of the first three photo sessions I'd done with him, but this is of course complete speculation and since I enjoyed myself immensely, I see no point in further investigation into his motives. Let us move on to more important things, such as me getting gang banged.
In any event, and in the course of the photo shoot, I found myself rock hard, half naked and well-lubricated, with a butt-plug up my ass and surrounded by four gorgeous erections. What else could I do but remove the prop, bend over, and invite them to come inside?
They didn't physically cum inside me, of course; that would have been deeply dangerous, but... You get the idea.
And for those who don't, I'll just say this: they didn't cum inside me, but they did cum all over the outside of my body.
Izzy's Mom would have been green with envy.
I found the entire episode intensely satisfying, but as anyone who's ever been penetrated in such a fashion can attest, it leaves a certain, shall we say, afterglow that is impossible to ignore. And so as I sit here squirming while I type, my well-fucked posterior keeps sending signals of a distracting nature to my memory circuits, which insert themselves into this narrative of the very first time I experienced the act of penile penetration.
I hope you can forgive me.
??
Getting back to the night in question, the cigarette pack in my shirt pocket seemed to be winking at me and I smiled, remembering what was in there. I flipped it open and pulled out the half-joint and my lighter, already tasting the skunkiness and feeling the warm glow.
Darkness is a blanket wrapped around you, keeping you safe and hidden. Lighting a joint in the darkness is like turning on a searchlight and aiming it at those horny men sitting alone in the dark in their cars with their nasty thoughts. I suppose I could have been more conspicuous had I thought about it, but perhaps not. Maybe a bit of neon blinking out an invitation to just come and Do Me, Do Me, Do Me... But of course, I remained oblivious to such things, my mind being filled with lust and hard cocks covered in my own saliva, and repeated fantasy (up to that point) fuckings of my ass, and the doobage I was about to smoke.
A medium-sized camper sat in the shadows about twenty-five feet from my picnic table. Its front windows pointed toward me, covered with what in daylight hours would be a sun screen, hiding whatever might be in there. Light showed from inside as the passenger door opened and then winked out as it closed again. A man stood there bathed in shadow, motionless, looking in my direction. I should have left well enough alone but of course, I didn't.
I took a deep hit off the joint and leaned back onto the table with one hand supporting me from behind. The movement pulled the tail of my shirt upward and a languid stretch of my legs finished the job. If the guy at the camper didn't take the hint, he was brain dead.
As if proving cerebral functionality, the shadowy figure headed my way, looking around to see if anyone was watching.
No one was – except perhaps whoever may or may not have been inside the three other nearby cars pointed toward me. I took another hit off the joint, spreading my legs ever-so slightly, and watched him approach.
He didn't say a word as he halted his forward progress about six inches from my out-stretched limbs. He stood there slowly letting his eyes work up my body, pausing about halfway to stare at the focus of my arousal. I – casual as could be – took another hit off the joint and spread my legs a bit more. He smiled, like a hungry manimal who's just found his late night snack, and looked me in the eye. I held out the joint to him and he took it.
Passing it back to me, he nonchalantly as you please dropped his hand into my lap. I thought this quite a nice thing for him to do. He proceeded with this maneuver by sliding that hand across the outline of my hardon and down onto my tingling scrotum. He rummaged around for a bit until I once again offered up the joint after taking a deep hit.
I blew out the tasty smoke and stretched like a feline, thoroughly enjoying the sensations my body transmitted to my Medulla Oblongata. Animal brain in overdrive, I set about adjusting my clothing.
Somehow, the long tee shirt I'd been using in a vain attempt to cover things had lifted upward, revealing quite a lot. Not sure how that happened. I rectified the situation by revealing a good portion more of my flat belly and the waistband of my sweats. I surveyed my newest fashion statement and judged it to be adequate for the circumstances, but needed a second opinion. Luckily, I had one right there.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"I think I want to fuck your brains out," he replied, offering to return what little remained of the joint.
I declined both. "Pleasant thought," I said. "But it's not going to happen."
"That's disappointing."
"It's not a total loss, though."
"Is that right?"
"Yes," I replied. "I'll be happy to give you a sloppy wet
blowjob."
??
As I said before, Izzy's Mom gave me one of those on the eighteenth anniversary of my birth. But it wasn't until three years later, on a Friday night three weeks before the Friday night I gave my first sloppy wet blowjob that she demonstrated to me exactly what one was.
"To give a good blowjob," she began, "you need three things: a hard cock, which you so delightfully have," she continued, planting a warm kiss on my tip.
We were in her livingroom with me in one of the overstuffed chairs and Izzy's Mom on her knees between my legs. Izzy was at his father's. She wore no shirt; I wore no pants; together we made one fully-clothed human being.
I had nonchalantly asked her about it (cocksucking), knowing full-well I intended to put her information into practice just as soon as I turned twenty-one. She did not know this, however. I eventually told her about my more-than passing interest in the art, but on that glorious night, she thought the question to be mere curiosity, and so explained it as one who truly enjoys what they do, rather than as a teacher trying to instruct her willing student.
"You need a nice wet mouth," she proceeded, sliding hers over my head and proving it was indeed nice and wet. She slurped it up and down to about the middle of my shaft, sucking and drawing saliva up from her throat, taking her time, warming up to something I knew would be akin to a religious experience.
"And you need to love what you do."
??
Izzy's Mom loved what she did, both in her personal relationship with me (and presumably others) and with her website. This, I think, is what made her the most popular of the seven women involved.
Ninety-nine point nine-nine-nine percent of all the non-lesbian/all-girl and/or sado-masochistic porn I've ever seen (and with Izzy as my friend, I've seen a lot), regardless of subject matter, follows the same exact pattern: suckee, suckee, suckee, fuckee, fuckee, fuckee, guy pulls out, money shot all over the other person's face...or ass, or other strategically-placed cumshot, but more often than not, it's right straight into—and all over—the kisser. The subject could be straight sex, anal sex, tranny sex, any sex, but the format is always the same.
I think it was Noel Coward or one of those other ever-so witty writers from the Nineteen-Thirties and Forties, who said they saw nothing overly objectionable about pornography (and back then it was all a very big no-no that could result in a prolonged prison sentence), except for the fact that it was exceedingly dull.
All fiction is fantasy, and in order for the fantasy to work, a certain suspension of disbelief is required. With the obligatory cum facial, however, more often than not, the expression on the recipient's face says loud and clear the woman really isn't into it: her eyes and lips are squeezed tight, her posture and bearing looks like she's about to run away while lying down, and she generally looks as if she'd rather be calculating her taxes. But the money shot is expected, it's the de rigueur ending, and so the recipient steels herself for the inevitable, and right there is where the suspension of disbelief falls apart.
And since almost every porno ends in the same way, there is no surprise, nothing unexpected, nothing to separate one movie – one sex scene – from another. Pornography is kind of like comedy would be if every comedy ever made ended with a pie in the face.
Okay, granted, most viewers of porn don't give a shit, but I do. I love variety (which I suppose has something to do with my choice of sexual partners). I also love women. I love seeing women in the throes of pleasure (especially if I've given it to them). Nothing turns me on more than a woman who's enjoying the hell out of herself, and so when I see women (or trannies or whomever) screwing up their faces to receive the money shot they do not enjoy, it bursts my voyeuristic bubble.
Izzy's Mom, on the other hand, absolutely loved having cum shot all over her face. For her, it was a transcendent experience capable of bringing her to orgasm without any manual stimulation whatsoever.
Seeing it, seeing the delight in her eyes, the hungry, horny, deliciously loving it smile on her face, damn-near has the same effect on me: it almost makes me cum just watching. And that, my friends, makes all the difference in the world.
??
The legendary George Burns was asked shortly before his one hundredth (and final) birthday to explain his longevity. After first tossing off the joke, "whiskey and cigars," he said the secret was waking up every morning to do something you love.
Love's physical manifestation is affection, and the ultimate form of affection is sex, if you do it right. When you're affectionate with someone, you take joy out of their presence, and you give them pleasure in return, be it a hug or a warm handshake or a playful swat on the behind. Who doesn't like a good hug? Or a nice spanking...?
There are essentially two ways to have sex with someone: fucking and lovemaking. The mechanics are the same and both offer infinite variety, but the difference lies in one's attitude. Fucking is about getting off, which is nice, but if you're in it just to get off, then you're only in it for yourself. Which is fine, if that's what you want; everybody needs a little self-gratification from time to time. I've always thought that men had it best in that even bad sex is as good as masturbation, as long as you cum.
For a woman, however, bad sex is pretty much just bad sex and the odds of orgasm are diminished at best. But if you approach it with affection and love, two things are going to happen: she's going to get off, and then she's going to absolutely fuck your brains out, which I've always found highly entertaining.
When you love something (or someone) your heart is in it, and if your heart is in it, the rest of your body will follow. With love, there isn't a whole lot you can't do; without it, there isn't a whole lot worth doing.
7
In And Out (and In And Out)
Inside of the camper, dimly lit by a small lamp above the stove, we stood side by side at the back, looking down at the bed, neither of us saying a word. After a few moments of somewhat uncomfortable silence, he placed his hand at the base of my neck and began sliding it downward until it came to a rest on my behind. He gave me a squeeze and with gentle persuasion pushed me onto the mattress. I moved to the back wall to give him room, but he did not immediately take advantage. Looking down at me, he unbuckled, unzipped and then dropped his pants, kicking them off his ankles, and stood there slowly stroking himself.
I lay there in my skin-tight pants, thrusting my hips forward, my cock once again throbbing like, well, quite a bit like a throbbing cock, actually. I offered just as big an invite as I possibly could, but he seemed interested in a different part of my anatomy.
"Roll over," he said softly.
I hesitated. "We're not going to do what I think you want to do," I said.
"I know," he replied. "But does that mean we can't play?"
Instead of answering, I smiled and rolled over onto my belly. The pressure on my erection proved to be a bit much, however, so I arched my hips, sticking my butt into the air.
He seemed to endorse the maneuver.
He demonstrated this by gently playing his hand along the contours of my bottom. "You have a very nice ass," he said, giving it a tender squeeze and slipping his fingers between my cheeks. It felt wonderful.
"And you have a very nice cock," I said, and he did. It wasn't near as large as the one I'd so recently had in my mouth – perhaps six inches long and maybe one-and-a-half in diameter; just a tad bigger than the toy Izzy's Mom had used on me. It started me thinking.
But first things first: I scrunched closer to the edge of the bed (and what waited there for me between his legs) and began to administer a blowjob such as I hoped he'd never had before. Slurping and sucking, sliding and swallowing, bobbing my head up and down, pulling his probe in and out, swirling my tongue from side to side, I created a geometric series of oral shapes the like of which Pythagoras himself would have been astounded; a polygon, an isosceles triangle, a veritable dodecahedron of cocksucking. I twisted and turned in every cardinal direction: north, south, east, west, south-southwest, northeast, three points to starboard and another five to port. I could have travelled the world, circled the globe, circumnavigated the planet Earth with my mouth on his yummy erection, but he had other things in mind.
He pulled out with a pop like a champagne cork, and then took hold of my waistband and began pulling downward. The cool night air on my naked flesh sent jolts of electricity up my spine, through my head (bypassing my previously busy mouth) and then made a bee-line to my testicles. He grasped my hips and pulled me upward.
With one continuous stroke, he slid his tongue from my balls to my perineum to my anus. He probed there with the wet oral appendage for quite some time, and I happily let him, sticking my butt out and up in order to provide maximum ease of access. By and by, the muscle began to relax and open. He inserted a finger. Then he inserted two. He worked his digits in and out slowly, opening me still further.
We had done all of this without sound, save my own moaning (and the preceding sucking noises). Finally, he broke his silence.
"I have a condom."
"Fuck me," I said, throwing caution to the wind and basic intelligence out the damned window. Hey...At least it was safe sex.
??
Rationalization, thy name is Jack... Or maybe it's Jack's Dick... Either way works.
??
He produced a condom from some unknown location (probably a shelf) and fumbled it, dropping the package onto the bed at my side. I took pity on the poor man and proceeded to bite it open. He seemed content to allow me to take over, and so I did, removing the rubbery sheath and slipping it onto his engorged member. For good measure, I ensured its placement and fit with my once again wet mouth, sliding his now latex-tasting organ in just as far as it would go, the condom's reservoir tickling the back of my throat in a most amusing manner.
This seemed all fine and good, but his rock hardness had a previous engagement with a different orifice. Reservations had been made, the maître de had been called, the bus boy had placed the water, bread and a chilled dish of butter slices (calling to mind a certain scene from Last Tango in Paris – although the thought of a naked Marlon Brando is best avoided at all costs) onto the table, and the chef busied himself in the kitchen with all manner of sensual delights.
I wanted it. Truth be told (or at least the kind of truth seen through the horny filter of a libido rushing toward warp speed), I needed it, needed to be speared, to be penetrated, and so I removed him from my mouth and once again presented my ass to him in open invitation (no RSVP required).
He crawled upon the mattress and knee-walked into position behind me; grasping my hip with one hand, while playing his cockhead across my waiting anus with the other. Here it was, the moment I'd dreamed of during more masturbatory sessions than I cared to count, even going so far as to fantasize about it as Izzy's Mom had done her thing with fingers and occasionally toys. My penis hung like fresh salami in a butcher's shop filled with blood and delight and tasty potential.
After applying a generous amount of lube to the necessary areas, he slapped the head against my entrance a few times, rubbed it around the general vicinity for a few moments, played with and teased it until I damn-near told him to just get on with it, and then slowly pushed inside. Electric shots of pleasure pulsated outward from my ass to my pounding heart and then swirled within my infinitely aroused brain pan. It felt huge, hard and outstanding.
Slow and inexorable, he slid inside until his pelvis rested against the tingling flesh of my cheeks. He held it there for a moment then just as slowly pulled it all the way out again, leaving me with an odd, empty-yet-filled feeling. I arched my back and thrust myself towards him like a rutting animal. He returned the favor by pushing back inside. The man – my still-unknown temporary lover – wriggled his hips in a more-or-less circular motion, as if stirring my rectal bowl, stretching my muscular anal guard. He paused.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
"Fuck me," I replied. "Fuck my ass." Okay...I know...Not the most creative or original of answers, but what can I say? I found myself caught up in the moment. Linguistic legerdemain had taken the night off. I'd waited for this, dreamed of it during innumerable sessions of video ass-fucking at Izzy's house, masturbated over it who-knew how many times, but nothing could have prepared me for the raw, unbridled, carnal pleasure of actually being pounded, of having his pelvis slap against my ass as he slammed into me, his testicles swinging against mine with each thrust, his fingers biting into the flesh of my hips as he filled me, probed me, fucked me.
??
In my fantasy, the act – this initial foray into gay anal sex – went on and on, building in intensity, bringing me to the edge and then backing off, slowing, prolonging the delicious experience until I screamed for release: Insert Tab A into Slot B; You put Tab A in, You pull Tab A out, You put Tab A in, and you shake it all about; You do the Hokie Pokie and you turn yourself around; That's what it's all about. Repeat as necessary – or desired – or just for the fuck of it. This, in any case, is the theory.
The reality, however – and this I suppose is the essential nature of reality, that despoiler of most things erect and/or wet – proved to be somewhat different.
??
I had just gotten into a smooth rhythm, meeting his thrusts with backward motion, grinding into him as he pounded me, and I had yet to even begin stroking myself, when all-of-a-sudden, he shuddered, pulled out, ripped the condom from his pulsating meat thermometer and came, the hot, thick goo spraying across my back, as if he'd squirted me with a turkey baster.
??
Over the years – and I'm telling this tale quite a bit of time after the fact – I've often wondered why I bother fantasizing. The reality rarely meets (let alone exceeds) the fiction. It has a few times, and I remember those all-too brief moments with warm fondness and furious masturbation, but this is the exception far more often than the rule.
Ah well... And still we try.
??
I walked home (after more or less begging the man to wipe my back with a none-too clean towel he'd scrounged from a malodorous pile on the floor of his RV), feeling generally unsatisfied. And yet, as I strode down the sidewalk through the summer night, with the first rays of dawn peaking above the horizon, I couldn't help but admit the experience had been entertaining, enlightening, dare I say, transcendent.
Well, perhaps not.
I'd given my first blowjob (although, not to completion) and I had received my first true fucking (I wasn't counting Izzy's Mom's amusing machinations). My ass felt rather delightfully worked, and my as-yet un-milked object of soon-to-be masturbation still throbbed within my tight pants and oozed with pre-cum. Granted, this left a noticeable wet spot in the general vicinity of my crotch, but with the long tee-shirt once again pulled down into the proper position, the only one privy to this fact was me – and I wasn't talking.
And okay, yeah, the experience hadn't been all it was cracked up to be. It had not matched the fantasy. I had not been satisfied. But it had still been fun.
In spite of how unlike the fantasy it had been, regardless of my lack of orgasmic release, forgetting the technically unsatisfying result, the fact remained: my ass felt fantastic. And like a girl who loses her virginity amidst the blood and the pain and the ineffectual, inexperienced fumbling in the backseat of her boyfriend's father's sedan, I knew I'd been doing this again.
I did not, however, know that the next time would be with a lesbian.
...To Be Continued...
Dear Reader, I hope you are enjoying this story. I truly want - in fact, need - your input, as I am looking at this with the goal of getting it published. Any and all comments and/or CONSTRUCTIVE criticism would be greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading, and if you can spare a bit of change, by all means support Nifty!