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A Birthday Wish Come True part4
Monday, March 23rd, 2009entrapped nipple.
He cleaned her other breast, and then began to work down her belly, stroking her
scar with his mouth – pausing only to murmur “beautiful”. He shifted his weight
back onto his knees, provoking a pair of loud clicks. Her eyes shot open. “Your
knees-” she began.
He chuckled and silenced her with a kiss. “Relax – it sounds a LOT worse than it
is – it doesn’t hurt at all, in fact. It’s just a very unsettling thing to hear,
as I’m sure you’ll agree!” She acquiesced, but her face still showed signs of
concern.
“God, you really do care for me that much, don’t you?” he asked with a look of
admiration and wonderment.
“But of course, ‘I’m offended you even thought otherwise’,” she mimicked.
His arms encircled her and he hugged her tightly. “I love you, darling,” he
whispered in her ear. “And just to show you how much…” He resumed his
ministrations to her lower torso, untying the cord of the sweatpants she began to
loosen ten minutes and half a year ago. His hands massaged her hips, pushing the
waistband of the pants slowly down. She grabbed the post behind her and raised
her buttocks, permitting him to remove her last article of clothing. He paused
and regarded her mound, entranced.
“You’re not put-off by my c-section scar?” she asked with concern.
“Are you offended by my paunch?” He leaned back and puffed out his chest and
belly. “It’s not as bad as when I took my photo – gotten a lot of exercise – but
it’s FAR from a physique I used to have. Even so, I haven’t heard any
complaints…” he finished, as sly grin taking possession of his features.
“Well, now that you mention it -” she began. He laughed, and pulled her back
towards him, kissing her deeply and passionately to quell any criticism.
“
you YOU. How could I not love it?” he said, brushing a lock of hair from her
forehead. “Besides,” he continued, holding her as he lay back and rolled their
bodies over on the bed, “it gives me a landmark to follow in the dark!” He
demonstrated what he meant by running his tongue down the ridge to her bush,
sliding off the bed. He paused and inhaled her musky scent, nuzzling her mound.
Grabbing a pillow, he raised her hips and adjusted the angle of her pelvis,
resting her legs on his shoulders. He kissed the insides of her thighs, his lips
a butterfly that alighted on her sensitive flesh every inch or so.
“You gonna mess around down there all morning or are you gonna DO something,
lover? I got the Phone Company coming by this afternoon,” she called in
frustration.
“Just for that, I think I’ll do a little more sight- seeing!” He felt fingers
entwine themselves in his curls and pull his head into the vertex of her legs.
He ran his tongue roughly across the length of her labia; it had the effect he
sought.
“Ooohhhhhhhhh.”
His lingual muscle traced around her labia, sampling the traces of moisture
already there. After some coaxing by his mouth, her lower lips opened like the
petals of a flower as they were engorged in blood, becoming warm to the touch.
As his hands locked with hers, he plunged into her slit and stroked the silky
insides with his taste buds. His efforts were awarded with a seeping of
honey-like fluid, which he lapped up eagerly. Satiated, he shifted his attention
to the apex of her cunt. Her ‘third nipple’ swelled as he flicked it with his
tongue, causing her to shiver and squeeze his hands. Then he returned to her
love nest, lancing his tongue deep within her depths. He began to fuck her
orally, the bristles of his moustache brushing her clitoris with every stroke.
“Oooo…nnnn…nnnnggggggghhhhh” was his partner’s only utterance. Taking this as
encouragement, the man increased his pace, only to have his eyes bug out as he
felt fingernails dig into the backs of his hands. Her hips lifted from the
cushion, her back bridging – supported by her shoulders and her thighs on his
shoulders. Her moans took a more urgent tone, and the flow of her honey
increased. He continued his assault on her nether regions, and was rewarded with
a cry of “NnnnnaaaaaAA-AA-AA-AA!” and a trickle of pearly essences over his mouth
…End of the part4. To be continued..
THE BOOK OF ASSES part4
Friday, March 13th, 2009You took to being fucked like a duck to water. I wouldn’t even have had to
reach around and jerk you off up front; you were on the edge of shooting
your wad even without that. Not everyone can have a prostrate orgasm –
come just from being ass-fucked — but you can. In fact, you have the
most talented ass I’ve ever seen. Seen, hell, the most talented ass I’ve
ever been inside of. If any ass was ever made for fucking, yours was.”
“That sounds rather poetic. What’s all this leading up to?”
“Look. I want you as my steady. Your ass is mine. It belongs to me,
and me only. Likewise the rest of you. Your whole body is my exclusive
property. I own you, all of you.”
“Warren, baby, I do believe you’re presuming a bit much. My ass is
more than just a receptacle for your cock. It belongs to me. Me. A real
person. A person with an identity and free will. A person with a destiny
to fulfill. A person who has all of a sudden had his fill of assholes
who insist on asserting ownership rights on other people. A person who
has just decided to boot *your* ass out.”
——————————————————————-
THE BOOK OF ASSES
Part III
Taking Pleasure
In the valley of the buttocks sits the crown jewel — the rosebud,
vulgarly known as the asshole. This is one of only two openings to
the body’s digestive system. Nature designed it to function as a
portal, to release stored solid waste from the lower intestine. As
it happens, it’s a two-way valve, allowing entry as well as exit. The
anus can be trained to become the most responsive and pleasure-giving
of all the sex organs.
The anal sphincter is a double valve. It consists of an outer ring of
muscle that can squeeze shut and open up under conscious control.
About three-quarters of an inch deeper inward is a second ring
of muscle that responds to pressure from within and peristaltic
motion. There are, however, methods of relaxing the inner valve to
permit insertion of a foreign object — a butt plug, dildo, or penis.
Certain techniques facilitate anal entry . . . for purposes of ass
play and ass fucking. Lubrication and relaxation are the key.
The lower chamber of the large intestine, the rectum, has a lining of
relatively fragile mucus membrane. Insertion therein of objects or
body parts absolutely requires lubrication. A water-based slippery
emolient is appropriate for silicone dildoes and condoms. Petroleum
lubricants, such as Vaseline, seemingly work well with a bare penis,
but they do have certain failings.
Relaxation is critical for the passive partner — the receiver or
“bottom.” This prevents pain, not to mention possible damage to the
rectal wall, and makes the experience much more enjoyable for both
parties. Preparation and loosening of the receiver’s anus usually
involves gentle insertion of one, then two well-lubricated fingers.
The receiver can aid insertion of fingers and, later, penis or
dildo, by pushing gently out (as when having a bowel movement)
at the moment of entry. If necessary, the receiver can also assist
insertion by reaching back around to pull apart the buttock cheeks.
An experienced bottom can often accept insertion from a well-lubricated
dildo or penis with minimal preparation. A fortunate few can even
climax just from being ass-fucked, with little or no stimulation
of their own “primary” sex organs (vagina/clitoris or penis).
When bottoming, some men get pleasure from stimulation of the
prostate gland, located on the forward wall of the rectum, below and
behind the base of the penis. Feeling the head of the inserter’s
penis poking and rubbing against the prostate is often by itself
sufficient to bring the passive partner to orgasm. Sensations
of friction, stretching, and fullness likewise contribute to the
pleasure of the receiver and may also trigger orgasm. This helps
…End of the part4. To be continued..
MY MOTHER SUSAN part9
Thursday, February 26th, 2009The bathroom door would close all the way with some effort, but it was
sufficiently warped that one had to lean on it in the last inches. She had
simply pushed it toward closed as she walked in. I knew that she would
see the door ajar by inches if she were to sit on the toilet. I waited for her
to come back and push it the remainder of the way, but she didn’t. Instead,
she continued to talk to me as if the door just cracked open was a
convenience and not an embarrassment.
For all our openness, she’d not been this relaxed with me at home.
I strained to hear her intimate sounds. I needn’t have, for when she began
to pee, it was remarkably loud. I could hear her initial tinkle followed by
the characteristic hissing sound of female urination, pee splashing against
the porcelain, ending with the less forceful last squirts dribbling into the
water. I was enthralled with the sounds, for it called to my mind vivid
mental imagery.
As she pulled toilet tissue from the roll, I was suddenly aware that
she’d been talking the entire time and I’d not heard a word. Oh, Lord, I
hope she hadn’t asked me a question.
My heart sank when she said, “Will you?” in a tone that indicated
that this was the second time she’d asked it.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I missed that. Would you say it again, please?”
She laughed and flushed the toilet and as she came out of the
bathroom belting her robe, she smiled and said, “I asked if you had any of
that promised chilled Champaign, and if so, could I have some?”
We spent the next few hours catching up, first one then the other
talking, sipping inexpensive Champaign and once again, sinking into the
easy familiarity we’d discovered. I shared with her the intense
competitiveness I’d experienced in school, the long hours I’d been putting
in, trying desperately to maintain the pace and the feeling of isolation in a
crowd. “Christ, Mom, I haven’t even kissed a girl in months!”
“Poor Uncle Wiggly,” she said. The origin of that expression was
lost to me, but I knew it to be a tongue-in-cheek sympathy.
“Yeah, poor me,” I agreed, smiling. She’d never let me sit on the
pity pot long.
Looking at my watch, I whistled and said, “Even if we rush, we’re
going to be more than fashionably late. You want the shower first or shall
I?”
“You go first. You know how I like to fuss. I’ve got some
primping to do if I’m going to impress your friends.”
“You spend more time doing less making up than anyone I know,”
I complained, not for the first time.
She laughed and reasoned, “You’ll like the result. Now, get
going!”
An hour later, near-record time for her, we were off to the dance,
having given up on the notion of dinner entirely. Our entrance might have
been choreographed, for there was an apparent brief lull in the music as we
entered and people were mostly standing around the edges of the floor, I
thought, just to watch us come in.
My chest was puffed up with pride and self importance, having this
knock-out woman on my arm. She was wearing a dark green, partially
iridescent dress with a flowing, full skirt and a tight bodice, cut shockingly
low. The full upper portions of her breasts were visible and they seemed to
sway and bounce with her step. I kept reminding myself not to stare.
Sometimes it even worked.
“I must look good,” Mother said, “you’ve been staring at me all
night. Thanks.” Suddenly changing the subject, she asked, “Have you
smelled my new perfume?”
I shook my head and leaned toward her neck, as if to smell the
scent behind her ear but she surprised me by pulling the bodice of her dress
away from her breasts and leaning toward me. Suddenly I had an almost
…End of the part9. To be continued..
MY MOTHER SUSAN part7
Tuesday, February 24th, 2009some asexual pedestal labeled MOM, I rapidly came to see her as an
extraordinarily sexy woman. Suddenly, I was in lust.
After all, she wasn’t a dummy and she wasn’t some bimbo. I had
reason to believe that she was a sexually intense person, but because of
conventional morality, she didn’t feel free to share that side of herself with
her son. I’d been successful in developing and easy-going and partially
uninhibited relationship with her. There was an unspoken sexual tease to
be sure, but it remained submerged and unacknowledged. How might I
change? That was the question.
Crudeness would never work. That was a no-brainer. Similarly, a
frontal assault would be ineffective and worse, insulting. While she might
be more susceptible to a secret romantic connection because of my father’s
neglect, it wouldn’t be with me, that was clear.
I’d thought of enticing her into something like a nudist colony, even
mentioned it a couple of times. She was mildly interested, but I knew that
that was no more than a blind alley, an emotional cull de sac, and not even
a very sexual one. I feared the stiff and formal behavior I imagined a nudist
colony to be. Too, I suspected that it would provide at most little more
than an avenue for my voyeurism but no entre into sexuality. Nothing
there, I concluded.
Would some innocent approach move me closer? I remembered
that she’d been willing to allow me to massage her feet, even had been a bit
careless in her posture, at least at first. Might that provide an avenue of
approach?
Then I remembered that my mom liked her wine. She wasn’t a
lush, but it was clear that she didn’t stop drinking just because she began
“to feel it.” More than once she’d said, “Why drink if you don’t want to
feel it. I drink for effect.” I also remembered that when tipsy, she became
something of a sloppy drunk. Not fall-down drunk, but certainly risque
often and careless of appearances. I once overheard her say, “I drink to
make my *friends* more interesting.” This wasn’t a common occurrence,
but I had seen it rarely, and only with friends. Well, I was a friend, wasn’t
I?
—————————————————————–
I was waiting for my mother at the arrival gate. Boy, she looked
good as she stepped into the arrival area, an over-night bag hanging from
her shoulder and wearing a light summer dress, uncharacteristically brief
with a hem line well above her shapely knees.
“Hi, good lookin’.” I said to her as I stood there, hands on hips,
looking her over.
“Don’t just check me out, guy. How about a hug?” she asked,
dropping her bag and stepping into my arms.
Whew! I’d hugged my mother lots of times, but I didn’t recall such
intensity, such a full-body press. I was acutely aware of the pressure of her
breasts pressing into my chest and more, somehow her crotch was riding
on my thigh. I distinctly felt her pubic bone as I held her close and kissed
her, first on the cheeks, and then looking at the joy in her eyes, impulsively,
I planted a wet one on her lips. Did I feel a flash of tongue tip?
That fast. It happened that fast. I didn’t have a woodie when I saw
her, but when I stepped away from that kiss, I’d sprouted a boner. I
thought I detected her eyes flitting across my pelvis, but couldn’t be sure.
To hell with it, I thought. She knows I’m not a monk.
“Have anything more than this?” I asked, picking up her shoulder
bag.
“You kidding? You ask me up for a week end, for a dance, and
you think I’ve got it all in that little bag. Why I wouldn’t go to the tennis
club with that little bag alone.”
“A steamer?” I groaned.
…End of the part7. To be continued..
MY MOTHER SUSAN part4
Saturday, February 21st, 2009seemed, with athletic-looking calves and slender thighs. I’d always
anticipated that I would be a tall man, for my father, at 6′ 2″, was the runt
of his family. Couple that with my mom’s genes and it seemed reasonable
that I’d be tall. It was not to be. At eighteen, we were pretty much the
same height. I knew just where the tips of her breasts hit my chest.
I should mention that my mother had very attractive breasts, a C-
cup with prominent, up-tilted nipples that were often evident despite her
clothes. Sometime later I was to learn that she was one of those women
who were blessed with exceptionally firm, youthful breasts, that never lost
much of their firmness. She is one of those rare females that will have
youthful breasts into her later years. Like intelligence, beauty is given to us
as an accident of birth, no more than a fortuitous role of the genetic dice.
It’s comforting to be part of a line of good stock I was told, but I hadn’t
thought of it in this arena of sexual attractiveness.
While my mother’s figure was model-attractive, it was her facial
features that were eye catching. She had a straight, almost aristocratic
nose and a wide, full mouth. Her prominent cheek bones set off her
unusually attractive eyes. They were hard to describe, her eyes. She had
high, full, unaltered eye brows, that were dark in color in contrast to her
natural auburn hair. But it was the eyes themselves that caught your
attention, for they were a light green-blue with an exotic cast. At times I
thought she might have some Asian blood, but I never got a hint of it in the
rest of her family. In any case, they were striking, often dark and brooding
and at times almost electric. Without altering her facial expression, her
eyes could show humor or joy and, at times, anger. I often wondered what
she looked like when sexually aroused.
But I digress. Back to the awakening of my sexual awareness.
I didn’t set out to seduce my mother, despite the rich and lurid
fantasies I entertained. I held them as deeply secret and guarded as one
would any shameful, licentious desire. The thought was given no more
than masturbatory acknowledgment, as frequent as that was. Still, the gap
between our thoughts and our actions remains hidden from our conscious
awareness by the strength of our denial. So while I might have denied a
plan to seduce her, my actions would have argued differently. I set out to
be her friend and her confidant, to reduce if not break down the
conventional barriers between us. This was largely an unacknowledged
plan of mine. I don’t recall thinking anything more detailed than vague
objectives of getting closer to her.
Over time, I became more open with her about my self. I asked her
opinions of things, including girls and dating and later, sexual things. I
worked at being her emotional intimate. It wasn’t difficult, for she was at
heart an emotionally trusting and open women who, it turned out, was
largely unencumbered by repressive standards. To my surprise, we
gradually became good friends. That I would bond so closely with my
mother was not surprising, given my nature and that fact that my father
was largely an absent force in my life.
I slowly became less conventional in my own modesty. It was not
at all unusual for me to chat with my mother wearing no more than my
Calvin Kleins. I was aware that she studiously avoided looking at my body
when I was so briefly dressed, but she never reprimanded me for
inappropriate attire.
———————————————————————
I became aware that when my dad was away, she usually left her
bedroom door open. I took that as an invitation and often walked in on her
to “chat.” Not infrequently, I’d catch her in her bra and panties. She’d
say, “Whoops,” and slip on a robe, loosely tied. Once, as I walked into her
room, she was walking out of her large closet wearing only an unbelted
robe that swung open as she moved. From a moment only, I saw her nude
body. It was no more than a flash that left nothing more than an after-
image. It was that after-image that I examined so repeatedly. I saw firm,
upthrust breasts, and a flash of dense pubic hair at the base of a flat
abdomen . . . and then she pulled the robe closed without comment.
I’d gone in to ask her if she’d like to play some tennis and for a
moment was tongue tied, standing there, staring at her.
…End of the part4. To be continued..
Kims Apology
Friday, February 6th, 2009
I had dated Kim during my senior year in college. She was pretty,
slender, athletic (which gave her a nice firm body) with light brown
hair that she kept short in a page-boy style. Unfortunately, she also
professed to being a born-again Christian which put a serious damper
on our sex life. I had only ever made it as far as playing with her
(fairly well endowed) boobs through the sweatshirts and sweaters she
usually wore when we went out (you have to understand, this was
Michigan in the winter). I spent a lot of time with her helping with
her homework and even chipping in to finish up one of her programs
when she left for spring break. When graduation finally rolled around
she found a job working for General Motors and that was pretty much
the last I ever heard from her. Once she didn’t need help with her
calculus problems I apparently had become excess baggage. She didn’t
return my phone calls and eventually I got the hint and stopped
calling. The last that I had heard she was signed up with several
different softball and volleyball teams and was too busy to see me.
Six or seven months later towards the end of fall and the beginning
of winter, I was driving on the freeway back to my apartment when I
heard a car beeping it’s horn in the lane to my right. I turned to
look only to see Kim’s smiling face looking back at me from her new
Sunbird (working for an auto company has some advantages). She waved
at me and I smiled and waved back figuring that it would be it would
be impolite to flip her the bird and mouth the phrase “Eat shit and
die bitch!”. About fifteen minutes or so after I arrived back at my
apartment the phone rang and I answered it expecting it to be for one
of my four roommates (while Kim had gone and gotten a job that paid
big bucks, I went to grad school. Big mistake). When I picked it up I
heard that oh so familiar voice, Kim.
“Hi, Dave. When I saw you on the freeway I realized that I hadn’t seen
you in a while so I thought I’d call and see how you’re doing.”
“Oh, not too bad, how about you?”
…..
This mundane sort of drivel went on for a few minutes while I was
tried to figure out what the point of all this was. Eventually the
point became that she “kinda” missed me and would I like to go out
again. Being that I was bored and had no better prospects for that
coming Saturday I said “sure thing”, and told her I would pick her up
at 7:00 and we could go out for a nice dinner. Saturday came and that
afternoon I got another phone call from Kim.
“Would it be all right if we went to my friend’s house instead of
dinner? I haven’t seen her in a long time.”
“No problem.” (I was way too nice in those days).
Now I was starting to get some bad feelings about this. As they
say, it was deja vu all over again. We went to the party and the only
thing interesting that came out of it was that when I was talking to
some of Kim’s friends from college (since Kim had left me to myself
most of the night), I found out that she had seen them about as much
as she saw me. She had been a very bad girl. So far the night was a
total waste so I was hoping I could salvage something from it later on
when we got back to her apartment (her roommate was gone so I didn’t
have to worry about any interruptions). When we arrived, I turned the
lights down low, put the stereo on an appropriate station and uncorked
a bottle of wine I had brought for just this sort of situation. She
poured a couple of glasses and we sat down on the couch for what I
hoped would be some serious passion. Soon my tongue was intertwined
with hers and my fingers were doing a nimble dance across her right
breast.
“Ahh,” I thought, “just like old times”.
I managed to get her shirt untucked and started slowly sliding my
hand up the front when I felt her hand gently push mine away.
“Arrrrrrgh,” I screamed to myself, “just like old times.”
I could see that this was going nowhere fast and decided to bail
out while I still had my sanity. The whole night was a waste and now I
was pissed. I mean, I could have stayed home and watched the WWF
championship grudge match or something equally culturally
enlightening. Anything would have would have been more fun than this.
“My, look at the time. I think I better get going.”
“Wait, why are you leaving?”
“You haven’t changed at all and it will be just as much of a waste
of my time to go out with you now as it was the last time.”
She looked slightly puzzled.
“How should I change?”
With that statement I felt my evil twin stir inside me. I really
couldn’t have cared less if I ever saw this bitch again so there was
no point in being polite about it.
“You can start by taking off your shirt.”
“What!?!?!”
“Take off your shirt or I’m ‘otta here.”
“No! What do you think I am?”
“An anal retentive little bitch. But that’s beside the point. See
ya. Have a nice life.”
By that time I had my shoes tied and I headed for the door.
“Wait.”
I turned. Kim just stood there looking nervous and more that a bit
scared. I stood there, looked at her for a few seconds then raised my
eyebrows and said,
“Well?”
Slowly, she raised her had to the top button of her blouse and
unbuttoning it with exquisite slowness. She did it that way because
her hands were trembling and she was unsure of what she was doing, but
it looked like a classic strip tease. My evil twin stirred again along
with my dick (they are closely related). Now things were looking up.
Maybe this evening wouldn’t be a waste after all. She finished undoing
all the buttons and slipped the blouse off her shoulders. Then she
just stood there, arms at her side holding the blouse in one hand. She
had on a plain white bra (I decided I could work on her undergarment
fashion sense later. Right now we had to get a few things straight
between us.) and that along with the tight blue jeans she was wearing
and her short haircut, she looked like she belonged in a Sears catalog
(like I said, I could work on her fashion sense later). I smiled.
“Now the bra.”
She obeyed without question, reaching behind her back to unhook it
and sliding it off over her arms and dropping it to the floor. Her
breasts were magnificent. Firm and high, a little larger that a
grapefruit with huge nipples about the size of pencil erasers. By now
I had a huge shit-eating grin on my face and the beginnings of a huge
hardon. I sat down on the couch so I could admire the view and she
asked,
“Is this what you wanted?”
She had regained some of her composure now but that vanished quickly
when I said,
“Yes, but we’re not done yet.”
“I’m not taking off any more.”
…End of the part1. To be continued..
Horny Bastards part5
Thursday, January 29th, 2009 cum oozing the walls of her cunt. Her body arching on my arms as I
raised her body towards me. I released her bound and she collapsed on
my shoulders. Wrapped around each other, we rocked on the bed, until we
slowly slid down on the sheets and cradled each other to sleep.
I awoke, feeling Melissa’s arms around me. She was circling her
fingers around my chest. She was watching me…emotionless.
“I…I’m sorry…” I said confused, feeling guilty. I needed
to say something.
“Don’t be…” she replied. “We both needed each other…”
“It happened because we both wanted it to happen.”
We were both quiet. I stared at the dark ceiling, and she
stared at me…
“I have to leave tomorrow…” I said suddenly. “I cannot
stay here.”
“Where will you go?” she asked concerned.
“I’ve decided to go to Florida for awhile and stay with
my cousin.”
She was speechless…
“Stay with me longer…” she whispered.
I didn’t answer. I held her head to my chest and pulled her
body close. I started to comb my fingers through her hair…
“I have to go…” I whispered. “Frank will be back soon…”
Mellisa was sad to see me go. I told her I would be
staying with my cousin in Florida for a few months. I needed to get
away. Our night of passion was something we’ll always remember. I
suppose it was meant to happen. All these years we’ve been friends, we
tried to deny ourselves that we are ‘physically attracted’ to each other.
I guess we were only afraid to jeopardize our friendship. I’ve never
really imagined how it could be possible for friends to make-love, and
still be friends after? I’ve always wondered if it was possible to
satisfy sexual needs through friends who seek of the same. Sort of a
“get-it when need-it” thing, with no strings, since both parties seek
only physical release. I guess, we were one of the few….
I could remember the times when we were a freshman in college.
I was 18, and she was 17 turning 18. I would visit her in the dorm
because I was bored. Her roommate would usually be out, and we would
spend hours talking in her dimly lit room. She would only be wearing a
Large shirt, her hard nipples etched underneath the shirt. She would sit
on her small bed while I sat on the floor facing her — with my arms
resting on the sheets. We would watch TV and comment on how actors have
sex. Sometimes, when the movie gets hot and steamy, we would catch each
other looking. We laughed at the thought. Usually, to snap ourselves out,
we would joke about each other; saying things like:
“Not with those lil’ tits I won’t” (ha ha)
“Not with that lil’ prick I won’t either.” (ha ha)
One summer afternoon I came over to her dorm. The minute I
saw her, I was stunned. I remember her wearing this tight red tank-top
that hugged her figure very well. Her tits hung beautifully, and as
usual, she didn’t wear any bra. I was speechless…
“How do you like my tank top?” she asked pulling the shirt
down her waste, exposing the exquisite curves of her breasts. “I just
bought it today…”
“I…uh…duh…I like it!” I said mumbling.
“GAGO! (Mental)” she said in Filipino with her american
accent. “I know what you’re thinking…”
“You do?” I said innocently.
“Uh-hum” she grinned.
“What is it? ” I dared. “What am I thinking?”
“YOU CAN’T have what you’re thinking. HA!” she laughed.
“SIRA! (Crazy)” I told her in ‘TAGALOG’.
Melissa rarely spoke ‘TAGALOG’ (her mom’s native language).
Her mom spoke to her in english most of the time, probably because her
father was caucasian. I encouraged her to speak. In a way, I get to
practice my ‘TAGALOG’.
I spent the whole day in her dorm. We talked about everything.
We talked about dates, guys, girls, people we hate, and people we love.
But everytime, we always end-up talking about sex. I suppose there is
something about it that intrigues both of us…Her roommate was out,
and I was thankful because she’s such a BITCH. We sat on the floor,in
the living room talking, and that evening while we were on the topic of
guys, hormones, and sex drive, I was complaining a lot about the heat.
“Geesus…It’s hot. Isn’t it hot? It’s hot.” I complained.
“Gosh! Why don’t you just take your shirt off…” She suggested.
“You don’t mind?” I asked.
“No, It’s OK…”
As soon as I took off my shirt, she jumped up and screamed,
“Oh my God! You have hairs around your nipples?!” she asked
curiously. “…and what’s this? You have a few on your chest.” she
asked surprised poking my nipples with her forefinger.
“Don’t…” I said. “Stop pulling the hairs…I’m saving them. OK?”
She was grinning a stupid grin.
“Can I touch them?” she asked acting coy.
“HUH? Well…Go ahead.”
She rubbed around my nipples feeling the hairs. *FUCK* I thought
to myself. She noticed the hairs trailing down my shorts from my stomach.
She seemed so curious…She started to feel the hairs on my stomach…
“Why do guys get hairy?” she asked still trailing her fingers.
“We just are…HORMONES…and you’re rubbing my trail.” I said
with a smile. I felt my blood pressure rising, among other things.
“What?…You’re trail?” she asked confused.
“Yeah…that’s what’s called a TREASURE TRAIL.” I said smirking.
“The TRAIL leads to my TREASURE…” She pushed me away laughing.
We laughed and laughed about it.
Later on, we still kept talking about SEX. We got into a heated
debate about masturbation. It was really stupid, but she was not about
to give-up…
“Guys masturbate all the time! We women never do that.” she
pointed-out. “When we want it, we get it.”
“What are you talking about? Women do it too.” I explained. “Why
do you think they made vibrators in the first place?”
“Women didn’t invent vibrators, MEN did.” she retorted.
“Well…if women weren’t so picky about the kind of pricks they
want, they’d get it more often, also if WOMEN didn’t force MEN to stick
their dicks in other holes where it’s not suppose to be, MEN would not
have to invent a vibrating DILDO in the first place!” I said laughing.
Ha Ha Ha…Ha Ha Ha…
“You’re GROSS…Ha ha ha…”she said laughing.
A few minutes later, we settled down with a grin on our face.
“Can I ask you something?” Melissa said feeling hesitant.
“Do YOU…masturbate?”
“What?” I said surprised. “You really want me to answer that?”
“Yeah!…You don’t have to, you know.” she assured.
“Well…uh…ofcourse. All guys do…” I said embrassed and
somewhat guilty.
“Why?”
“…uh…sometimes guys get horny…and we need some release, if
we don’t, we get irritable.” I said, somehow feeling my stomach churn.
*Where is this going?*
“What makes you guys horny?” she asked innocently.
“Lots of things…”
“Like what?”
“Sometimes, we get horny by what we see. Or sometimes by someone’s
touch.”
“Oh?….hmmm” she said. I saw her eyes light up, reavealing a
devious idea. She moved closer to where I sat and slowly said….
“Does this make you horny?” She asked stretching her tank top all
the way down her waist, tracing her breasts underneath the material.
I nodded my head.
“Does this make you horny?” she asked again softly, rubbing her
hand on my bare chest, circling her fingers around my nipples.
I nodded my head. *Don’t* I wanted her to stop, but I didn’t.
I felt a tingle in my groin, something is happening.
She stared at my body and trailed her fingers down my belly
button. She ran her fingers up and down my body…
We were silent for a few seconds…
“I haven’t seen a guy…masturbate before.” she finally said
breaking the silence.
I was feeling VERY VERY HORNY. She probably was too.
“W…would you like me to show you?” I said uneasy.
* SILENCE… *
“Yes.” she replied. Then I said, “Put your hand on my crotch.”
She placed her right hand on my crotch. Her touch made my dick
sensitive. Her hand throbbed with my dick as it started to harden from
inside my jeans. She had a look of curiousity on her face.
“Should I go on?” I asked whispering under my breath.
She nodded watching me intently.
I carefully unzipped my fly and unbuttoned my jeans. I watched
her reaction to my every move. I was being careful, and still uneasy. Yet
I went on. I was very turned on at her interest.
I reached inside my Calvins, and took my rod out.
I noticed Melissa’s eyes widen, she caught me glancing at her.
She didn’t say anything, so I continued.
We sat facing each other on the carpet floor. I gripped my rod
and began to jerk it…Melissa watched me. Faster…Slower…I stroked
my dick methodically rubbing the head on occasion. I enjoyed watching
her watch me. Her curiousity intrigued me. Suddenly, almost instictively,
Melissa caressed my balls. She liked the feel of the hair underneath.
We did this for a couple of minutes, jerking and caressing…
“I want to see you cum…” she said from under her breath.
I stared at her.
I felt the tingles trail from my legs, and my groin started
to shiver. I jacked faster, eager to reach orgasm…
I started to gasp, and breathe heavily from inside my throat.
“What are you feeling?” she asked.
“I feel IT…uhhh” I murmurred. I jacked slower.
“Where do you feel it?”
“In my groin…hhh…in my legs…hhhh…inside.” I gasped.
“I could feel it rising inside…”
I saw Melissa bite her lower lip as she watched me climax.
Faster I jerked-off, and soon I began to tense…*uhhh..hhh…*
I felt my cum rise inside my balls and up my dick. *hhhh..hhhh* The
pre-cum dripped out, and I shot my cum violently, shot after shot of
white hot semen, showering my navel and spilling some on the carpet.
I felt I was choking, gasping for air.
Melissa watched in wonder as I breathed a sigh of relief. She
came closer reaching to touch the cum on my navel with her finger.
“…You’re cum is so white…it’s like milk…” she said
fingering the white fluid.
I quickly grabbed the kleenex and wiped myself clean. Still
breathing heavily, I tried to compose myself.
“I…I think I should go now.” I said hastily as I grabbed
my shirt and zipped up my pants. “You’re roommate would be back soon.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow…” I regaining my senses.
“I..I’m sorry Melissa” I said feeling embarassed and guilty.
* SILENCE *
“Don’t be…we both wanted it to happen.” she assured.
Somehow, those words brought me out of the memories. I never
had sex with Melissa, until that evening I had the fight with Joe and
I ended up at her house. That episode with Melissa happened only once,
and it never happened again. We pretended it never happened. I didn’t
expect another encounter to happen, and this time, we REALLY did it.
I said goodbye to Melissa, and I promised her I’ll let her know
when I get back from Florida. I knew she was sad, and I really wanted to
be with her. But I couldn’t do it. I cannot let myself take the place of
her husband. I know how much she REALLY loves him.
-Humourfgoosetxt part10
Thursday, November 6th, 2008 humility. But he still wanted to honor the general, so he made the next
sculpture in silver.
But again the general was furious.
“I want bronze,” he said, “I want bronze!”
This time the artist made the sculpture out of bronze as asked. When
the sculpture was revealed to the general, he was overjoyed at the wonderful
bronze likeness. The artist then complimented the general on his deep
humility.
This notion confused him very much.
“But why did you want sculpture made of bronze?”
“Why? I’ll tell you why,” said the general.
“Because General Minh prefer bronze!”
[Father Goose #51]
Maggie and Tom are a couple with a passion for ice cream. They
stopped at the local ice creamery, then returned to their car with double
scoops of chocolate almond fudge.
No sooner had they settled back to enjoy their cones than two birds
landed on the car hood and began to chirp and flutter and peck at the
windshield. Finally Maggie rolled down her window and placed the rest of
her cone on the hood. The birds quieted down and began to eat the cone.
“Maggie, you’re wonderful,” said Tom. “How did you think
of doing that?”
“Oh, it wasn’t hard to figure out,” said Maggie. “It’s just another
example of stilling two birds with one’s cone.”
[Father Goose #52]
After several years of happy marriage, a man was getting ready for his
anniversary. Their two children had been shipped off to the grandparents -
a very nice dinner for two had been ordered from the local caterer, and he
and his wife were preparing for a very quiet romantic evening at home. He
had already gotten his wife’s anniversary present – a diamond brooch, but
decided that a further touch would be neccesary. His wife had a fondness for
gardening and flowers, her favorite being Anemones, and he thought he would
present her with such a plant to replace one that had been knocked over by
their younger child several days earlier. So, on his way home from work,
just before he picked up the warming tray from the Caterer and the bottle
of champagne from the liquor store (Dom Perignon, of course), he stopped at
the Florist to pick up a live Anemone. Alas, however, the florist had sold his
last one earlier in the afternoon and was not going to get in a new shipment
until Monday. Heartbroken though he was, the man was persuaded by the
florist to instead buy a Boston Fern, which were on sale that week.
Arriving home, after carrying in the food and champagne, the man
presented his wife with the fern, and added that he had another suprise for
her. As he reached for the brooch, he mentioned about his first choice of
plants, and was about to apologize, but his wife stilled him.
“After all,” she said, “with fronds like these, who needs Anemones.”
[Father Goose #53]
It was the time of the year for the caretaker of the Church to
clean, fix, maintain, and restore the character of the Church, and this
year those duties included painting the steeple, which had not been done
in several years. He dutifully went about the work, erecting scaffolding,
and climbing up, taking his paint, his brushes, water to clean the brushes,
and a bit of drinking water, since it was a fairly hot day.
While he was painting, he realized that he would not have enough
paint to finish the steeple, and he did not feel at all like climbing down
the scaffolding and going back to the workshop to mix some more paint.
Seeing the water for washing the brushes, he came up with the idea to
make the paint he had go further, so he added the water to his paint, and
continued on.
As he was nearing completion of the steeple, he realized that the
paint he had, albeit watered down, would still not be enough to finish the
job, so he added what was left of his drinking water and finished the job
with just a few drops of paint to spare.
More releived than anything else, he climbed down the scaffolding
and started to hurry back to his workshop behind the Church, for after all,
he was dehydrated, and his unwashed brushes were beginning to set, when there
was a Clap of Thunder, a Bolt of Lightening, the sky blackened and a
heavenly Voice proclaimed:
Repaint! Repaint! And thin no more!
[Father Goose #54]
Three guys, one from Russia, one from Czechoslovakia and one from
Poland, are in Canada for a conference. They decide to take advantage
of their rare visit by doing something that people do when they’re in
Canada.
The Canadian diplomats suggest a camping trip, and, ignoring the
forest rangers’ warnings of recent bear sightings in the area they plan
to visit, the three travelers set off.
Three days later, the men are long overdue. The Canadian forest
service dispatches a search party to the ares, and sure enough, they
discover a ravaged and deserted campsite and three bloated bears lying
dead a few yards away — two she-bears and a he-bear.
One of the team is sent forward to investigate, and he promptly
knifes open the two females. Just as he had feared, the Russian and the
Pole are inside, and the ranger returns to his companions and reports
his findings.
“What about the third guy?” asks one of the team members.
“Oh,” replies the first nonchalantly, “the Czech’s in the male.”
[Father Goose #55]
A revolution in a small African country paralyzed an English
firm that made rare-earth alloys; most of the Muth tribe, which
ran mines producing the needed ores, had been overrun and thrown into
makeshift concentration camps. The new rulers refused to sell any ore,
so the firm hired Glore and Landry, Ltd., basically a private
espionage service, who sent in their best man, Roger Hope. “Do whatever it
takes, Roger,” said Sir John Landry, his boss, “but get that ore moving again.”
Hope was an unorthodox idealist: he gathered together the few Muth
still at liberty and built a guerilla force that broke open the camps and
pulled off a nearly bloodless coup. When he returned to England,
Hope asked his firm to fake his death and help him assume a new identity.
Sir John was amazed. “Is it all the publicity? Will it keep you from
being effective?”
“It’s not that, Sir John,” answered Hope. “It’s just that I’m sick
and tired of being called:
Hope of Glore and Landry, free-er of the Muth.”
[Father Goose #56]
“So, how did the class reunion go?” I asked.
“Kinda fun. Some sad moments, though. Remember Lucy? I found out
she died,” he answered.
“How awful! What happened?”
“She got a job at a chemical plant. Keith Simons was working there.
You know what those two were like. Couldn’t think of anything but sex.” I
nodded. “Anyway, one lunch break they sneaked out to a favorite spot right
in the middle of the factory and started making love. They rolled under a
railing and fell right into a vat of Methyl Orange that some idiot had left
open. Tragicomic, y’know.” He paused for effect. “It reminds me of a Beatles
song.”
“Huh? Which one?”
“Lucy in the Dye with Simons.”
A loyal Beatles fan, I hit him.
[Father Goose #57]
Friar Laurence told Romeo that Juliet was getting very drunk every
night and suffering massive hangovers every morning. Romeo flew to his beloved.
It was true: she was an odd shade of pale green and had bloodshot eyes. At
first she wouldn’t admit why she drank, but at last she confessed that though
she loved him, she couldn’t stand his flatulence. Romeo explained that it
was due to a distant relative, an Englishwoman who had earned the gratitude
of her King and been made Dame Commander of the British Empire [anachronism
here, but there's worse to come], but was now impoverished. Her Italian
relatives, out of sympathy, had made her their cook, and she was feeding them
hearty English fare which disagreed with Romeo’s sensitive bowels. Romeo
kept eating her food because he hadn’t the heart to tell her. But Friar
Laurence, said Romeo, had a solution: in the Veronese catacombs there was a
shrine with relics of an obscure saint. A night of praying there, followed
by a vow that he would control his sphincters, would cure him. Juliet was so
overjoyed that her next speech didn’t quite scan properly:
JULIET: O Romeo, Romeo, therefore fartest thou, Romeo!
Deny thy fodder and refuse thy Dame.
Or if thou wilt not, be butt-sworn, my love,
And I’ll no longer be so crapulous.
Of course they didn’t live happily ever after…
–
FATHER OF THE BRIDE PART ONE part10
Wednesday, October 29th, 2008Chapter 18. Mother and Daughter
Chapter 19. Barbara
Chapter 20. Lisa
Chapter 21. Secret Codes
…End of the part10. To be continued..
Humourfairnesstxt part2
Monday, October 27th, 2008 semester abroad in England. During your three months hiatus, Mr.
Thomas has become — to put it politely — rather tense. I’d
greatly appreciate if you might find it in your heart (among other
parts of you anatomy, including those closest to your heart) to
relieve Mr. Thomas of his burdens. With his upcoming trip to
England, I believe that you are in an excellent position to try a
variety of excellent position with my most loyal campaign
working…
Completely dead pan and serious, Quill read the remainder of
the letter. Needless to say, it became much more graphic including
the candidates reference to handcuffs, chocolate sauce and whip
cream. When Quill finished, she placed her copy of the letter down
and turned to me. “Are you or are you not the author of said
letter?”
“She was my girlfriend and it was a private correspondence,”
I defended.
“So! You admit it,” Quill replied slapping her palm on the
table. “You admit to proposing a variety of sexual acts with a
woman in a foreign country and you completely ignored the
international implications of your sexual harassment.”
“International?” I asked. “She was an American and my
girlfriend. We were intimate at the time.”
“So, you admit to having a sexual relationship with her, a
member of the opposite sex. A man making love to a woman!
No! Further! Questions!”
Anna Richards, distinguished senator from Texas, was next. I
fended off several thousand more questions relating to my
“permanent record”, including a spit ball incident during the
third grade. Then she brought out the big guns and asked, “In your
parent’s home, what type of VCR do they own?”
Here it was, the buy American tirade. “It’s a Toshiba.”
“And what type of VCR did they have at the William Adam S.
Preston Junior High where you attended the seventh grade.”
“Shit,” I thought to myself, having learned my lesson about
muttering under my breath. “It was a Toshiba.”
Senator Richards knew my back was against the wall on this
one. “And would you like to elaborate what happened when your
seventh grade health class watched the film on sexual education.”
“The VCR malfunctioned,” I said with solemn sincerity. Hey,
if politicians could gloss over the truth, I could.
The senator from Texas was not nearly satiated. “And what
caused this supposed malfunction?”
“My guess would be a series of encoded infrared pulses.”
“This is a congressional hearing,” she said coolly. “We
don’t guess here. And what caused those `infrared pulses.’”
“Most likely some type of oscillator, a crystal, driven
by a power source.”
“Enough of this tomfoolery!” She whipped out a folder
emblazoned with large black letters, “Clark Thomas’s Permanent
Record.” She selected a page from the rather thick dossier and
began to read: “During the documentary “Your Growing Body,” Clark
[Thomas] used a remote control brought from home to freeze the
picture whenever a part of the female anatomy was shown and to
fast forward through shots of the male anatomy…” Richards put
the paper down and asked, “Should I go on. Should I humiliate by
announcing your sentence?” She paused and added snidely, “One
week’s detention.”
To fully appreciate what I’d done, you had to picture the
scene. The frantic teacher trying to figure out the VCR’s
controls as the tv was filled with a pair of breasts in an
advanced stage of development. The girls turning red and the boys
laughing. I didn’t bother to elaborate about how the vice principal
kept bursting out in laughter when he tried to lecture me. I didn’t
tell her about the giggles that came from the conference the vice
principal had with my parents about the incident. I didn’t tell her how
I was elected president of my class next year, selected as captain of my
soccer team and the numerous other junior high type honors that were
rained on me. I simply said, “I am humbled by your revelations.”
She smiled smugly believe she had humiliated me beyond all
words. “No further questions.”
Senator Stan Nunn, an expert on the military and foreign
affairs, was next. At least he was a male interviewer. After
taking a sip of water, clearing his throat, wiping his brow with a
handkerchief, loosening his tie, tightening his tie and strumming
his fingers on the desk nervously while loosening his tie, he
asked, “December 7, 1941 where were you?”
That was a simply one to answer. “I wasn’t born yet.”
“So you had no fore-knowledge of Japan’s impending attack on
Pearl Harbor?” he ventured but not without some hesitation.
“Obviously not,” I responded.
He quickly terminated his portion of the interview. “No
further questions.” He and old “pants around the ankles”
celebrated their victory by giving each other a nervous half
smile.
To say I’d gotten annoyed at the entire proceedings was an
understatement. Congresswoman Bethanne Dole was next. “Is it
true that you had intercourse with a woman named Sherry Hewson
after you’d offered her temporary lodging in your apartment?”
I could feel the wisps of steam coming from my ears as I
glared Ms. Dole. I could really care about my first kiss in the
eighth grade or spitballs in the third grade. Sherry was a taboo
subject. In my best imitation of a “send chills down your spine”
militant lesbian reaction, I responded, “She and I were lovers.”
Dole shuffled her notes trying to thwart off my “if looks
could kill” glare. “After engaging in sexual relations with Ms.
Hewson, did you not then assault her only sibling while she and her
mother watched?”
“That’s it!” I shouted standing up. “Sherry and I had been
on two or three dates. No big deal. Then she calls me one night
in tears and says her brother has beaten her up, again. So I let
her stay and yes, we made love. But if your courts had kicked her
brother out of the house, the first or fifth time he’d beaten her
up, Sherry wouldn’t have been at my place having consenting sex.
No, he was a minor and the courts refused remove him from the home.”
All ten of them were silent. The clicking of the stenographer
had stopped and only myself and the hum of the camera continued
unabated. “After she found a place of her own, I went to her
house to help her move. Her brother picked a fight and I finished
it. Christ, Sherry’s mom even took me out to dinner to say thank
you.”
Meanwhile, in the boiler room in the basement, the most recent
Supreme Court nominee, also named Clark Thomas, sat talking with an
old coot wearing a shirt with the name “Dutch” sewn on it. “Do
you know how to use a mop ringer?” choked Dutch as lit up another
unfiltered Marlborough.
Nominee Clark Thomas solemnly replied, “Although I’d like to
answer that at this time, I cannot venture an opinion on the
matter.”
Meanwhile over in the White House, the President sat back and
smiled, knowing that all along his nominee, Clark Thomas, was
currently being interviewed by Dutch, a man who’d inhaled pure
ammonia on a daily basis for the last fifty years. This was
destine to be the easiest confirmation hearing in the history of
the Supreme Court. The President was not completely oblivious to the
plight of Clark Thomas, twenty year old college student in search of a
summer job. After being grilled by the congressional committee, the
President planned on rewarding young Clark by having him appointed
as a congressional intern.
–
THE WATCH FROM DEVIL’S TRIANGLE
Sunday, October 5th, 2008
Ellen and I had been in the Bahamas for 3 days when we were sitting
beneath a blue and white striped sunbrella at an outdoor lounge, talking with
a couple who’d allowed us to join them at the last available table.
We were attired as typical tourists: they were in swim wear; I was
wearing a flat Bahamian straw hat, aloha shirt and walking shorts, and Ellen
was attired in a white sundress with a broad yellow ribbon tied into a
headband around her black hair. Now, as Ellen laughed at a joke, the ribbon’s
long ends were flapping about in the warm breeze. It was difficult making
conversation above the pounding surf and whistling wind.
Jeff, a brawny six-foot-plus with a booming voice, leaned across the
table and asked, “You here in a boat?” His reddish hair was tousled by the
breeze. His stunning blond wife, Virginia, was leaning back in a sun-chair,
which squeaked as she fidgeted and appraised us.
“We flew over,” I told him. Two years before, we’d been here in our
twenty-foot boat. A troublesome storm convinced me I’d never take anyone
else in a small craft, so this time we’d flown commercial, as we have each
time since. “We’re checked in at the hotel.”
Jeff gulped his drink, gestured toward the distant docks, and murmured,
“We’re staying at the marina. They charge an arm and a leg to hook up to
electricity over there. We’re down here from Texas. Where you from?” When I
told him, he responded, “Yeah, well your state’s doing a lot better than mine.
You have Disney World and a state lottery. We have these closed down oil
wells and one hell of a lot of empty offices. We’re thinking of moving to
Florida.”
I grinned, “Doesn’t make Floridians too happy to hear that. Too many
people coming in now. I tell people who’re thinking of moving there that
alligators come out of the lakes at night and drag away little babies.” He and
Virginia chuckled.
Ellen’s a natural conversationalist, but now she was particularly
animated; she’d won them over. Jeff invited us for a tour on their sloop to an
out-island. We declined, explaining that we’d made reservations for an early
dinner at a local calypso club, so Jeff offered, “O-kay, what if we make it an
evening trip, around 7, 7:30? Think you could make that, ol’ buddy?”
I was considering it when Ellen grabbed my arm and blurted, “Come ON,
Bill, let’s DO it!” Turning to Jeff and Virginia, she smiled, “Takes him
forever to make changes in plans!”
I grinned, “Sounds like a great idea.”
That evening, over dinner, Ellen admitted her excitement. I’d noticed her
observing Jeff’s handsome, muscular features at the cabana. She remarked, “I
think they have MORE than just a tour in mind. We’ll see.” We skipped the
floorshow, donned our swim suits in the hotel room, and walked down to the
harbor where Jeff’s 38-foot sloop bobbed amid a line of boats at the unpainted
docks.
Virginia was tossing crumbs at a flock of seagulls swooping and
squawking around her. Jeff looked up from his blue canvas deck chair and
acknowledged,”You’re right on time.” He cast off as soon as we climbed aboard.
The Atlantic was now red beneath the setting sun. I noticed Ellen and Bill
stealing glances at the other now and then, until finally, they were openly
staring. When she turned away, Jeff gazed at her long legs and full,
half-exposed breasts thrusting out beneath the one-piece black suit, completely
bare on the sides except for four thin black ribbons on each side securing the
front and back.
By the time Jeff cut the engines, a half mile from the island, stars were
blinking like diamonds on black velvet. This close to the island, the five-
foot waves we’d plowed through most of the way had calmed. The waters’
crests, silver beneath the moonlight, softly slapped against the hull. The sloop
rocked gently as Virginia and Ellen clambered up the galley stairs to the
deck. Jeff anchored as we stared at the scene off the bow. Beneath the puffs
of gleaming clouds, the island seemed to float on the midnight-blue waters.
Virginia stood on her toes, stretching her arms, as she said, “This
breeze is wonderful!” She casually reached to unhook the top to her red and
white striped bikini; that isn’t unusual for boaters when the sun’s up, but
this was night. Ellen smiled as if to say, “I told you so.” I stared at
Virginia’s breasts, firmed by exercize. Her legs were as long and well-formed
as Ellen’s. She stretched again, her blond hair blowing in the soft warm
gusts. Outlined by the Bahamian moon, she looked like a goddess.
So Ellen slipped out of her suit. She stood nude alongside Virginia, who
turned to evaluate the similarity of their figures; “You’re beautiful,” she
told Ellen, staring down at Ellen’s shaved mound. The contrast between
Virginia, the half-nude blond, and Ellen, the nude brunette, was stunning.
Jeff’s engorged manhood had been evident even before then. But now,
appraising them, he smiled, turning to me as he whispered, “Are you two
swingers? You see, Virginia isn’t, but she’s a ‘watcher,’ and if you are,
we’re interested.” Then, he added, as if I might misunderstand, “I mean I’m
straight, not gay.”
I grinned, almost laughing. I could hardly wait for his reaction when I
told him, “Actually, Jeff, I’m a watcher too. Think Virginia would be jealous
if she saw you with Ellen, while your wife and I watched?”
When we told Ellen and Virginia, the coincidence seemed neither as
humorous nor as surprising to them as I thought it was. I learned later that
Jeff and Virginia had met many other agreeable couples during their travels.
We made small talk as if no one had mentioned “watching.” Ellen stared
at Jeff’s face and body, occasionally looking down at Jeff’s penis bulging
beneath his red biniki trunks. Under a pretense that we going down the stairs
to turn on the stereo, we made our way down to the dimness of the sleeping
quarters where moonlight streamed through a line of portholes. Virginia and I
stood in the doorway. Jeff and Ellen sat on the bunk, looking through compact
disks, selected one, and inserted it into the overhead stereo as Virginia poured
wine. When Ellen passed a wine glass to Jeff, their hands brushed. I could
almost feel the electricity as their eyes locked. Ellen’s soft breasts heaved.
Setting aside the glass on a bunkside table, Jeff leaned to kiss her neck,
moving down to her breasts. She moaned lowly, her lips trembling.
Virginia nuzzled her breasts against my side as I put my arm around her.
Leaning into the doorjam, we gaped, breathing heavily. Jeff and Ellen melded
in a deep kiss, their arms entertwined. Ellen’s hips rotated softly in desire as
she lay alongside Jeff. Virginia looked up at me, her lips trembling, her blue
eyes wild with passion, as she muttered, “God, aren’t they beautiful?” I
agreed, my shaft swelling beneath my trunks. Ellen, her nipples taut,
disengaged to slide to floor on her knees. Her lips grazed his thighs. Gulping,
as if in fear, she took Jeff’s long, raging cock in her mouth. He closed his
eyes, groaning, as her full, pale lips slid over his glistening member. Tears of
passion welled in Ellen’s eyes as she moaned. Her tongue and slender fingers
glided along his dark rubbery shaft.
Now, as Virginia peeled off her bottoms, her hand was massaging her
clitoris. I slipped out of my trunks as I stroked my hardness. Virginia pressed
against me. I slithered an arm around her, cupping a breast, her nipple
standing out like a spike through my fingers. Ellen’s eyes were now wide with
passion as he thrust into her greedy mouth. The intensity of their tempo
increased. Ellen moaned in rapture. His cock had ballooned to massive
proportions, straining her lips as she whimpered.
Withdrawing from her mouth, Jeff lifted her to the bunk beneath a line
of portholes. He kneeled on the floor between her long legs, kissing her
shaved mound. Ellen wailed in desire! Her hips gyrated beneath his tongue’s
manipulations. Her body quaking, she locked her thighs about his head, lost in
their own distant universe of adulterous passion. The smell of their lust
permeated the warm night air.
Virginia placed her arms around my waist, her hips grinding her clitoris
against my leg. “They’re so beautiful,” she breathed ecstatically. She looked
down, her lips trembling as I pumped my shaft.
Jeff’s strong arms enveloped Ellen’s quivering body. He hovered above her
splayed legs, his shaft swaying above her pussy which was quivering up to
touch it. Her lips were parted, her eyes wild and fearful of his large
instrument pushing apart her vaginal folds. She wrapped her legs around his
hips, drawing him deeply within, and yelled out in painful pleasure. Her
vagina was stretching to accommodate his large tool. They shared a sigh as he
buried his full length.
Whimpering, Ellen turned to watch us. Virginia had grasped my cock and
was stroking it as I squeezed the fullness of her breasts. The sight drove Ellen
into ecstasy as her arms enveloped Jeff. She bucked against him, meeting every
thrust into her steaming cave. Virginia’s nostrils flared, her breath huffing,
her mouth open in wild desire. I felt a kinship with Virginia as we watched
our respective mates, united in sin, her husband’s cock plunging into my wife’s
vagina; she mewed, “Oh, god, Bill, don’t you FEEL it happening BETWEEN
them, between US?”
And, yes, I did. Virginia’s soft fist pumped my shaft as she grinded her
blond mound against my leg. Her lips brushed my neck and ears.
Ellen’s head thrashed from side to side, her wide eyes rolling as Jeff’s
thickness filled her. She wailed as her tremoring arms encircled his neck, her
hips lifting to meet her lover’s. Her groin swirled beneath his fervid fucking
as she threw back her head, pleading for him not to stop. His jaw slackened
as he stared down at her, his eyes glazed with lust. Then, Ellen screamed, “Oh
GOD Jeff, I’m going to COME! Please come WITH me!” She mewed helplessly,
her body shivering with the building climax.
Virginia’s hand pumped furiously as she looked up to me, parting her lips.
We kissed deeply. Everyone was moaning, sharing the climactic thunder that
was engulfing us in an emotional hurricane.
At the last moment, Virginia spread her long, taut legs, guiding my cock
into her creaming depths. She screamed in pleasure. Then it happened, the
sexual energy crackling throughout the cabin! I exploded as everyone was
wailing; Ellen and Virginia were crying and writhing madly. Virginia fell to her
knees, taking my length deeply into her mouth. Ellen and Jeff now turned on
their stomachs to watch as Virgina brought me again to hardness, her hair
tossing as her lips slid along my full length. I’d lost track of time until my
semen burst into Virginia’s throat. Ellen and Jeff were applauding. Virginia
bumped to the floor, her arms around my knees, as we turned to look at our
spouses on the bunk. They were laughing.
That was the only time that either Virginia or I had experienced even
that slight an adultery with anyone. Neither of us were sure our spouses truly
understood, but what we had was just perfect.
Humourdoittxt
Monday, September 29th, 2008 Archive-author:
Archive-title: How They Do It’s
CANONICAL LIST OF ‘HOW THEY DO IT’s
A king does it with his official seal.
AI hackers do it with rules.
AI hackers do it breast first.
AI hackers make a big production out of it.
AI hackers do it with robots.
AI hackers do it robotically.
AI hackers do it artificially.
AI hackers do it depth first.
AI hackers do it with robots
APL programmers do it with stile
APL programmers are functional.
APL programmers do it backwards.
APL programmers do it backwards.
Accountants do it with double entry.
Accountants do it with balance.
Accountants are good with figures.
Acrophobes get down.
Actors do it on stage.
Actors do it on cue.
Actors play around
Ada programmers do it by committee.
Ada programmers do it in packages.
Advertisers use the “new, improved” method.
Advertising majors do it with style.
Aerobics instructors do it until it hurts.
Aerospace Engineers do it with lift and trust.
Agents do it undercover.
Air Traffic Controllers do it in the dark.
Air Traffic Controllers tell pilots how to do it.
Air traffic controllers do it by radar.
Airlifters penetrate further, linger longer, and drop a bigger load
Alpinists do it higher.
Ambulance drivers come quicker.
Analog hackers do it continuously.
Anglers do it with worms.
Animators do it 24 times a second
Ansi does it in the standard way.
Archeologists like it old.
Architects have great plans.
Arsonist do it with fire.
Artillerymen do it with a burst.
Artists do it by design.
Artists are exhibitionists.
Artists do it with emotion
Artists do it with creativity.
Assassins do it from behind.
Assembler programmers do it one-to-one.
Assembly line workers do it over and over.
Astronauts do it in orbit.
Astronomers do it while gazing at Uranus.
Astronomers can’t do it with the lights on
Astronomers do it with Uranus.
Astronomers (astrophysicists) do it with a Big Bang.
Astronomers do it under the stars.
Astronomers do it with thier Telescopes (Refraction periods?)
Astronomers do it in the dark.
Astronomers do it with stars.
Astronomers only do it at Night
Attorneys make better motions.
Auditors like to examine figures.
Authors do it by rote.
Auto makers do it with standard equipment (or optional equipment).
B&Ders do it with their hands tied behind their backs!
BASIC programmers GOTO it.
Babysitters charge by the hour.
Backstrokers do it face up
Bailiffs always come to order.
Bakers knead it daily.
Bankers do it with interest. (However, there is a penalty for early withdrawal)
Banker – Past performance is no guarantee of future potential…
Bananas do it in bunches.
Band members do it in front of 100,000 people.
Band members do it in a parade.
Band members do it in sectionals.
Band members do it all night.
Band members do it on the football field.
Band members do it in public.
Barbarians do it with anything. (As do orcs.)
Barbers do it with shear pleasure.
Bartenders do it on the rocks.
Baseball Players (Sports people) Do it for alot of Money
Baseball players make it to first base.
Baseball players hit more home runs.
Baseball players have leather-covered balls.
Basic programmers do it all over the place.
Basic programmers do it all over the place.
Basketball players have big rubber balls.
Basketball players dribble before they shoot
Basketball players score more often.
Beekeepers like to eat their honey.
Beer brewers do it with more hops.
Beer drinkers get more head.
Beta Testers do it looking for mistakes.
Bicyclists do it in 10 speeds.
Biochemists make better lovers…want us to make *you* one?
Bio – Does that mean your offering to make a better lover than the one I alrea
dy have, or to improve ME?!??
Biologists do it with clones.
Bo Jackson knows doing it.
Boardheads do it with stiff masts.
Body-builders do it with muscle
Bookkeepers do it with double entry
Bosses delegate the task to others.
Bowlers have bigger balls.
Breaststrokers touch with both hands
Bricklayers lay all day.
Bridge players try to get a rubber.
Bridge players do it with finesse.
Broadcast/Cable Majors do it on film.
Broadcast/Cable Majors do it to epic proportions
Building inspectors do it under the table.
Bus drivers come early and pull out on time.
Butchers have better meat.
Butchers do it with dead meat.
C programmers continue it.
C programmers do it with lint.
C programmers SWITCH often.
C programmers SWITCH and then BREAK it.
C programmers SWITCH and then BREAK it.
C programmers continue it.
C’Bers do it on the air.
C++ programmers do it with their friends, in private.
CIA operatives do it with a security blanket.
COBOL hackers do it by committee.
COBOL programmers do it very slow.
COBOL programmers do it very slow.
CS111 students do it with interspersed comments.
CS111 students do it in binary.
CS111 students do it with ORGs.
Californians do it laid back.
Campers do it in a tent.
Cardiologists do it lightheartedly.
Cardiologists do it halfheartedly.
Carpenters hammer it harder.
Carpet layers do it on the floor.
Cartoonists do it with just a few good strokes.
Cavaliers do it mounted.
Cheerleaders do it with more enthusiasm.
Cheerleaders do it enthusiastically.
Chefs do it in the kitchen.
Chefs do it for dessert.
Chemical engineers do it in packed beds.
Chemists do it reactively.
…End of the part1. To be continued..
Humourbdrmgolftxt
Wednesday, August 27th, 2008 Archive-author:
Archive-title: Rules of Bedroom Golf, The
1. Each player shall furnish his own equipment for play – normally
one club and two balls.
2. Owner of the course must approve equipment before play may
begin.
3. Play on a course must be approved by the owner of the hole.
4. Unlike outdoor golf, the object is to get the club in the hole and
keep the balls out of the hole.
5. For most effective play, the club should have a firm shaft. Course
owners are permitted to check shaft stiffness before play begins.
6. Course owner reserves the right to restrict the shaft length,
so as to avoid damange to the course.
7. Players are cautioned to play the correct hole, as indicated by
the course owner.
8. The object of the game is to take as many strokes as necessary until
the course owner is satisfied that play is complete. Failure to do
so may result in being denied permission to play the course again.
9. It is considered bad form to begin playing the hole immediatedly upon
arrival at the course. The experienced player will normally take time
to admire the entire course, with special attention to well-formed
bunkers.
10. Players are cautioned not to mention other courses they have played or
are currently playing to the owner of the course being played. Upset
course owners have been known to damage a player’s equipment for this
reason.
11. Players are encouraged to have proper rain gear along, just in case.
12. Players are advised to obtain the course owner’s permission before
attempting to play the back game.
13. Players should assure themselves that their match has been properly
scheduled, particularly when a new course is being played for the
first time. Previous players have been known to become irate if they
discover someone else playing what they consider to be a private
course.
14. Players should not assume a course is in shape for play at all times.
Some players may be embarrassed if they find the course to be
temporarily under repair. Players are advised to be extremely tactful
in this situation. More advanced players will find alternate means
of play when this is the case.
15. Slow play is encouraged; however, players should be prepared to proceed
at a quicker pace, at least temporarily, at the owner’s request.
16. It is considered outstanding performance, time permitting, to play the
same hole several times in one match.
17. The course owner will be the sole judge of who is the best player.
18. In some states, it is illegal for a course owner to require (or for a
players to offer) a greens fee in excess of the price of dinner.
Course owners must be careful that play not be proposed to members of
the vice squad.
19. Players are advised to think twice before considering membership at
any given course. Additional assessments may be levied by the course
owner and the rules are subject to change. For this reason many players
prefer to continue to play several different courses.
20. It is considered bad form to reveal your score to other players,
or even that you have played the course.
–
