Proving once and for all that British cuisine is as dull, stodgy and utterly predictable as people always say it is (and following up my Tits for Brits posting a couple of days ago), local government officials said Monday they have confiscated ice cream made with human breast milk from a London shop amid concerns the dessert is unsafe. A spokeswoman from Westminster City Council said it was responding to two complaints from the public over whether a shop should be selling edibles made from other people's bodily fluids and awaiting guidance from Britain's Food Standards Agency.
Leaving aside the peculiar Food Double Standards suggestion that it is perfectly okay to feed a new born baby with something that ia deemed unsafe for general consumption, I guess I won't be opening my proposed Pussy Juice Pizza Joint over there, any time soon.
Regular readers will know I have a mild fascination with sex and cigarettes.... and, while I wouldn't say I spend all my time seeking out such images, periodically I will type the magic words into the search box, and see what emerges.
This is today's treat and I have to say, there's a certain insouciance to the scene that is as hot as any deliberate pose.... In fact, it makes me wanna... NOW
Chrissie Bentley's What I Did On My Summer Vacation is one of those novellas that you could probably read in a couple of hours... assuming you don't want to savor every syllable. Weird thing, though. There's so much packed in there that, no matter how long ago you happened to read it, scenes will still pop up in your mind unbidden... as I found as I watched the old David Lean movie version of Great Expectations the other night, and found myself instead thirsting for... well, let's just say that if anyone ever decides to make a XXX rated version of the Charles Dickens classic, I want to play Stella. And I want Chrissie Bentley to write the screenplay.
Here's an excerpt from the book... Chrissie's book, that is, not Dickens'. But maybe you should buy them both... you know how Amazon always annoys you with those "customers who bought this also bought that" tags? Let's really give people something to think about.
I have been in England a week, and I’ve finally escaped the stifling capital, to the country town of Rochester where I am staying at a postcard perfect hotel in the shadow of the castle. After the mess of modernity, I discovered scarring London, this place looked practically prehistoric to me.
Why Rochester? Because I love Charles Dickens.
He lived much of his life here, wrote a lot of his books here, and set even more of them in the surrounding countryside. Besides, with my trusty guidebook “Visiting Dickens-Land,” of course and a rented car, I’m going to visit every stop on the map! Just as soon as I get the hang of driving on the wrong side of the road that is.
Although most of the roads I’m intending to take are apparently so narrow it probably won’t make much difference.
I checked in at two this afternoon. It was raining then, and it was still coming down at five when, emboldened by an early
dinner, I set out for a village called Cooling.What I discovered there was another castle, a tiny church and, if you’ve read Great Expectations, the cemetery where Pip goes to visit the graves of his family. What a perfect moment this is. The rain begins to let up as I get there, to be replaced by a billowing fog. All I need now is for the escaped convict to rise up from behind one of the other tombstones.
I almost shrieked in fright! Instead, clutching my purse tightly to my chest, I turned around to see a man standing three or four feet away from me, in a mist so thick I hadn’t even heard his footsteps on the gravel path. “Hello?”
“I’m sorry, but the graveyard is closed.”
“Really?” I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a graveyard actually closing “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“You’re American.” It was a statement, not a question, and I nodded. Then, remembering he wouldn’t be able to see me any better than I could see him, I answered “Yes. I wanted to come out to see Pip’s folk.”
“Well, there they are.” He gestured towards the row of stone lozenges lying at my feet. “Or rather, they’re not, but,” he stepped forward and saw my guidebook. “You probably know that already.”
“Yes. It’s just such a thrill to know I’m standing in the same place Dickens stood when he was writing….” I shut up. I was beginning to feel like a giddy schoolgirl, tracking the footsteps of some pop music idol. I’d be asking if I could take home some of the grass next, in case the Great One once stepped on it.
“Are you staying locally?”
“Rochester. Maybe I should come back in the daylight.”
“No, it’s okay. If you want to look around you can, although the church is already locked for the night.”
A sad sign of the times, I thought. “Do you work here?”
“No, but my father’s in the choir. I was just heading down to the pub” The way he said it suggested it was the only one for miles. “If you want me to wait while you look around, maybe you’d like a drink?”
Again, I had to bite my tongue, and suppress an excited squeal. After a week in London, my long-held visions of an English pub had been rudely shattered by a succession of characterless plastic bars, festooned with Budweiser posters and jukeboxes filled with Spice Girls and rap. Nevertheless, the countryside would surely be different. “Actually, it’s getting a little damp and chilly out here. Is it far? My car’s over there.”
“It’s just around the corner. This way..” He motioned with his head.
He took my hand to guide me round gravestones already lost in the fog, caught my arm as I tripped on the decorative white chain strung ankle-high on the edge of the path, then released me once we were on the open road where I couldn’t blunder into any more obstacles. The ideal gentleman.
The pub was small, noisy, smoky – and perfect. When he offered me a drink, I let him recommend me an ale I’d never heard of. When he found us a table, it was beneath a pair of local prints which looked as though they’d hung there forever. I checked the index in my guidebook. Yes, the pub was listed. I folded over the corner of the page, to read when I got back to my hotel. There was so much more to look at here, after all, beginning with my host, no, my escaped convict.
“I’m Chrissie,” I introduced myself. He was Martin and, when he said it, I had to smirk. When he ordered our drinks, I discovered the barmaid’s name was Nancy. Within moments he’d already said “hi” to his friends, David and Jacob. No Ebenezer, though. “Is everybody round here named for characters out of Dickens?”
“Oh you know, it’s good for the tourist trade.” He slipped into what I imagined was some kind of local accent. “An’ oi be your guide ‘ere in Dickens country,” he laughed. “Chuzzlewit boi name, but not boi nature..”
“I’m sorry, you must get it all the time.” I patted his arm, and he placed his other hand on mine. “It’s okay. If I didn’t like it, I’d move. Or change my name to Magwitch. Sorry if I startled you back there.”
“You did a little.” Magwitch was the convict who appeared to Pip in the graveyard, escaping from one of the old prison ships that used to be moored on the river. “I don’t suppose the ships are still there?”
I asked hopefully. He shook his head. “No. But I was serious, if you do need a guide this weekend...”
“I’d love one,” I said, “but I’d better be getting back. One beer is more than enough for someone who’s still not used to driving in this country.” We arranged to meet up the following lunchtime at the pub, and I headed back into Rochester, up to my room
to sleep like the dead.
The following morning, a Sunday, dawned brilliantly bright and sunny. It were as though the last evening’s rain never happened. My drive out to Cooling was the same as before, but this time I couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of the Kentish countryside. At the same time, I was flinching in horror from the signs of “progress” littering the roads and lanes. It was a relief to pull up at the pub, to find myself surrounded by a landscape that probably had not changed in a couple of centuries.
Martin was waiting for me with his own handful of maps and guides. “There’s a few interesting things around here. They don’t get onto the usual routes,” he explained.
I found myself thinking I was standing in front of one of them right now. A good head taller than me, he was at least six foot three inches tall. He had a head of blonde hair that mashed curls with flyaway straggles. A build hanging on the skinny side of muscular, a face which placed him somewhere around his mid-twenties, and of course, an accent to die for.
The afternoon flew past.
My head was spinning with forts and churches, islets and mud flats. The iron carcasses of wartime submarines left to rot in the inlets, the island where victims of one plague or another were buried, places even Martin had not visited in years.
Now we sat on a deserted towpath, the scent of the River Medway heavy in our nostrils, the hum of passing insects loud in our ears, the sun beating down. It was the most natural thing in the world when Martin’s arm folded around my waist, and I leaned into his chest.
“Thanks for a wonderful afternoon,” I told him, and his other arm came up to hold me to him.
“Pleased you enjoyed it.” I lifted my head to graze his lips with mine. “I’d never have seen any of this without you.” I kissed him again, and his lips parted a little, his tongue flicking out to tease the tip of mine.
“Do you have to be getting back any time soon?” he asked.
“Not…” I paused and raised my head, looked around. “Not if this place really is as deserted as it looks.”
He pressed his weight against me, pushing me back onto the carpet of clover. I lay back, parting my legs so his body fell between them, the weight of his loins pressing against mine, as his kisses grew more urgent. He raised himself slightly, leaned on one arm so his other hand could take possession of my breast, squeezing it through my T-shirt, edging the nipple over the half-cup of my bra, brushing it with the base of his palm.
My hands, far up inside his own T, massaged their way across his broad back, paused to scrape the sides of his abdomen, scratched harder as a flick of his thumb gave my nipple an extra tingle, and he began tugging at my shirt, raising it over my chest and lowering his head to touch his tongue to my flesh.
“Hold on, let me get out of this thing,” I murmured, sitting up and unhooking my bra. It fell away and his mouth fastened firmly over my tit, sucking both the nipple and a good proportion of the surrounding flesh into his mouth.
I wriggled, trying to pull my shirt off altogether, but succeeded only in raising it further, but it was enough to remind him I had two breasts, and the other one was getting jealous. He transferred his attentions, compensating the abandoned orb with his firm hands. I pressed my palms to the back of his head, encouraging him to suck harder, and wondered just how much further we could go. It was broad daylight, a public place and, though there wasn’t a soul in sight, I could hear the light chug of a barge coming down the river.
He felt me tense.
“It’s okay, they won’t see us,” he whispered, as his hand began scraping across my stomach, nudging the waistband of my skirt, then bypassing it completely, to clamp around my thigh. I wriggled a little, nudged my crotch closer to his fingers, wondered if he could feel the wetness sopping into my tights. He could. Raising his hand while his eyes fixed onto mine, he ran his thumb beneath his nose, then licked it slowly. I replied with my own hand, laying it over the front of his jeans, my fingers squeezing the width of the wedge they discovered there.
His hand was down the front of my tights, one finger burrowing firmly into my vagina. It felt good, but I wanted more. I wanted to feel my lips stretch around something thicker than a single finger. Moving his hand, I squirmed out of my underwear. Then, unbuttoning his trousers and tugging them down just enough, I guided his cock inside me. I bucked against the hard ground to draw him in all the way, then bolted my legs around his waist, my pussy spread wide against his spiky pubes, his balls heavy against me.
He moved slowly, his grinding hips doing more work than his penis, as though he was content simply burying himself deep inside me. I had no complaints. The lush pressure was sending the most heavenly shudders through my body, while his very weight, pushing me into the unyielding earth, so restricted my own movements I could do little more than lie there, feeling his thickness pushing deeper as those drawn-out grinding motions perceptibly slowed.
He spoke. “I’m sorry. I think I’m going to cum any minute now.”
“What are you sorry for? I thought that was the idea.” I held him tight, waiting.Then, whispering deep into his ear, I said, “come on, let it go.”
He replied with a grunt, a swift withdrawal, an almost violent plunge forward, and exploded, a superheated slap of wet against my vagina walls.
I flexed my muscles, wringing the last drops out of him as he shuddered to a halt, and bit his ear gently. “That was fantastic.”
“Sorry it didn’t last any longer.”
“It lasted as long as it needed to,” I reassured him. Why do men always think every time has to go on for hours and be accompanied by fireworks? Some times it’s the mood, not the motion that matters the most. Flat on my back beneath a blue English sky, hearing the waves on the river and the birds overhead–the mood was perfect. Besides, with luck, there would be plenty of time later.
We lay silently for a while. Then I asked, “are you hungry?”
He nodded. “Getting there.”
“Well, if you’ve not got plans for this evening, I’d like to buy you dinner as a thank you for driving me round all day.”
Which kind of brings me back to where I came in. I dropped him back at his place. He had a few things he needed to do. I drove back to the hotel to change and bathe before he came to pick me up. And, back here, after we’d eaten, it was time for afters, or as he, very Englishly, might have put it, “pudding”.
Hmmm, no, I think this is one occasion when I prefer the American term.
Now, I was lying with my head propped on the pillows, the last flecks of his ejaculation drying on my cheek while he hung drained above me, his sweat dripping into my face. His thighs still clamped tight around my chest, his softening cock–he called it his pecker--relaxing into its foreskin just a few inches from my face. “Hey up there?”
He breathed an exhausted “yeah?”
“Look, I know I promised not to get all touristy, and start quoting Charles Dickens at you, but I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t say it.”
He groaned aloud. “Go on, then.”
I pulled a line from Oliver Twist of course. “Please sir, can I have some more?”
He flopped onto the mattress beside me. “Sorry, Chrissie, but that isn’t going to work. After all, I’m hardly going to say no, am I?”
It was a stupid idea, but most of Cousin Tom’s greatest brainwaves are. We were sitting around after church one day, my nose buried in a magazine, while he was tinkering with his motorbike… don’t ask me what type it is, or its engine or anything, I don’t know. It was just a motorbike. Cousin Tom’s motorbike. And he was tinkering away as guys like to do, when suddenly he stopped and that thoughtful expression came over his face – the one that looks a little like a cloud blotting out the sun.
He glanced over at me. “I just had a great idea.”
“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of. Do I want to hear about it?”
“You betcha life you do!” He dropped his spanner to the ground, wiped his greasy hands on his even greasier tank-top, then half bounded, half flopped onto the grass beside me. I wriggled out of immediate reach, the last thing I needed was to go home with great black greasy handprints on my T-shirt. Again.
“I’m gonna build us a mobile fuck shack.”
I sat up. “A what?”
“Jus’ some place we can go when we want to… you know….”
I looked at him as though he was crazy, which, at that moment, he quite possibly was. “Tom, look around you. There ain’t no place out here where we haven’t fucked or at least something-ed. And not many places inside either.” And it was true. Ever since our first encounter, when I clambered under a table in the library’s local history room, and … well, and… Cousin Tom and I had made a point of at least one of us orgasming in every corner of town. So what did we need a fuck shack for?
“No, you don’t get it, do you,” he insisted. “It’s not a fuck shack so we have somewhere to fuck. It’s a fuck shack cos its mobile, it means we can fuck while its moving.”
I looked at him blankly. “So?”
“Think about it. Some of the roads around here, the gravel lanes and old muddy tracks. Bump bump! It’ll be amazing.”
I still wasn’t sure… or maybe I was. You know, that might not be a bad idea after all. Okay, it may need the odd refinement, and it would need to be big enough for us to lie down in. Or at least crouch comfortably. But a little extra bouncy stimulation, yeah I could go for that! I leaned over to kiss him, saw the grease thick upon his skin and thought better of it. “Is there no part of you that isn’t caked black with that stuff?”
He smiled, teeth brilliant white against his grimy skin. “I bet my cock’s still clean.”
I smiled back. “I bet it is. And I bet I could dirty it up damned quick.” I lay my hand upon the spot. Soft, but getting firmer all the time. Just how I like him. Quickly I unbuttoned the baggy overalls, and eight inches of hot meat rolled out of the gap. Eight inches, and the boy’s not even fully erect yet... and I can’t explain it either. I’d swear he was never this big when we first started playing around like this, but he says the same thing about my breasts. Guess some parts of the body just need a little encouragement, and I intended giving Cousin Tom’s cock all the encouragement I could.
He watched as I arranged myself comfortably alongside him. I glanced up at him. Some of the girls I know swear they’d never do to a man what I’m about to, say it makes them feel dirty and slutty and rude. Hey, bring it on! There’s nothing, and I mean nothing in the world that I enjoy better than sucking on Cousin Tom’s cock, and if that means I like feeling like a slut, well I also like the look of absolute disbelief that flickers in his eyes every time it happens. Like – is this really happening? To me? Sometimes, I swear, the boy gets so excited that he’s coming before I’ve even started work. And people call it a blowjob? I wish all jobs were this much fun.
Today was one of Cousin Tom’s calm days. I heard him groan as I massaged his pendulous balls, and felt him lay back as my lips closed around his thick, meaty helmet. I shut my eyes as my mouth reacquainted itself with his taste, absorbing the tang and the salt that at first overpower you, but then relaxing into the sweet, sexy, musky-meat flavor that I can’t get enough of.
I started to move now, flexing my lips and twitching my jaw, rolling my tongue against his heat, and pushing down on his hips with both hands to remind him who’s in charge here. He can fuck my throat when he’s on top, and yeah, I’ve let him do that often enough. But right here, right now, it’s my show and I’m going to make it last… two minutes. I was wrong, he wasn’t calm at all. Either that, or he just wants to get back to his bike.
I held my head still while his prick spurted its nectar, thick and heavy and overflowing with its own wealth of tastes and textures too. All of them delicious. I swallowed a little, then parted my lips, pushed with my tongue and felt the rest of his come ooze out of my mouth to drip onto my chin. I read some place that a lot of guys think that looks sexy, and it probably does. I caught a glimpse of my pussy once, after Cousin Tom had creamed all over it, and the sight almost made me come there and then. If my mouth looked half that hot, I’d be in heaven. I leaned towards him and he met me with a greedy kiss. That’s the other thing I like about Cousin Tom, he’s not afraid to share.
We embraced for a moment, then I broke away and stood. “Well, I know you’re busy. Maybe I’ll come back this evening and see how you’re getting on?”
He nodded. “Yeah, we’ll hit the steak house again, if you like?”
Let me tell you something about Monroe, Colorado. It doesn’t matter how private you think some place is, there’s always somebody who knows everything that goes on there. You could have sex in your own bedroom, with the doors all locked and the drapes drawn tight, and there’d still be someone who could tell you how many times you came – I know, because it happened to me last week. So it was no surprise, as I passed the orchard at the bottom of the lane, to find old Loretta Haddaway leaning against her garden gate, giving me the old sour-apple eye.
I say old, but I doubt whether she’s more than ten years older than me. She’s certainly not seen 30 yet, to judge from her skin and the tone of her voice. But the way she acts, she could have lived through both World Wars and known Abraham Lincoln as well.
“Good afternoon, Rosie.”
I summoned up my brightest smile. “Good afternoon, Miss Haddaway.”
“What’s that on your chin?”
Oh SHIT! Without even thinking I raised my hand to my face, sure it would encounter a great glob of come. I felt nothing, but Miss Haddaway’s eyes twinkled anyway. “Then what did you think was on your chin?” she said softly. “I saw you, you know.”
When in doubt, act defiant. “Saw me what?” I asked, raising myself to my full height and sticking my chin out proudly. Well, it worked in the movies. Unfortunately, Miss Haddaway hadn’t read the script. “You and Thomas. I saw what you were doing.”
Two choices. Brazen it out and deny everything. Or grit my teeth and get it over with. It would be all around town either way. “So? What do you want me to do about it?”
She smiled. “Nothing, child, nothing at all. Except maybe…” and her voice trailed off so thoughtfully that, for a moment, I thought she’d fallen into asleep.. Instead she beamed brightly. “Do you have a few minutes? I’ve got a lovely cup of tea brewing.” And her voice sounded so puppy-dog proud that I agreed before I even thought about it.
She pushed open the gate, waited till I stepped inside, and then grasped my arm and pulled me up the path. I was scared but thrilled at the same time. Her cottage was one of the oldest in town, a relic of the days when Monroe was a thriving mining community. When I was a kid, we were all convinced it was haunted, and the old man who lived there did nothing to alter our opinion. Hand on heart, we would walk half a mile out of our way, down through old Mr Turpin’s lot, just to avoid passing it if the sun was close to setting.
Of course that was before Miss Haddaway (“no, call me Loretta,” she insisted once we were inside) bought it, cleared out a 150 years worth of dust and ragged furniture, and then prettied it up like you wouldn’t believe. Like I couldn’t believe! Every surface glistened, and the antiques that she’d salvaged from the original owner’s junk pile gleamed like something off PBS. Yeah, that was it. It looked like something out of Masterpiece Theater, and watching Miss Haddaway… sorry, Loretta… as she scurried between the great slabs of furniture, into the kitchen where a kettle whistled cheerfully, she could have been a heroine from Jane Austen or Dickens.
“Milk and sugar, child?”
I nodded, and she smiled again. She really was quite beautiful once you got past the fact she always looked angry, thin with pert breasts that pushed against a pretty floral blouse, and legs that could have been sculpted by a master. I settled in an armchair that was almost the size of my bed. She passed me a cup and I sipped as delicately as the surroundings seemed to demand I should, then watched as she planted herself on the arm, alongside me.
“You like Tom, don’t you?”
I nodded. “Very much.”
“Good. You hear a lot these days about what girls your age get up to with the boys, how they’ll just throw their gifts around the town as though they’re none of them worth a jot. I’m glad you’re not that sort of girl.” She paused. “You’re not, are you? Do you like any other boys the way you like Tom?”
I shook my head. Tom was my one and only – not in a happy ever after kind of way, because I very much doubted we’d marry or anything. But, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. There are 1,687 people living in Monroe, of whom 796 are (or are said to be) male. And of those, there is precisely one to whom I’d even offer a peck on the cheek, let alone a cock down my throat.
Loretta continued. “I saw what you were doing just now. Do you like doing that as well?”
I nodded, slowly at first while I wondered why she was asking, but more vigorously as I saw her eyes start to sparkle. “Like it, Miss… I mean, Loretta? I love it. I love everything about it, the smell and the taste and the feel…” She laughed and reached out to pat my wrist. “Okay, I think I get the picture. And do you like it when he comes? In your mouth, I mean?”
Again I nodded. “I wasn’t sure at first, the first time it happened… it was so sudden and so much, that I didn’t know what to do. But after that, the next time and the time after that, now I look forward to it.” And I was babbling again, “the smell and the taste and the feel,” but this time she let me go on. “The way it’s all sticky, but it’s runny as well, so it feels like it’s sticking to your tongue even as it drips down your throat, and you have to swallow really hard to make it all go down, and even then you can still taste it in the corners.”
She was laughing out loud. “Or find it sticking to your lip. I remember when I first did it, I was probably your age, I got home and I was so sure I’d cleaned myself up, and the first thing my mother said when I walked in was, ‘what’s that stuff on your face?’ And she handed me a mirror, and there it was. I told her it was ice cream, but I know she didn’t believe me.”
“Nothing, she never mentioned it again. But the next morning when I came down for breakfast, my father was in the best mood I’d seen him in for years. And my mother had the same white flecks all over her cheeks as I’d had on my lips. So I waited until I was leaving for class, then walked past and whispered ‘there’s ice cream on your face’. I thought she was going to pass out!”
I tried to imagine Loretta sucking cock, and I just couldn’t. She was so prim and proper, so polite and mouselike, and in all the three years she’d lived here, I’d never once seen her with a man. Or anybody else for that matter. I wondered what her story was, how she’d come to wash up in a lifeless hole like Monroe? And what did she do now, when she fancied filling her tiny mouth with cock? Did she have a secret lover that nobody knew about? If she did, she was better at keeping secrets than anyone else in town. But then another question leaped to my lips, and this one I couldn’t hold in. We’d already established that I’d not spilled any of my ice cream, “so how did you know what Tom and I were doing?”
She flapped one delicately manicured hand in the air. “Oh, no big secret there. I happened to be walking past the field and looked over the hedge. You were hardly hiding yourselves away and, even if you had been, that groan when he came gave the entire game away.” I made a mental note to try and hush him in the future… maybe, I thought with a delicious tingle, I should sit on his face while I sucked him. But Loretta was still talking. “But I did notice one thing, and if you really want to show him how you feel, there’s something you may want to try.”
I flushed. I’d never had my sexual technique criticized before, and nothing about Cousin Tom’s responses had suggested there was any reason for that to happen. But hey, there’s always room for improvement, isn’t there? I shifted to the edge of my seat. “Go on.”
Walking home from the steak house that night, I could already feel my heart pounding in my chest; was sure, at one point, that Cousin Tom might even be able to hear it. But he didn’t say anything, just held my hand in his, and chattered away about – oh my God, I’d completely forgotten. The mobile fuck shack!
“I finished it, you know. Just before I came to meet you. I think you’ll like it. Wanna see?”
“Yeah!” I let him pull me along, excitedly racing through the fields that led to the ramshackle hut where he’d set up his workshop. We passed the hedge that Loretta had looked over, and I wondered whether I should tell him about my afternoon? No, he’d only want details and I wasn’t ready to divulge them yet.
We reached the hut and, while he fumbled for his keys, he made me promise to keep my eyes tightly shut. I didn’t see the point, it was pitch black already, but I agreed for his sake and stood silently in darkness while he wrestled the lock open. Through my closed lids, I saw the light go on inside the shed, then heard the low rumble of wheels being led through the double doors. “Okay, Rosie, you can open them now.”
I obeyed and, at first, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. There stood his motorbike, as carefully polished as ever. But what was that that he’d attached to its side? A hulking, low, rectangular box, perched precariously upon two small wheels of its own. A light flowed from within and, as I stepped around, I saw a mattress laid out inside, and the wooden walls peeping between the gaps in the fabric that he’d stapled to the sides. A fuck shack? It was more like a fuck sidecar. But I smiled because he did, and slipped inside, laying down on the mattress and waiting while he pulled off his boots and joined me.
“It’s lovely,” I said and, really, it was. It might have looked rough from the outside, but it really was quite cozy inside, and the light bulb he’d rigged up was a lot less harsh once he’d adjusted its shade.
“I knew you’d think so.” He reached behind him and pulled the door closed, then kissed me firmly on the lips. I responded… of course I responded, we have to christen this thing sometime, and Loretta’s little suggestion had left me feeling awfully hot. So we’d fuck in his fuck shack, and the other thing could wait for later. Something to look forward to.
He tugged my blouse free of my jeans, I was already working to drag his T-shirt off. I ran my face across his firm, hairy chest and idly flicked a nipple with my tongue. And I was about to sink my teeth in, something that always drove him wild, when a thought occurred to me… it had been nagging for a while, but had always hovered just out of reach. Now it leaped into view. “But I thought you said it was a mobile fuck shack. If you’re in here with me, I don’t quite understand how it’s ever going to get mobile. Unless you intend having someone else drive the bike?”
“I knew you were going to get to that,” he laughed, then freed himself from my grip and opened a panel in the far side of the wall. His hand disappeared through the opening, and then I heard the familiar roar of his motorbike engine. “No problem.”
“We’re still not mobile, though,” I insisted. “It’s only mobile if we’re moving.”
“That’s right, Miss Clever Pants,” he laughed as he rendered me Miss No Pants At All. “But you only know we’re moving if you can see outside. Which you can’t. And besides, if you want to bounce around a little, I can do that all on my lonesome.”
“I bet you can,” I replied, and I tried not to feel too cheated. Besides, I wasn’t even sure whether I wanted to go haring blindly round the countryside, while Cousin Tom fucked my brains out. What would happen if we were involved in an accident? I could see the front page of the Monroe Intelligencer: “Local Lovers Lost In Nude Harley Horror.” My parents would never forgive me.
His fingers were inside me now, slipping in my juices and brushing my clit just hard enough to reduce my breaths to sharp pants; I reciprocated, grasping his cock and pulling at it, feeling its stiffness grow bolder and bigger as I jerked, while I wondered… what did I wonder? I knew what it felt like hard in my mouth. But, like Loretta told me, I’d only ever tasted the first few inches of it. There was another four or five there that I’d never even sampled, with their own secret flavors and their own magic texture. Four or five that I could slip in so sweetly if I only made the effort. And I was just thinking about that, wondering if I would ever dare, when a knock on the door made me leap up with surprise, as Cousin Tom grabbed a blanket and pulled it roughly on top of us.
“It’s only me, dears!” I didn’t recognize the voice at first, but I wasn’t in suspense for long, as the door flew open and there she stood, Loretta in all her sour-apple splendor, but her eyes alive and dancing, and her body… her body cloaked in black leather. She held a motorcycle helmet under her arm. “I saw you heading this way and wondered…” she looked at Cousin Tom with eyes that could melt the stoniest heart. “It’s such a long time since I last took a spin. I was wondering, would you mind if I took your bike for a ride? Just around the field?”
Cousin Tom’s face was a picture, total confusion, baffled bemusement… his mouth was working desperately, trying to get some words out, but falling short at the very last moment. I spoke for him instead. “Of course you can, Loretta. Not too fast, if you don’t mind, but you can ride for as long as you like.” He promised me a mobile fuck shack, and by gosh-darn, I was going to have one. Again I sensed Cousin Tom attempting to speak, but I hushed him by throwing back the blanket, revealing his nakedness to Loretta’s roving eyes. “I’ve got something in here that I’ve been dying to try,” and I raised his erection high in one hand.
Loretta’s eyes twinkled. “Oh my. That is going to be a mouthful, isn’t it? But remember what I told you. Relax your jaw, control your breathing, and that great big beauty will just slip right in. And I mean right in.” She moved closer and I thought, for a moment, that she was going to offer us a personal demonstration. But no, she merely patted Cousin Tom on his still-mortified head, and promised to take as much care with his motorbike “as Rosie here will take with you.” Her eyes strayed again to that monster cock. “Oh my,” she repeated. “It’ll probably be touching your clitoris by the time you get the whole thing in. You lucky, lucky, girl.” Then the door was closed and she was away, revving the bike while I nibbled Cousin Tom’s stomach, pushing it off its stand as I folded my lips around the tip – and then both she, and we were away, flying to paradise on our own chosen steeds.
And the only thing I’m wondering, as I feel Cousin Tom’s cock sliding luxuriously past my tonsils, is what will happen if she hits some bumpy ground?
Once again we have to thank the Naughty Professor for unearthing this image, and once again I urge you to spend some time on his blog. But not before you've absorbed the full beauty of this picture... the depth to which he enters her mouth, the rivulets running down her cheek and chin.... Some moments were simply made to be photographed....
Banned, apparently, in eleven different countries... flagged by Youtube, edited by MTV, censored by most everyone else... the new Rihanna video is called "S&M" and... well, the next time you're having one of those discussions about how "the vanilla world doesn't understand us," think on this....
I could watch this all night... and do it all night, too.
The point is not to surrender. The point is to lie back, eyes black behind the blindfold, my mouth wide, my throat open, my body relaxed as he fucks me slowly... feeling him fill me; he holds; then withdraws, and my hands (why did he not tie them together) caress his balls or guide him in, feeding him between my willing jaws. And with every stroke knowing he is closer to orgasm and not knowing where he will choose to cum - in my mouth so I taste him; my face so I feel him....
I'm a writer, not a photographer. So just be aware that the pics on this site were not taken by me, and aren't owned by me either - not even the ones that I'm in. If you are a photographer and find your pics on this site, please get in touch - I'd love to credit you (if you wish), and even use more of your work. If you're here it's because I love the photo!
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