The Rise of Modern Sextremism

Although it has minimal presence in the US and the UK, FEMEN is one of the fastest growing feminist activist groups in the world. One whose activities, although even many feminists disagree with them, have raised the international movement’s profile to staggering new heights.
My Body, My Rules

You have probably seen the photos on the news. Small groups and large crowds of topless and genuinely beautiful women, marching in support of a range of causes, with their own flesh deployed as placards. A peaceful protest rendered visceral and violent not through actions, but through words. Phrases such as “My Body My Rules,” “Fuck Your Morals” and “Breasts Rule The World” may seem no more than coarse platitudes on paper. But painted on human flesh and thrust in the faces of those people - Presidents and police, religious leaders and bigots of all persuasion - who need to hear them the loudest, then they become more than mere manifesto. They become rallying calls that are heard across the planet. 

FEMEN started life in the Ukraine in 2008 (it celebrated its birthday a little over a week ago, on April 10), founded in response to the growing, and seemingly unstoppable international trade in Ukrainian women... the so-called Russian Brides, so beloved by male/mail order perverts everywhere. 

Since that time, sister organizations have sprung up in countries around the world and have earned a small forest’s worth of headlines too. Their support of the jailed members of the Pussy Riot group probably brought them the most attention in the west, after FEMEN activist Inna Schevchenko brought down the thirteen foot cross in Kiev’s Freedom Square with a chainsaw. In the outcry that followed, which included both intimidation and death threats, Schevchenko was forced to flee the country; she headed for Paris, where she established FEMEN’s French office. 

It is their propensity for direct action that establishes FEMEN as a very different and new face of feminist activism. Believing (and it sometimes feels hard to disagree) that the time for passive protest long ago ended, FEMEN are more akin to the Suffragette movements that brought votes and rights to women in this country, back during our great-grandmother’s day. In fact, I like to think my own great-grandmother, herself a staunch supporter during those heroic days, would approve of FEMEN’s methods - if not necessarily their choice of costuming. 

FEMEN stand loudly and vociferously against any institutionalized movement that acts against women’s rights. They have a lot of targets: Elements of Islam and Sharia law, and the patriarchal practices that still shape many western religions; The anti-abortion and anti-gay movements; The sex trade and certain aspects of the sex industry itself; The hideous torture of female circumcision. All beneath the banner of “unit[ing] young women on the principles of social awareness and activism, intellectual and cultural development," and the worldwide recognition of "the European values of freedom, equality and comprehensive development of a person irrespective of the gender." 

All of which is, in the eyes of many, controversial enough. But FEMEN had another trick up its sleeve - one which, with its membership largely comprising young women, was guaranteed to get the cameras flashing. 

Early FEMEN protests saw the activists clad in lingerie and make-up; a rally at the Turkish Embassy in Kiev in 2008 found them wearing nurses uniforms and pink high heels. They dubbed themselves “sextremists” and saw their caricature of elemental male fantasies as one means of drawing attention to themselves. 

It worked, too. But not as well as Oksana Shachko’s decision to go topless when FEMEN appeared at Kiev’s independence day celebrations in 2009. Since that time, toplessness has become firmly established as FEMEN’s weapon of choice, with slogans daubed and painted across the torso. 

Not everybody gets the point, of course. Visitors to FEMEN’s heavily illustrated Facebook page, for example, and viewers of other media coverage, will see any glimpse of nipple safely covered up - indeed, Facebook resisted allowing FEMEN to even establish a presence on the network for fear that its politics were simply a cover for some kind of strange new pornography. 

FEMEN activists operating within the virtual world of Second Life (the source of the photo at the head of this piece) are likewise warned to ensure that bare breasts are not visible in any area not registered as Adult’s Only. Failure to comply can result in being banned from that area, or even the suspension of your SL account. 

Thankfully, however, the censorship has not spread to FEMEN’s message - those slogans, frequently strongly worded and geared towards grabbing the most attention, often appear in English because that is the language, like it or not, that so much of the free world’s media understands. 

Indeed, much as we might be repulsed by the censorship, still there is a glorious irony in the fact that, though we are not permitted to see female nipples, neither are we prohibited from reading such sentiments as “Fuck Patriarchs” and “Fuck Your Morals” - again expressions that many women, even those who acknowledge that sexism remains a problem in modern society, may not necessarily agree with. But which speak loudly to those of us who do feel that direct action and sextremism has its place in our world. 

And to those who are repulsed by the methods by which foreign governments have cracked down upon women’s attempts to gain equal rights - or even to establish any rights whatsoever. In December 2011, following a FEMEN action outside the former KGB headquarters in Minsk, Belarus, where their hats and fake mustaches parodied the Belarusian president, three of the women were snatched by local security forces, driven to a forest, shaved, stripped and doused in flammable liquid. 

The attackers did not follow through on their threats to then ignite the girls’ bodies. Rather, they drove away, leaving the three young, naked, women alone in the midwinter snows of a midnight forest, miles from anywhere. 

FEMEN remain unbowed. Their methods have not changed, and their insistence that “this is the only way to be heard” is difficult to argue with. True, some women’s organizations have spoken out against FEMEN’s in-your-face approach, arguing that toplessness only contributes to the objectification of women; and it is true, if the organization was staffed only by overweight seniors with saggy breasts and toothless faces, a lot of the editors who currently plaster FEMEN’s photographs across the media would probably not look twice at them. 

But that, surely, is the point. Our bodies are our own; we all agree (I hope!) with that sentiment. And they are ours to employ as we wish, whether we choose to use them to make a point or make a living. A beautiful girl standing topless on the front page of the newspaper will naturally attract the attention of men. But so might the words that are written on her chest and if just a fraction of the viewing public is moved to find out more, then the gesture can only be considered a success. 

Those traditional symbols of protest, placards, chants and marches are all very well, and may once have served a purpose. But, as the Occupy movement (to name but one) has sadly discovered in recent years, more often than not they are not enough. In a society where law enforcement demands that the most vociferous protestors must first acquire licenses and permits before they can set foot on the street, the very act of protest has been diminished. FEMEN believe that it is only by abandoning such self-castrating niceties that any real point can be made. 

“If we staged simple protests with banners,” they say, “then our claims would not have been noticed." Or, to put it bluntly, people rarely stop to look at banners. They do stop to look at bare breasts, and although it is unspoken, surely another major element in FEMEN’s struggle is precisely that. When is society going to stop regarding a woman’s breasts as so inherently pornographic that we have to cover them up to avoid corrupting every poor soul who is forced to look at them? My own boobs aren’t big, but I think they’re kinda pretty. I’m sure you feel the same way about yours’. How many hapless strangers have your nipples condemned to the slippery slopes of hellish degradation? 

The approach is working, too. Yes, the sex trade is alive and well, despite sundry well-meaning attempts to rein it in. Yes, women’s rights are regarded as absolutely wrong in far more countries than actually support them. Yes, religion continues to keep women down, and so do politics, culture and bullies. 

But when Amina Tyler disappeared... a Tunisian activisit who appeared on FEMEN’s website with the words "I own my body; it's not the source of anyone's honor" written in Arabic across her bare chest... it was not her country’s media who informed the world of her disappearance. It was not Tunisian law enforcement who moved heaven and earth to discover her whereabouts; nor, following her escape from imprisonment by her own family just last week, was it the Tunisian government who hustled her into safe keeping, a refuge in which she could no longer be beaten, drugged and lectured about morality. It was FEMEN. 

As Inna Shevchenko said following Tyler’s escape from captivity, "Amina has became a symbol of liberation of women in the Arab world.” Again, that is a role that we in the west cannot help but admire, even if we do not fully understand all that it entails. The phrase "Topless Jihad" has now entered our language, and it will remain there until it is no longer required. 

FEMEN’s other most recent coup, of course, was the sequence of photographs taken on April 8 in Hanover, Germany, when five activists ambushed Russian President Putin and German Chancellor Angela Merkel, their bodies daubed (in English and Cyrillic) with sentiments that included the very pointed “Fuck Dictator.” No matter how much of the ensuing news coverage seemed more interested in the expression on Putin’s face... which, in the face of five pairs of nubile breasts, really did look as though all of his Christmases had come at once. The message was put across regardless. 

FEMEN is not to every woman’s tastes, and it is certainly not a movement that either governmental or law enforcement agencies are likely ever to tolerate. Regardless of whether or not we agree with the laws and practices against which FEMEN fights, particularly those that would have no place in our own society, the fact remains that much of FEMEN’s activism is illegal, and there are those among us who would argue that no law should ever be broken, no matter how repressive, irrelevant or just plain stupid it may be. 

All of which is true. 

But as our own Suffragettes proved a hundred years ago, and the abolitionists before them, laws and customs that need to be changed should be changed. Particularly if, by changing them, you will improve the lives of countless people. And if the only way to make certain they are changed is by breaking a handful of others, then they all should be shattered into a million pieces.

Making Friends With A Fleshlight

Many guys enjoy watching their partner playing with her favorite toys. One woman reports on watching her partner playing with his.
I have to confess, when my boyfriend announced he’d just mail-ordered a Fleshlight, my initial thought was “why? When you have the real thing right here? But I kept it to myself, of course, because anything I said might well lead to a discussion of my own substantial toy collection... and how do you tell the man you love that sometimes, a girl just needs to be stretchhhhhhhhed? 

I didn’t mention my other concern either; memories of the boyfriend who confided that once, as a horny teen with no lover to go to, he bought a loaf of unsliced bread, cut a hole in it and... 

You don’t need the details, do you? I certainly didn’t, although I got them. What I’m saying is, if my man is going to stick his dick into a soft, dark hole, then it needs to be one that is intimately connected to me. Loaves of bread, blow-up dollies, tin cans... no. No, no, no. 

I went online and found a few other things to worry about. Would he just pick up a “regular” one? Or go the whole hog and put out for one sculpted from the pussy of a porn star? Would he give it a name, and why would he choose whichever one he decided upon? I’m not a jealous person, or so I’ve always believed. But suddenly, irrationally, I found myself positively hating the package-in-the-post, and I hadn’t even met her yet! 

Her! Oh my god, even I’m doing it! 

She arrived and he didn’t say a word. The advantage of not living with your boyfriend is, you don’t have to put up with his less savory habits. The disadvantage is, you don’t always know everything that’s going on in his life. I wasn’t going to ask, either. I didn’t want to know. (Yes I did, yes I did. Desperately. But I wasn’t going to admit it, even to myself.) 

There’s another reason why I don’t like these things. Because some sights are too good to hide, and I love to watch a man stroking himself. Maybe I’m helping with kisses and nibbles, maybe I’m not. Maybe he’s going to jerk off on my tits. Maybe he’s going to spray his cum elsewhere. Or maybe he’s just doing it, because I asked him to. Whatever; I like to watch. 

But I want to watch his hand around his cock. Not around a tube. I haven’t met her and I hope I never do. 

She was in his bedroom when I went round one night. Sitting on his bedside table, large as life and luscious as you please. She was slimmer than I expected... skinny bitch! Now I hate her even more. Her flesh was an even, soft, sexy pink. Her lips were slightly parted in voluptuous invitation.... She looked like a can of beer. 

Typical. Beer and booty, the boy’s best buddies. 

And she was still dressed! He’d opened the box and doubtless inspected its contents. But she was still in her packaging, and the packaging was unopened. 

“I was wondering whether you’d like to help me inaugurate it?” he asked with the shit-eating grin that he normally reserved for some of my baser suggestions. At the same time sounding like a small town Mayor, inviting his deputy along to open a new library. 

She was still in my hand and I was tugging at the packaging. “May I?” 

He nodded and I was the one who peeled off her plastic. I was the one who gripped her first. I was the one who squeezed in the drop of lubricant that the instructions recommended. And I was the one who slipped him into what the packaging very unappealingly calls “the penis sleeve” - digression, and I’m sorry. But a girlfriend once knitted a sweater, pink with darker flared cuffs. That, the friends who saw it declared, was a penis sleeve. This was more like a penis pocket. 

But he slipped in and I watched his face for any tell-tale sign of the “the best feeling on earth.” There was a faint petroleum-y smell in the air, which I guess was expelled from the pocket when he entered it, but neither of us mentioned it. Then he took the can in one hand and began.... 

After a while, I raised a hand to help, and his dropped away and I worked it alone. Not the most sexually arousing sensation I have ever had... for a moment, I wondered if this is how milkmaids used to feel, tugging the teats of an overfull udder. It dawned on me that if a guy’s in the mood, you can jerk him off with anything. (Hey babe, I just picked up a new pack of sandpaper.) And he’ll love it. (Ooooh, scratchhhhhyyyyyy!) 

The Fleshlight was working its magic though, and when my pace flagged, he took over. His eyes were on mine as his fist began to blur, and again you don’t need to know the details. But once it was over and he handed it back to me, I’ll admit I couldn’t resist slipping a finger into the pocket, feeling his moisture and heat as it clung to the sides, and the sticky warmth that was pooling there as well. I withdrew my finger, sniffed and tasted. The petroleum smell was still there, of course, but the smell of man overpowered it; and, while my own curiosity was now firmly assuaged, it struck me that there’s a whole bunch of possible cum games here that some people might have a great time playing. 

He named her Felicity... Felicity Fleshlight, of course. A good neutral, flippant name that it was difficult for me to object to. He washed her and put her lid back on, and debated letting her live in the fridge, in the hope of shocking those beer buddies, who drain his beer stash every time they come round for the football and basketball. I wondered whether that... the fridge, not the shocked beer buddies... might add to the sensations that Felicity could convey, an icy shiver from top to toe. Well, he likes it when I break out the ice cubes, and likes them even more when I have one in my mouth. We talked about trying that out some other time. 

We haven’t yet, though, and I’m beginning to wonder whether the old girl is even still in his life. I’ve not seen her around for a while, and he’s not mentioned her either. It’s almost like this whole episode never happened. 

Except for one thing. He’s become a lot more interested in my toy collection. How they work, what they do, how they feel... and you remember what I said at the beginning of this piece, how sometimes a girl just needs to be stretchhhhhhhhed? 

Sometimes, a guy likes to watch her stretchhhhhhhhing, and now it’s me browsing Fleshlights on EdenFantasys, looking for one that isn’t too wide, isn’t too hard; that tapers nicely, that might fit just there. 

It may not work, it might even hurt. But I’m curious to give it a go....

...Or If Your Husband's Joining In?

This is part two... read part one here

The guys, Tommy and Brad and Frank, were coming over this evening.  Mark, my husband, had not said another word since that evening when he let on that he may not have slept all the way through our wedding night, and I’d been so busy getting our new home together that I’d scarcely had time to think about it, either.

But now, with the clock defiantly clicking down the last six or seven hours before the threesome arrived for some Monday Night Football, I was definitely getting nervous. 

That night, our wedding night, had been a one-off.  I was horny, they were there, Mark was unconscious.  End of story.  At the same time, though... my girlfriends and I don’t have many secrets from each other, and not one of them has ever mentioned fucking and sucking three guys at once.  So I also felt kinda proud of myself, and so long as Mark, if he knew, didn’t get weird about it, well no harm, no foul.

A van pulled up outside and I stood up from the couch where I’d been polishing some silverware.  Mark had invested in a wide screen TV ... and I mean wide!  It devoured half the wall in our living room... and the cable company was here to set it up.  I had a list of questions I was supposed to ask, and another sheet of paper to write the answers down on.  I opened the front door, waited while the engineer collected his tools and paperwork, then stood aside to let him in.

We chatted cheerfully.  One thing about cable guys that I’ve always noticed.  They’re friendly.  Some of the people you invite into your home in order to get something fixed or serviced can be utter miseries, dragging a black cloud of their own job dissatisfaction around, and making you wish you had the time to learn plumbing, electrical work and furnace maintenance yourself, just so you never had to see their sad little faces.  But cable guys, they come bouncing in, all excited about whatever equipment they’re installing, full of geek talk delight at things they’ve never seen before, and this one... “hi, I’m Terry”... was no different.

I led him into the living room; then, because it felt a little rude to just plop back onto the sofa, I settled myself on the floor to watch him work and continue with my polishing.  And it was only after I’d caught him glance curiously over two or three times that I realized... oh my god.

Mark, my husband, likes having his cock sucked.  Of course he does, he’s a guy.  But he especially likes it if I kneel on the floor, my legs parted wide enough for him to slip a foot between them, while I look up into his face and angle his cock down....  Well, that’s how I was positioned now.  Without the cock, of course.  But the open legs, the upturned face, wide-eyed and waiting... I think I flushed crimson, and I drew my legs closed, then buried myself in my silverware.  

My questions were answered, the responses noted down, the screen was installed.  Terry handed me the remote control and standing beside me... for some reason, I remained on my knees... guided me through its operation.  His hands were firm but gentle when they brushed against mine as he pointed out the buttons, but I don’t think he noticed as I turned to say something and my cheek brushed the warmth of his pants.  Or maybe he did, because suddenly we were frozen, Terry standing, me still kneeling, legs slightly parted, face turned up towards him....

Twenty, thirty seconds passed.  Neither of us spoke, neither of us moved.  And the longer it lasted, the more I knew.  Both of us were thinking exactly the same thing.  And both of us were too damned chicken shit to speak.  Finally I broke the spell, stood, and thanked him for everything.  He gave me a few sheets of paperwork to sign, gathered his things and left.

Get a grip, woman.

I finished the silverware and dragged out the vacuum, and was just bending over to plug it in when the phone rang.

“Sorry to disturb you ma’am, this is Terry... I was at your house a while ago...”

“Yes, I remember.”  I laughed.  “Is there a problem?”

“I think I may have left a tool behind.”

Not a screwdriver, not a wrench, a tool.  Which meant either he just naturally assumed that I wouldn’t know the actual names of individual tools (which is generally true) or....

My god, you’ve got cocks on the mind today.

“I don’t see it,” I answered, keeping my voice very level.  “Could you tell me what it looks like?”

“Well...” there was a pause and then the description tumbled out.  “It’s about eight inches long.  Maybe a shade under.  It’s fairly thick....”  

And I expect it’s pink, hard, and very good for greasing tight, dark holes.  “I’m not seeing it,” I replied innocently.  “But if you want to swing by again, we can look for it together.”

“See you in five.”  He made it in three.

There are three types of cock in this world.  There’s the ones that are so fat you can’t get your mouth round them.  There’s the ones that are so thin you can suck them like a popsicle.  And there’s the ones in the middle which, as Goldilocks would say, are just right.  Terry’s, which I had in my hand almost before he’d closed the front door behind him, was somewhere between “just right” and “too fat,” but it wasn’t the size of the thing that impressed me.  It was the river of pre-cum that was almost dripping from the tip, which had greased his helmet and soaked his briefs.  He looked a little comical, leaning against the dark wood front door, his pants in a bundle round his still-booted feet, and his blue and white spotted briefs dark and damp around his balls.  But I assumed “the position,” as Mark and I called it, and ran an inquiring tongue up from his balls to the tip.

Some women, I know, are a little freaked by pre-cum.  I love it.  I love the way it feels on my tongue, thick and sticky, warm.  I love the way it tastes, and always smile sympathetically at the people who say it doesn’t taste or smell of anything.  Because it does.   It tastes of sex.  It tastes of man.  It tastes of the delights that are just a few moments away, when you engulf the tip of his cock for the first time, your jaw has that moment where it adjusts to his size, and then you start to weave your magic.

Fat cocks, the best you can do is bob your head, letting your lips fuck his shaft.  Thinner ones, you can suck while your tongue does little dances against the flesh on the underside of the shaft.  Like I said, Terry fell somewhere between the two, so my actions   had no choice but to follow suit.  But the more I relaxed, the more I could take, and when I closed my teeth on his shaft, just an inch from the root, he cried out with so much delight that I knew that the end was just moments away.

You know right before a guy cums... the sperm is probably already rushing up his shaft, the first jolts of pleasure are already rocking his world... right then, there’s a moment when his entire body freezes, goes as rigid and stiff as his cock.  His cock itself swells, you feel it growing in your mouth. It’s nature’s way of warning you that your mouth is about to be filled with cum.  It is also the greatest moment on earth.  I love it and, at that precise moment, I loved Terry’s cock as well because a flash that is normally done in mere seconds seemed to last forever.

He was poised on the edge of cumming, I was poised on the edge of a mouthful... and we froze like that.  I didn’t time it, I can’t say he broke records.  Maybe time just slowed down, or even came to a halt.  But we hung on the edge of everything we wanted for so long that when he did finally cum, both of us cried out in relief, Terry loud and open-mouthed, me with a roar that started and ended in my fast-filling throat, and I was swallowing and laughing at the same time, as he stumbled back and his cock plopped free, still spraying cum over my face, for me to try and catch in my smiling, open mouth....

Then I pulled up his trousers, kissed his cock one more time, and looked towards the living room.  “I guess we’d better look for your tool.  Or did it turn up again?”

He laughed.  “I think I’m okay.”  He stooped to kiss me.  “Better get on.  I have five more calls before I finish for the day.”

“Hope they go as well as this one,” I said, and he was off.

#####

The house was tidy, the TV was on.  I’d showered and changed, there was beer in the fridge, and the dining table groaned beneath the finger food and snacks I’d laid out.  Mark was home, as promised, about half an hour early, which gave him a chance to shower and unwind before the place filled up with his buddies.  Oh, and check out the TV as well, delightedly running through every channel, marveling loudly at the clarity and color, wishing we’d invested in HD before, and wondering aloud what porn would look like.  “Disgusting,” I told him. “Every zit, scratch and razor burn lit up by studio lights, little crumbs of knob cheese all taking their bow... yuk.  I’d rather watch the real thing.”  And the look he flashed when I said that brought my nerves all tumbling back into focus.  

This would be the first time I’d seen the guys since our wedding night.  The first time I’d spoken to them since my mouth and pussy were full of their cum.  I wondered if what happened would make a difference in the way we behaved around one another.  I had a feeling that Mark had seen it all.  Did they suspect that as well?  Maybe they’d even talked about it.  Maybe... and for the hundredth time today and the millionth since this evening was first planned, I remembered the only thing that Mark had said that made me think this night might not be a normal one.

“Suck my cock like the filthy little slut you are,” he’d whispered.  “Suck it and swallow my red hot cum.  And if I don’t hear you choking on every drop, then maybe I’ll call the guys over, and we’ll drown you with all the cum we have.”

The guys.  Tommy, Brad and Frank.

Who would be arriving....

Knock knock.

Now.

I have always prided myself on being the perfect hostess.  Even as a little girl, when my parents had friends to visit, I loved nothing so much as running back and forth, refreshing drinks and fetching ashtrays, circulating with a plate of snacks to hand around, and tonight I was no different.  I could hear an empty beer can being placed on a carpet from the other room, and I was always ready to replace it with a freshly cracked full one, straight out of the fridge.  

I emptied the ashtrays when they started to fill, I had a constant stream of chips and nachos flowing from plate to mouth, and even when the guys were so locked inside the excitement of the game, I didn’t flag for a moment.  And when it was over, and Mark suggested pizza, I already had a pen and paper, ready to take their orders, and a menu from the take-out joint in case anyone needed some prompting.

But Mark laughed. “Actually, I thought we would make our own,” he said, and my mind started flashing through the contents of the larder.  Pizza dough - yes.  Mozarella - yes.  Sauce - yes.  There was about a dozen choices of toppings that I was sure I could rustle up... and then Mark spoke again, looking into my eyes with a smile, and then barking, “assume the position.”

His head nodded to the space between the TV and the couch where he and Brad were sprawled.  To my right, Frank was in one armchair, to my left, Tommy was in the other.  Mark took up the remote control and dialed up a PPV porno channel; I couldn’t see the screen, but the surround sound left me in no doubt about what it was.

I was dressed, but Mark was alongside me now, unbuttoning my blouse, taking down my hair.  Suddenly I was topless, and his hands were on my knees, pulling them further apart.  His fingers slipped between them and I gasped.  “Good girl,” he whispered; just before the game started, he’d asked me to slip to the bathroom and remove my panties., and I was glad I had.  My pussy started flooding the moment he told me to kneel.  They’d have been soaked through (again!  I suddenly remembered my romp with Terry) already.

I had the distinct impression that they’d played this game before.

Back when I was in college, there’d been rumors that some of the boys (not Mark - he attended a different school in a different town) used to play it as well.  The kneeling girl, the gang of guys... these days, we call it bukake and people pay big money to watch or even participate.  There are world records to be broken and prizes to be won.  Back then it was called pizza, and the girl was the crust.  Who would be covered in cum, as a nice cheesy topping, then decorated with anything else that came to hand... and then invited to lick herself clean.

I’d never played it, I’m not sure I’d ever believed it.  But here it was.  Here I was.

This is going to be fun.

I was expecting the guys to start jerking themselves off.  They didn’t.  Mark was already deep in my mouth, holding my head with gentle hands while his prick slipped in and out of my lips.  Brad to my left wrapped my fist around his meat, Tommy to my right did the same.  I glanced up at Frank, the only one of the three who I couldn’t feel.  His cock was still soft and my heart went out to him... I pushed Mark away for a moment, then raised myself off the ground.  “Come here.”  I tugged off my skirt.

Frank stepped over, lay down.  I knelt again, my dripping cunt over his face and gasped as I felt his mouth close over it.  I love to have my pussy licked, but I especially love it when I’m swimming in juice.  I could hear him swallowing.

Holding Mark at bay, I bent forward, took Frank’s still soft penis in my hand and licked it.  It twitched and I licked it again, then opened my mouth and popped him in.  I once read somewhere, or maybe someone told me, that a lot of time when you see a girl deep throating in a porn vid, she’s actually just sucking on a very soft cock.  It looks the same from the outside, and apparently feels pretty good for the guy.

It did for Frank.  I could feel him unfolding in the depths of my mouth, heating up and growing hard.  Already he was growing too big to hold onto, and I wished we’d set up a mirror someplace, so I could watch that lovely cock as it pulled its thickness out of my jaws.  

Mark was rubbing cock on my face, and I raised my head, leaving Frank’s for a moment, and gave it a loving suckle.  Then turned to the others and sucked them as well.  It was amazing just how different each cock felt, each cock tasted.  Amazing and irresistible.  Frank was sucking my cunt like there was no tomorrow, and I shifted my position slightly, raised my ass to fuck his face back.  

Mark moved.  Brad was in my mouth now, moaning as I slobbered over his fat purple cock tip, and then I choked as he pushed himself in as deep as he could, at the same time as I felt Mark bend down behind me and jam his prick into my pussy, doggy style.

I heard Frank gasp, and wondered what he would do.  Then his tongue was back on my labia, but it wasn’t just me he was licking.  Mark’s prick was slipping in and out of me and, in my mind, I imagined Frank licking that cock just as avidly as he was licking my cunt, maybe even taking my husband’s balls into his mouth... and that was the image that blasted my first orgasm through me.

I don’t even know who I was sucking on when it happened, just that I cried out with glory as the waves blasted through me, and the cock in my mouth responded in kind, blasting its cum in thick waves down my throat, then pulling out to splatter my face and tits with more.

I looked up.  Brad.  Then turned as Tommy let his own spunk fly, wet and sharp against my skin as I reached to pull him into my mouth and slurp the rest out as he emptied his balls.  Mark was still fucking me, harder and harder, slapping my raised ass.  I could feel Frank’s tongue and mouth still working, sucking at me, sucking at Mark.  How amazing did it feel for him, his mouth at the closest quarters to a fuck that felt like it had lasted forever... but not for much longer.  I dipped my head and took Frank in my mouth, feeling the other men’s cum dripping off my face and tits to splash slow and sticky on Frank’s bare skin.  I released his cock for a moment and licked him clean.  Then jammed Frank back into my mouth, a second sense telling me what was about to happen.

Mark came, cried out loud, ramming me as his jizz slammed my guts.  Frank came at the same time, filling my throat so I was stuffed at both ends.  I couldn’t keep my balance, I tumbled and landed on my side beside him, in time to see his hand reach up, grasp Mark’s cock and pull it into his mouth.  

Mark didn’t care, he just fucked his buddy’s face, draining out his last drops of cum.  Frank’s cock was spasming, his cum still flying.  Brad and Tommy were watching in amazement and I just lay there, glorying in the moment, my body dripping four men’s cum, my pussy still pouring, my legs wide open.  I barely even registered the movement beside me as Tommy knelt and put his face between my thighs, sucking at my cum soaked cunt.  But I came again, with my legs wrapped tight around his neck, and when Brad stepped over I grasped his softness and squeezed out a final few drops of cum onto Tommy’s ass from where I licked them off.

We lay, we laughed, we dressed, they left.  And Mark was sitting silent, watching me with a smile.

“You’re such a fucking slut,” he said.

“You’re not much better yourself,” I replied.

Then we both burst out laughing.  “And as for Frank,” I said between gasps, “he’s the biggest fucking slut of us all.”

Mark chuckled.  “He’s not a bad cock sucker, either.  Next time, we should let Brad and Tommy have a go.”

We stood up.  It was time for bed, time for sleep.  But I knew I wouldn’t get much rest.  Yes, I was exhausted; yes, my body ached.  But Mark had said “next time,” which meant there’d be a repeat.  And he’d also noticed that the DVR wasn’t working as it should, and asked me to call the cable guy back.

I’d do it first thing in the morning.

Pumping Iron, Pumping Cum

I’ll tell you the truth, but I never thought of myself as a slut wife until I started reading some of the adventures on the Erotic Stories website.  To be honest, it’s not even a word I like - well, not unless it’s my husband calling me that, which is something he really doesn’t do too often.  Except when I deserve it, of course.

Like last week.  I was sucking on his fat, delicious cock and he was taking way too long to cum.  So I stopped sucking and just started jerking him in one hand, while my mouth went down to his asshole, and started licking and sucking him there.  I could tell he was really into it, too, so my tongue started probing as deep as it could go, then I stopped and told him in my hungriest voice, “I don’t care if you shit, piss or cum.  But I want something out of you now.”  And he came so hard and fast I almost broke his dick off angling it to my mouth, and I almost choked on everything he was pumping out.

Yeah, he called me a slut after that, and I kissed him and told him that’s why he loved me.  But I’d never thought of myself as a slut.  Not till I started reading those stories, and recognizing myself in way more than I expected.

I like cock.  Actually, I love cock.  Always have, ever since I first heard about them back at school, and more every time I learned something new about them.  By the time I met my husband, I don’t know how many dicks I’d sucked, or how much cum I’d swallowed.  But hey, I was young and enjoying myself.  And who keeps score of that?

My husband does his best, and I love that man to bits.  But even he gets tired every so often, and one night while we were lying in bed, he... okay, he didn’t actually come out and say that if I wanted to have some fun elsewhere, it was fine.  But he didn’t not say it either.  Just so long as I was careful, just so long as I was subtle.  He didn’t want to hear about everything I did, he said, although occasionally in the months that followed, he’d ask me what I’d done that day, usually after coming home before I’d cleaned my teeth, and catching a whiff of cum breath when I turned to say hello.

So I’d tell him, usually while I enjoyed an encore performance with his dick between my lips, holding it like a microphone and rapping my adventures to a rapt and rapturous audience.  And before you say white chicks can’t rap, don’t be too sure of that.

Anyway, I was the gym last Thursday when Spike walked in.  It’s not his real name; I don’t know what that is, and I don’t know if he’s aware that that’s what people call him.  It’s his hair, you see.  Up in a punky mohican, sprayed livid purple to match the amethyst piercings in his ears.  He’s hot and he’s fit... nineteen or twenty years old, which drops him to almost exactly half of my thirty-nine, and when he strips down to his shorts and tee, he doesn’t leave much to the imagination.

He’s buff, he’s broad, he’s bronzed, he’s beautiful.  And I’ve caught him watching me when I’m on the machines, pausing in his own exertions to catch a glimpse of long-legged milf.  I started dressing for him too, switching out my usual work-out clothes for a tighter top with a lower cut, and bikini briefs that were even briefer than that.  Admiring myself in the mirror when I bought them, I spotted a suggestion of camel toe, but it’s only other women who ever make remarks about that.  Guys see your pussy lips sucking at the fabric and the only thing going through their mind is - lucky fabric.

I’d been working out for almost forty-five minutes when Spike walked in  today, which meant the sweat stains were soaking through all the right places, and my whole body was glistening with the sheen of honest exertion.  He nodded to me as he walked past my machine, and paused for a moment to watch.  Or maybe to show himself off.

He’d obviously been shopping for new work-out clothes, too.  A vest that almost made me look modest, and a pair of shorts that could have been a thong for all they covered up.  My eyes met his then traveled down his bod, knowing he was following them as they inched down towards his groin.

“Looking good,” I murmured, then looked back to his face.  It was a standard greeting at the gym, just something we all said to the people we knew when we clocked the work they’d put in on their bods.  But he knew what I meant regardless of that, and his hands moved down to the waistline of his briefs, hooking thumbs between elastic and the smooth flesh of his abdomen, and tugging them down just a fraction of an inch.

I must have licked my lips because he was smiling wide now, pulling the briefs away from his body and glancing down into the gap.  I couldn’t see a thing, of course, but I have a good imagination and I felt my pussy lurch a little as the imagery flooded into my mind.

I’m not one of those women who subscribes to the widespread belief that a guy is past his sexual prime once he leaves his early twenties.  I’ve known too many older men who  turn that into a joke... Sven, who came to fix a household appliance, and wound up fucking me over the dryer.  MIke, up from Louisiana and up my ass faster than I could correctly spell “Mississippi.”  A trucker whose name I don’t think I ever caught, but who will always be the Road King when I think of long distance blowjobs.  Greg... Lee... Willy... and D, who introduced himself as Mr Deviant one day, and never deviated from that description all evening.

None of whom I’d describe as being the young studs of some women’s dreams.  But what they lacked in youth, they made up for with meat.  So Spike was... not unknown territory to me.  But I’d never really worried about catching them young.  Right now, I was beginning to reconsider.

He’d released his briefs and his arms were by his sides.  But he’d shunted them down a little more when he let go, and I could see his cock stirring through the deep red of the cloth.  

“Looking good yourself,” he said, and an accent I’d never noticed, southern with just a hint of prep school WASPyness made my heart pound harder.  He peeled off his vest and I saw his tattoo... I know he had one because I’d caught a glimpse one day while he was lifting weights, and his shirt rose up an inch or two.  Now the whole thing was bared to me, a pretty brunette standing from his waistline to his breast bone, her body bound in police incident tape, her head tilted back, her lips sightly parted, and her eyes closed what looked to me like the first stirrings of an orgasm.

“Nice tat.”

“Thanks.”  He stepped away, over to the bench where the weights were already waiting in place.  Maybe ten feet away, and raised just enough that as he lay back I could see his chest muscles ripple.

I could also see his cock, rising thick beneath the briefs, fat against the flat of the rest of his lower body.

He started work, raising the weights, first with one arm, then the other, and then with both together.  I kept my own pace up as well, and though I knew from his angle that he couldn’t see me, I made sure he could hear me, exhaling loudly as I pounded my machine, allowing my voice to catch in each exhalation, a gasp, an “aaah,” a moan, a cry.  Normally I hate it when you hear a woman working out, like if it’s that painful, sister, you’re doing it wrong.  But the gym was empty apart from us two, and I knew it was likely to stay that way.  A skeleton staff would be at the front desk, and no-one else came at this time of day.  No-one, that is, apart from Spike.

His cock was hardening.  I could see it moving behind the cloth, shifting, raising, as he worked out.  Growing.  My cunt was so wet it was almost screaming out to him, and I glanced at the stop clock on the dashboard of the machine.  Another three minutes and I’d move to the next one.  Another two minutes thirty.  Another two.  Ninety seconds.  Sixty.  Thirty.

I stepped off and looked around.  Nobody here and the blinds to the street were still drawn against the morning sun.  I walked over to where Spike was holding a pose, two weights poised above his head, his muscles taut, his sweat a hot aroma that clung to my nostrils.  I crouched beside him and his head turned towards me, his eyes deep and serious but his lips creased in a smile.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Are you done for the day?”

I didn’t reply for a moment or two.  “It depends.”

“On what?”

I ran a fingertip down the length of his tattoo.  “A friend of yours?”

“Could be.”

“She looks hot.”

“She is.”

I’d thrown a double-meaning at him, and he threw it right back at me.  A smart guy.  She did look hot, drenched in sweat, while the muscles that she was inked upon lay taut and tight beneath her.  His body felt like an oven and, shifting my weight as I crouched there, I blew gently onto his stomach.

“Maybe we should cool her down a little,” I said.

“Maybe we should,” he shot back and I saw his briefs start to tent as his cock reached full strength.

I touched the tattooed area again, then traced my fingertip downwards, poising just above where his briefs were stretching so beautifully airborne.  He was still pumping iron but his eyes did not leave mine.  Daring me to hit back with a comment of my own?  Daring my finger to descend a little further?  Daring me to do anything that would break the silent frieze in which I’d suddenly taken a role.

I took the dare.

I took the waistband of his briefs, and began to tug down.

His cock rose to meet me.  Longer than I’d expected, thicker than my husband’s.  Full blooded and straight, with a vein that throbbed visibly as I gazed down upon it.

I didn’t touch, and he didn’t speak.  So I leaned forward and let my tongue trace his tummy, tasting the sweet stickiness of his sweat.  I heard him exhale and maybe he wavered, lowering the weights just a little as my tongue began to circle, short dashes at first, but widening their arc, till my face brushed so close to the raised tip of his prick that I could feel its burning heat on my cheek.

I’ll say this for Spike.  He was good.  He was patient.

And he was mine.

One hand freed his cock and balls from his briefs, the other one held his prick firm and upright.  And then my mouth closed over his helmet.

For a moment, I froze.  I’ve only ever met a couple of guys whose cocks were too big to fit in my mouth, and though I brought them both off with lips, teeth and tongue, I remembered the frustration at not being able to take them deep in my throat.  Was Spike going to be another one of those?

Yes... yes... no.  My jaw relaxed around his thickness, and I realized I’d been holding my entire body taut since the moment I crouched down beside him.  As I let out the tension, so the tension let me go, and the thick meaty head was tart in my mouth, tangy with perspiration and wet with pre-cum too.  I closed my teeth just below the head and sucked, feeling my cheeks fold in to my mouth, and feeling Spike’s body grow tighter beneath me.

I wondered if he was still holding the weights up, then a hand in my hair let me know that he wasn’t.  Not with both arms, anyway.  

I bobbed, taking as much of his length as I could.  The throb of his cock was loud in my head... or was that the sound of my own blood as well, pumping ecstatically as I tasted the boy, my whole body folding up on itself as though every nerve end wanted to meet in my mouth, to share in the glory of that beautiful cock.  

He lay still and I started to face fuck him, my mouth like a pussy as it slipped and slid the length of his prick, and his hand in my hair twisting knots of sweet pain.  I caressed his balls and felt them tighten in my grip, then staggered back a little because now he was starting to move, starting to rise, shifting determinedly onto his knees and my mouth grip was broken as he took his cock away from me, then told me to lie on the floor.

I obeyed and, still kneeling, he crouched over my chest, holding his hard cock just inches from my face.  He was jerking himself now, but dipping his shaft so my greedy lips and tongue could reach out to catch his flavor, suckle his flesh.  And then he was cumming, arcing hot spunk, splashing my face and drenching my breasts, harder and heavier than I’d seen a guy cum since... okay, maybe there is something to be said for younger men.  They know how to put on a show with their flow.

I was drenched.  My top was soaked, my face was dripping.  I licked what I could off my lips, then ran a hand through the pools that hit my cheeks and chin, and cleaned them off with my tongue as well.

He jerked until his cock had stopped spurting and I pulled him back into my mouth to suck, loving the feeling of the softness returning, relishing the very last drops of cum he fed me.  Then as I released him and he moved away, he spoke for the first time since I started to suck.

“You’re married, aren’t you.”  It was a statement, not a question.

I nodded.

“Does your husband know what a slut you are?”

I nodded again.  Spike’s cum was drying on my t-shirt.  I’d need to get it in to soak soon, if I didn’t want it to stain.  And it was as if he read my mind.

“Wear that shirt when he comes home tonight.  Wear it while you’re sucking his cock.  And when he comes, make sure he comes all over it as well.  Will you do that for me?”

I didn’t even need to think.  “Yes,” I said softly.  Then louder, “fuck, yes.”

“Do it and I’ll let you suck me off again sometime,” he told me.  “And if you’re a really good slut, I might even let you meet with some of the guys I work out with in the evenings.”

I swear, I could feel my eyes shining as my face broke out in the wildest smile.

“Oh, I’m already a really good slut.  But I’m always glad to find out how to be even better.”