Kinky sex story
The seething passions that lurk within many individuals are often hidden beneath a veneer of normalcy, exposed only under extremely tempting conditions.
The woman who, after a few drinks at a party, takes on all corners, male and female alike. The man who, during a strip show at a stag party, climbs up on stage with the girl and performs with her in front of his friends. The couple who surreptitiously join the neighborhood mate swappers.
Eugenia Saunders is one of these outwardly normal people. But when she begins a new job, she also discovers depths of depravity she previously would never have considered herself capable of. And so she tries at first to deny her real self, seeking refuge behind other facades, but ultimately failing.
JUICY PIECE -- a fictional story about a society that refuses to face many of its real problems.
The reflection of Madame Fellatio of Honey Pot magazine (Do-you-need-advice-on-your-sex-life? Are-you-horny? Got-something-kinky-you-want-to-share? Write-to-Madame-Fellatio-and-she-will-help-you) stared at me from the electric coffee pot as I sat at my desk. The shiny metal cylinder beamed Madame Fellatio's perplexed facial expression. I looked at it for almost five minutes before I noticed how severely the anxiety showed on her face.
The lines creasing her face concerned me. A young woman only 25 years old shouldn't carry such an obvious burden in the expression on her face. The problems of her job were glaringly obvious in the troubled mask she wore. The frustration was building day by day, and her normally pretty face was marred by the lines more and more frequently.
Looking at her reflection in the coffee pot, I wondered how long it would take for the lines to become permanent, indelible souvenirs of the frustration of the job, the awesome responsibility of being Madame Fellatio.
Increasingly, when my brain came to a deadening halt and I couldn't coax a word out of my typewriter, I sat and stared at Madame Fellatio's troubled face. I would become so mesmerized with the daily evidence of the frustration of her occupation that her identity seemed to be totally her own, as if she were not a creation of Melville Shark, the money-grubbing publisher and editor of Honey Pot magazine, but a kind of patron saint for all the people in the world who were hung up on sex, her existence fueled by the sex problems of others, a freaky legion who depended on her to ease their guilt and shame.
"Hey, Madame Fellatio," I could hear Shark's crass voice slithering the way it did over my shoulder, the voice I imagined a snake would have if one could talk. "Time to get cracking. We've got a deadline to meet."
I looked at her face for a reaction to Shark's command, but it remained frozen in the shiny metal of the coffee pot, failing to respond to his call for action. I wondered how long she could ignore Shark, who was notorious for his losses of temper and sharp tongue whenever things didn't go his way.
Although my back was to Shark, I knew his face was turning red and the spit was bubbling around the corners of the thin slit of his mouth as he got ready to cut loose with a sarcastic stream of abuse. My eyes remained trained on the reflection of Madame Fellatio, fascinated by what her reaction to Shark would ultimately be. I wondered how long she could take it -- the letters, the job, the deadlines, Shark screaming at her.
"You dumb cunt!" he exploded from somewhere behind me. "I can put you back in the unemployment line where I found you!"
Her face showed nothing as he raged. It was only when her reflection was joined by his purple face in the cylindrical mirror of the coffee pot that she showed any reaction. She looked as though she had just smelled something bad.
I could have gone on watching the drama unfolding on the silver screen of the coffee pot indefinitely, I suppose, reacting to it as though I were sitting out in the audience, unseen by either of the players. However, Shark did not permit that to happen, and brought me to my senses by screaming my name.
"MI right, I'm warning you, Eugenia," he bellowed, "unless you've got that column on my desk by 3:00, then you're out on your ass! There was a Madame Fellatio before I hired you, and there're plenty more living on tuna fish sandwiches who'd do anything for a weekly paychecks."
As I heard his footsteps clatter out of the room, the mask of Madame Fellatio dissolved, and for the first time I saw myself, Eugenia Saunders, looking at me from the coffee pot. I realized that I had been watching myself again -- spying on myself like I was two separate people -- instead of doing my work.
That was the strangest part of it. I would forget Madame Fellatio was actually me. That for eight hours a day, five days a week, I was paid over $200 to sit in front of a typewriter and answer letters from the sex-starved readers of Honey Pot magazine concerning every type of sexual hang-up and activity conceivable. As I sat there and looked at the troubled reflection that belonged to both of us, it didn't seem possible that Madame Fellatio and I were the same person. It didn't seem possible that my brain could send the messages to my fingers to press down the correct keys on the typewriter to create the answers the people who wrote the letters wanted to read. I couldn't believe they were writing those letters to me. And I couldn't believe I was answering them.
Although the deadline was less than an hour away, I was still working on the answer to the first letter I had opened today. I had gotten as far as: "Any type of sexual activity is healthy as long as both parties agree to it..." But I found it impossible to continue. The letters were no longer funny. I could not go on finding the same joke funny thirty times a day for months on end. And on most days I received more than thirty letters, all of them alike, all of them pleading for understanding, all of them begging for answers.
On my desk were piled those I had received this morning, all of them unopened except the one I had been drearily puzzling over all day. I picked another one up and opened it, reading it to search for some inspiration, hoping that this letter would be the exception to the rule and inspire me to write a decent enough column to temporarily get Shark off my back.
"Dear Madame Fellatio: I have something on my mind that I've been wondering about and I thought maybe you could tell me whether I've got anything to worry about or not. I'm not supposed to be trading your magazine because it says on the cover in small print just under the price that it's not supposed to be sold to minors, but I go to a drugstore out of my neighborhood where they don't know me and pass as eighteen. I hope this doesn't disqualify me from getting my letter answered."
"I've been doing something that always makes me feel real good, but so far nobody knows about it except me. Although it makes me feel real good, some little voice in the back of my mind tells me sometimes that if my mom or dad or and other adults found out about it, I'd get into trouble. So I guess the only thing I can do is tell you about it and wait for your answer."
"I suppose when I see their panties, I should just keep right on going instead of thinking about their pussies, but my dick won't let me. My balls suddenly seem like they're on fire, and my cock gets so stiff it practically rips my pants. All of a sudden all I can think of is getting one of those girls off by myself so I can pull off her panties and rub my prick against her cunt. I imagine filling her tiny mouth with my cock, jamming it down her throat so far that she can't scream while my fingers press between her legs and massage her cunt."
"It's always easy to get one of the girls to come with me."
"Once I get her alone and pull out my long stiff cock the girl always stays. She's fascinated by my cock and balls and always wants to touch it. Nobody can tell me they don't like it when they're that age. Innocent, hah! They love to feel my cock, and in no time at all have forgotten all about their candy bar and want to taste my sweet prick instead. When I'm with a girl, I love the way my hard cock slides into her sucking mouth, the way her tongue laps at my prick like it was an all-day sucker while my hands are busily pulling her panties down under her dress. I've done this so many times that I know exactly what to do, exactly how to turn her on good, and while she's sucking my prick, my fingers almost immediately find the almost microscopic nubbin of her tiny clit. But it isn't long before I've teased it into maturity, massaging and rubbing her bare pussy until it's inflamed with hot blood and engorged with sticky juice as gooey as maple syrup on the flapjacks my mom makes me every morning."
"While I'm squeezing her clit and finger-fucking her, at least two fingers thrusting deeply into her pussy-hole, I shove harder and harder with my prick in her mouth. It's always unbelievable how much hot cock a girl can take in her mouth. But before I come, I like to pull out and stick my prick between her legs, pressing the swollen cock-head right up against the slit in her cunt so I can rub my throbbing meat against her pussy. I make her lie down and tell her to spread her legs so that the gash of her pussy is wide open and I can see everything. I stick my prick inside just enough so her cunt can swallow my cock-head, and then I make her rub my balls with her fingers."
"I like to come inside her tiny cunt, knowing that I'm the first one to spray her insides with hot sticky sperm and make a woman out of her no matter how young she is. Once they feel my dick stuffed tight inside of them they can't get enough and a lot of them beg for more, pleading with me to stick my cock up all the way inside them, splitting them in two with my big tool."
"It's amazing the way they know how to move their hips and wiggle their little asses without anyone telling them to. They just seem to know how to fuck no matter how young they are. When I come inside of them, they lift their hips to catch it all inside of them, tipping up their pussies so I can pour my thick cream in their cunts like I was shooting it in them with a hose. No matter how young or inexperienced a girl is, the walls of her pussy always grab my cock like she has an extra hand between her legs and jerk me until my balls are bone dry."
"When my prick has finished spurting in her pussy, I always pull out and stuff it into her rosebud mouth so she can lick off the last of the cum... you know, sort of like dessert. I like it when my cum dribbles gut of the corners of their mouths and smears and slicks all over their faces just like when kids eat ice cream or candy. Sometimes the sight of my cream on their faces gets me so excited that my prick stands up as if I hadn't just come, and I have no choice but to fuck the cutie I'm with all over again."
"The thing is, although this is the only kind of sex that turns me on (I even think about girls with their legs spread apart showing their pussies when I'm doing my time in the toilet jerking off), something tells me that I'd have a hard time explaining my desires to anyone... except, of course, somebody as understanding as you, Madame Fellatio. I knew you'd understand after I read your answer to that letter in your column from the man who liked to have sex with insects."
"I'm wondering if I can go on like I have been now that I'm getting older (I'll be eighteen in a couple of months). What's made me start to think about it is that a girl my own age has asked me to go to a school dance (one of those Sadie Hawkins dances where the girls ask the guys). I'm afraid to go because I haven't the faintest idea how to act around a girl my own age. I lock myself in the bathroom and try to get my prick hard by imagining this girl's hairy cunt and big tits, but all it does is make my cock shrivel up even smaller than it was in the first place. But meanwhile the girl is bugging me to go to the dance with her. And, what's worse, her family is friends with mine, and my parents know she asked me and expect me to go with her. If I do go ahead and accept, I'll feel like an idiot the whole evening. What'll I do if she expects me to make out with her and I can't handle it? And if I say no, everyone will think I'm weird because at school everyone thinks she's a fine-looking chick, and she has a reputation for putting out."
"I'm waiting desperately for your answer, Madame Fellatio. Should I go to the Sadie Hawkins Day dance with this girl? P.F., Delaware."
I stopped reading. Suddenly the answer to all of these letters came to me. Christ! Christ was the answer. Only Christ could help these people. But although for the first time since I'd become Madame Fellatio I felt that I had the answer to the problems of my readers, it did not make me happy. In fact, it made me feel more insecure than ever. Because now that I realized clearly what the answer was, I knew even more clearly that I must stay away from it. Everything he stood for was a conscious slap in the face to everything that was decent. Not just Honey Pot, but all of his publishing empire -- Man's Guts, Split Beavers, Rosy Rears, Blowhole, and The National Leer -- were based on a glorification of sex and the physical. As the masthead of Honey Pot stated in bold type: "This magazine is dedicated to turning you on." Each of his magazines routinely carried an article putting down religion in every issue. When I had first been sent to him by the employment agency to be interviewed for the job, Shark had smiled and said, "The Xaviera Hollanders, the Linda Lovelaces, and the Madame Fellatios are the priestesses of the 1970's."
A copy boy came up to me to tell me that Shark wanted to remind me that he expected the copy on his desk at 3:00 sharp. I felt like I was being held prisoner at my desk, chained to my typewriter, and that the only way I could become free was to give Shark what he wanted. I bent over the typewriter and began pounding the keys, letting my fingers do my thinking for me as I drew a shade over the workings of my mind.
But before I had written a dozen words, Shark leaned over my shoulder. "The same old stuff," Shark said. "Why don't you give them something new?" He picked up the letter from the mother with the eighteen-year-old daughter and niece.
"Do not let things overwhelm you just because they are different," he dictated. "Do not be so quick to criticize something you haven't tried. Much of the generation gap that is so epidemic these days occurs because children and their parents have so little in common. Has it ever occurred to you that this might be your golden opportunity to get really close to your daughter? If you join your daughter instead of blindly criticizing her, you might start a whole new, improved relationship with her."
CHAPTER TWO
When I finished typing and felt I had miraculously finished another column, I called the copy boy and had him deliver whatever it was I had written so I wouldn't have to face Shark. I had no idea what it said, just being thankful that it was completed.
It was Friday, which meant I was liberated from Shark and his magazine for two days. But it wasn't until I got across town and inside my apartment and had closed the door behind me that I felt I was finally safe.
After, however, I had settled down with the evening paper, I realized that I wasn't much better off on my own than I was under Shark's thumb. The paper was full of stories about people doing things. Many of them terrible things, of course, but doing things nonetheless. But I did nothing. At work I was like Shark's robot, doing exactly what he told me under threat of being fired and having to walk the streets looking for some job even more demeaning than working for him. And on my own time I was like a hermit, going nowhere and doing nothing, so terrified had I become of mankind on the basis of spending eight hours a day wallowing in the perversion those letters to Madame Fellatio represented.
I didn't trust anybody. I'd sooner trust myself alone with a rattlesnake than I would with a man. There was no doubt about it, being Madame Fellatio had distorted my whole view of life, and what's worse, up until now I could see no better alternative on the horizon.
The fact of the matter was that I had come to believe what Shark had said the day he hired me: that our contemporary saints were hookers and pornographers, which meant that the rest of us were following in their footsteps.
In the meantime, I was becoming more and more tense and frustrated, both mentally and physically. I was a young woman in the supposed prime of my life, yet unable to swing with my contemporaries. I was living an existence more suitable for a ninety-year-old woman in an old folks' home.
Even worse, I often gave in to the temptations of the flesh. Despite all my vows of decency, I found myself throbbing between my legs, the mound of my cunt uncontrollably pulsing with desire, becoming sopping wet with sticky fluid from the slightest stimulus. The sight of a slight bulge in an actor's pants in a television program would instantaneously make my pussy abruptly drench my panties with cunt juice, so that I had no choice but to peel them off. Then I would run to the mirror where I could sit in a chair and spread my legs while I watched myself plunge my trembling fingers into the slit of my foaming pussy and violently finger-fuck myself.
In order to satisfy the uncontrollable desires of my cunt, I had secretly collected a shoebox full of sexual paraphernalia, with which I periodically satisfied my screamingly sopping cunt. They were disgusting items that vibrated and plunged inside my pussy, things I had sent away for from ads in Shark's magazines.
As I sat in my chair reading the paper, my mind abruptly turned to the contents of that box when I came to the movie page and felt my cunt instantly start to throb and foam from an advertisement showing Burt Reynolds in a pair of tight pants.
I put down the paper to escape the appetite that had suddenly consumed me and started the sticky juicing in my cunt. But my mind was unable to shake itself free of the image of my nine-inch-long prick-shaped vibrator buzzing its way between the parted lips of my pussy, pushing inside my spasming, sopping fuck-hole and filling me to the brim with tingling ecstasy. I couldn't help myself from loving the way the vibrator shook my pussy into a frenzy, turning loose my cunt juice so that by the time I was finished fucking myself, my cunt was a swamp of musky, sticky fluid over which I had no control as I came and came again.
But not tonight, I told myself, I wouldn't give in to my carnal desires again tonight. I had a weekend to get myself together before I went back to face Shark again. Perhaps if I resisted the temptation calling to me from my pulsing cunt, then I would have the backbone to face Shark on Monday and tell him what I really thought.
I yearned to be free of the trap in which I found myself, the compressing walls of my steaming, convulsing cunt seeming to press against my whole body, their stickiness adhering like tape to my arms and legs and holding me prisoner as I fought to get free. But finally, through extraordinary effort, I forced myself from my chair and struggled towards the door. When I tried to open it, it seemed as though it were made of lead, fighting my efforts to escape as it drew strength from my obstinately throbbing cunt, resisting my efforts to be rid of the temptation that made me the slave of the frothing gash between my legs.
As I struggled with the door, I closed my eyes and imagined myself without a cunt, with just a smooth slope of pink flesh between my thighs... no hair, no pulsing folds of puffy red flesh framing an oozing gash, no blood-engorged clit springing erectly like a miniature spike, begging to be stimulated to orgasm. My pussy answered my attempts to mentally destroy it by unleashing a new outpouring of syrup secretion.
But this time I was determined not to become the slave of my own cunt. Gathering myself together, I forced the door open and fled into the hall. I made it all the way into the street before I became fully aware again of the gushing, hairy wound that was my cunt and the sopping condition of another ruined pair of panties.
Once I was halfway down the block, I realized that I had made a mistake by coming outside. I had left my apartment hoping to escape the lure of the shoebox and the dildo and vibrator it contained, but in the process had wound up exposing myself to the stimulus of every man who walked down the street past me. If I could not resist the impersonal picture of a man in a newspaper, or a flickering image of a TV screen, I was helpless in the face of the real thing on the street. It seemed like a conspiracy had been hatched to tempt me to the fullest and prove that Shark was right, that sex was all that mattered, as man after man passed me, each of them seeming to wear tighter pants than the previous one, their bulging pricks leaping out at me from under their clothing.
By the time I had walked two blocks, I couldn't take a step without the squishing from my cream-engorged pussy echoing through the still night air. I was sure that every man who passed me on the sidewalk heard the squeeze-box of my pussy and knew that I was blazing with desire, hopelessly horny. The cunt-cream had long since saturated the flimsy crotch of my panties and was now dribbling down my legs, coating my trembling thighs with hot, sticky juice.
This man... that man... then another one who passed by me: I imagined all of them without clothes, naked on top of me, their long, thick pricks zeroing in on the hairy, slitted gash between my open legs, zooming towards my wide-spread cunt and penetrating it, splitting it in two like a knife hacking through a piece of ripe fruit with their thrusting cock-heads and thick, pulsating shafts. I could hardly move, imagining there was a stiff cock already inside my cunt, stretching my hole with its throbbing girth as it fucked me while I walked.
Immobilized by my involuntary fantasies, I ducked into an alley and threw myself against a grimy wall, the musky smell of my own sex wafting up to my flaring nostrils from my steaming cunt. The alley was as filthy as the inside of a garbage pail, but to me it seemed as erotic a setting as a plush bedroom with satin sheets on a canopied bed and a mirror on the ceiling. In my incredibly horny condition it seemed the perfect atmosphere for being fucked and sucked... but then in my hopelessly turned-on state so would the deck of an aircraft carrier or the floor of the stock exchange.
My sexual frustration had finally caught up with me as I yearned desperately for anyone to appear and fuck me with anything, just so long as I could release the terrible pressure building like a volcano in my frantically bubbling cunt.
Realizing I would have to take matters into my own hands, I moved stealthily to the place where the alley entered onto the street and pantingly waited for someone to come along. The first person who happened along was a teenager, walking innocently down the street. Even from a distance and in the dark I could pick out his head of red hair. But what made my mouth water was the tight-fitting blue jeans he was wearing and the unmistakable bulge that sloped out from their skin-tight crotch. I knew that there was no power in the universe that could prevent me from getting him off the sidewalk into the hidden alley so I could see what was underneath those jeans. I could almost taste the sweet meat of his prick in my mouth as I licked my lips in anticipation and moved closer to the sidewalk.
When he was close enough so the sound of his sneakers shuffling along the concrete echoed in my ears, I stepped out of the alleyway where I would be clearly visible to him when he passed by but concealed from anybody else on the street. As I heard him approaching, I removed my blouse and tossed it behind me, my tits heaving with throbbing expectation, swelling with such pulsating anticipation that the spongy white flesh spilled over the top of my bra, my nipples gouging like spikes against the soft cotton fabric.
Realizing that he was within mere feel of seeing me for the first time, I quickly reached around and unhooked my bra and pulled it off, leaving me naked from the waist up. My firm, round tits tumbled into the guy's view as he walked unsuspectingly in front of me while they were still bobbing. I heard the guy gasp as I cupped my throbbing tits with my hands and offered them to him, my nipples straining erectly in his direction as though they were magnetically attracted to him.
"Sonny," I said, my eyelids closing as I imagined the thrilling ecstasy that would be mine in a few seconds if my wanton boldness succeeded, "will you please fuck me?"
When I opened my eyes again, he was standing there soundlessly, framed by the entrance to the alley, his cock swelling against the crotch of his jeans so much that its thrust bulk had already forced his fly halfway down. Desperate not to lose him, I moved closer to the guy and then dropped to my knees before him. My hand trembling like a leaf, I reached out for the tab of his zipper and eagerly pulled it down. Immediately I hungrily noticed that he was even harder than I had expected, his cock and balls pushing out so boldly in his crotch that they seemed to be splitting his seams.
"Are you going to suck it?" he asked squeakily, his voice sounding strained and tight.
"If you want me to," I said seductively. "I'll suck your prick if you promise to get on top of me after I'm finished and fuck me."
Oh, how I loved speaking in this manner!
"Would you like to stick your big, hard prick in my pussy and fuck me?" I asked, taking great pleasure in murmuring the words with the maximum wantonness I could muster.
"Uh, sure..." he gulped in reply, obviously panting for breath because of the excruciating excitement as he spoke, although by now I wasn't looking up at his face. My eyes were uncontrollably riveted to his bulging cock. "Sure," he repeated. "I'd like to do... do it to you. You sure are some woman, ma'am. You sure shook me up there for a coupla seconds coming out of the alley all unexpected like that."
Trembling with wild anticipation, I snaked my hand inside and wrapped my slim fingers around his fat cock, using it as a handle to tug him further into the alley where he wouldn't be noticed. I almost drew my fingers back in shock because of the intense heat of his incredibly aroused prick. As I wrapped my fingers around his pulsingly thick cock, it seemed hotter than any prick I had ever held. I couldn't wait to keep my promise to suck it and greedily taste it as I pulled him farther and farther into the dark alley.
His rigid cock was out of his jeans now, held firmly in my pressing hand as I parted my lips and thrust my slobbering mouth over the twitching, swollen head. The moment he felt his cock being sucked he became frantic and, grabbing my head, began to fuck me furiously in the mouth.
Reacting reflexively to the violent bucking of his hips and jabbing of his sharply stabbing prick, I pulled away, and as I did so, his jackhammering prick struck me repeatedly on the cheeks, nose and chin. Oh, it was all too wonderful, I felt, too wonderful to be true. But it was truly happening to me, and the more I teased him by holding my lips back from his frantically thrashing prick, the more he tried to ram it down my throat. I was so hot and excited that I was already having mini orgasms, one following on the heels of the other as the liquid embers glowing in my spasming cunt did their best to dissolve what was left of my steamingly drenched panties.
Grabbing his jeans at the waistband, I yanked down hard on them, while at the same time he crashed down on top of me, his cock flailing wildly in the direction of my lips like it was equipped with a sonar device. Somehow, I managed to pull his jeans down to his knees, as he groped on top of me, desperately trying to impale my face on the lunging sword of his prick.
But I knew now that I was too hot to take the time to feel his cock in my mouth, promise or not. My cunt cried out to be stuffed with the full length of his young, stiff dick, pleading to be filled and fucked with his throbbing teenage meat. While he flailed on top of me, his prick bouncing off my face and his orange crotch hair scraping my lips and nose, I lowered my hand to the sodden crotch of my dissolving panties and ripped them apart, exposing the steaming, hairy cavern of my juicing pussy.
I spread my legs as far apart as they would go, sending my skirt to my waist as I felt the flesh pull tautly across my trembling thighs while my cunt drooled and hunched out reflexively, literally reaching out with its pussy-lips to the young, thick cock I knew I had to have inside me in order to survive.
I grabbed ahold of the stabbing shaft of his cock with both hands, clutching it so tightly that my fingers gouged into the rubbery flesh as I literally pulled the rest of his body by the handle of his prick toward my foaming cunt.
When his hips were at last locked against mine, his cock was so unbelievably hard that when it stabbed fiercely against my ultrasensitive cunt, it actually caused pain, seeming to raise welts on the tender flesh of my pussy-mound with its obviously inexperienced, overanxious thrusts.
I had to reach between us and grasp his thick, meaty shaft firmly in order to steer his wildly stabbing cock into the bubbling slot formed by my juicy pussy-lips. Immediately his prick shot into my cunt-hole all the way to the hilt, just as I had hoped it would, his tight balls crashing in hot fury against the upturned cheeks of my wiggling ass. He had a long, thick cock, its girth meaty beyond his years, as I had no difficulty in wrapping my cunt-lips tightly around its fat shaft, clasping it wetly in a perfect frenzy of rapture.
He fucked away at my willing cunt with lightning speed and a penetration that was complete with every sharp stroke, stabbing all the way through my pussy and pounding against the end. I had another series of quick, little orgasms that left me gasping for air while I pumped my constricted cunt up and down on the teen's machine-gunning cock, tightening my pussy muscles like a vise to create such an intense friction that it would only be seconds before his prick spurted with jizz, splattering my blazing cunt-walls with buckets of hot, sticky sperm.
Suddenly his prick seemed to miraculously grow another inch, stretching and filling my aching, drooling cunt before it exploded with a long, continuous spurt of cum, irrigating the canal of my cunt with a river of flowing fuck-cream. The length of time he required to stop squirting into my pussy was almost unbelievable as I used every trick I could muster to try to drain him of every drop.
This teen was no masturbator, I gleefully told myself as he turned my pussy-tunnel into a swamp with his still spouting cock. I knew enough about the habits of guys to know that this one was no jack-off artist. This teen had too many buckets of cum stored up in his smooth balls to have been shooting it into a handkerchief or into wads of toilet paper. It thrilled me to think I was getting perhaps years of stored-up cock-juice.
Finally he stopped spurting his monster prick up my cunt, but his cock remained as unbelievably hard as ever as he continued to fuck me without missing a stroke, his prick shooting in and pulling out of my hole at a terrific rate of speed. The incessant chafing of the base of his prick against my thrusting pelvis, maddeningly rubbing my hard clit, drove me wilder and wilder while his thickly erect shaft continued to course ceaselessly through the swamp of my pussy.
It was now that I really started to come seriously, the spasm being so intense, that if he hadn't been on top of me, I would have doubled up and screamed with ecstasy. As it was, I whimpered uncontrollably from the stabbing sensations that riddled my convulsing body, and then, exhausted when I had finished coming, lay limply beneath his still thrusting body.
"Sweet Jesus," I murmured as I realized I no longer had any control over the situation. "Is he going to fuck me forever?"
His naked body continued to pump away at my clutching cunt as though his cock was powered by an engine, and before I knew it, he was once again pouring his scalding goo inside my pussy.
I came again. This time I screamed instead of whimpering as my cunt muscles wrapped around his bludgeoning prick, trying to squeeze it like it was a piece of wet laundry going through a wringer. But he paid no attention to this, oblivious to everything other than the berserk urge to keep on furiously fucking. Incredibly, he strove to bring forth a third rush of sperm within the unbelievable space of a few minutes.
Although I had already come massively, I found myself moving my body along with his as though I had just started fucking, summoning up the energy from some unknown depth to buck my cunt up at him and wriggle my ass, hoping masochistically that he could once again manage to scald my cunt-walls with his boiling jizz. I writhed beneath him and felt his miraculously hard prick reaming out my thrillingly aching cunt, I found myself anticipating his sperm as though it would be the first time he'd come inside me.
Now I pressed my hands, palms downward, on his smoothly hare ass to hold him in place between the slippery sweat, sperm and pussy juice slickened well of my squeezing thighs. I wrapped my legs around his, hooking my toes underneath calves for a firmer grip, striving to make him shoot off his monster prick inside my clenching pussy just one more time, greedy for another load of teenage jizz.
Finding his mouth with my lips, I began to kiss the teen passionately as he fucked me with the kind of wild, reckless fury that only a young stud could possess. God, how wonderful it was to have a tireless teenager on top of me, pumping his ever-swollen cock into my cunt.
"Oh, dear, are you really going to fuck me forever?" I moaned, begging him to say yes not with words but with the incessant pounding thrusts of his iron-hard cock.
He replied by placing his hands under my ass and clutching my cheeks fiercely as he continued with his frantic fucking thrusts, his cock going so deeply within my hole that each brutal stroke of his prick made my body shiver from head to toe and back again, reducing me to a quivering mass that was only good for one thing-being fucked as hard as possible.
"Oh, my God," I groaned, my face quavering under the vibrating influence of still another orgasm. "You're going to kill me, fucking me this way. God, I love it! Fuck me to death!"
His immense cock spurted in my cunt at that precise moment as I once again thrilled to the bruising impact of his tireless prick.
"Oh, Jesus!" he cried, the first words he had uttered since I had steered his luscious prick into my cunt.
His cock squirted once more, and then he shuddered and finally stopped fucking me. One last orgasmic wave washed over my helplessly willing body, and then I too went limp, collapsing under his weight.
He lay still on top of me, his entire weight resting on me, his energy finally drained, making him too tired to hold himself up any longer. I didn't mind, though, as I basked in the afterglow of a perfect fuck, grateful for the hot, young, sweaty body on top of mine. It was heavenly as I lay still and wondered just how long his prick would remain hard inside my cunt. When several minutes had passed and his cock still showed no sign of wilting, I sighed and patted his ass gently, marveling that the rest of his body could become so limp while his prick remained as hard as a rock within my aching pussy.
"You are a very good fucker, young man," I told him gently.
"You're... awful good... yourself," he panted.
"Tell me," I asked softly, "doesn't your prick ever go soft on you?"
"I don't know," he answered softly. "This is the first time. I've ever had it up... up..." He was so flustered he couldn't finish. I could feel his cheek burn with embarrassment against mine from trying to admit that he was a virgin.
"You mean up a cunt!" I finished his sentence for him.
"Yes," he shyly admitted. "It goes soft, but not when I've got it stuffed up the pussy of a beautiful lady like you."
"Thank you, dear," I said gratefully.
"I think I could fuck you all night long, ma am," he told me. "You don't mind me talking... well, uh, dirty like this to you, do you?"
"No," I enthusiastically admitted. "I love to hear you say those things. Say it again."
"Fuck?" he gulped. "Pussy? Are those the words you want to hear me say?"
"Use them in a sentence," I urged, my passion unbelievably rising again.
"I like to fuck you in the pussy with my cock," he gushed breathlessly. "I like to feel my prick in your hairy cunt."
"Thank you," I replied gratefully. "You're a nice guy. I enjoy having your prick rammed up my cunt. But I have a question."
"Uh... uh... what, ma'am?" he stammered, his nervousness returning. "Did I do something wrong?"
"You did just perfect," I reassured him. "I just can't understand what's keeping your prick so hard, though."
"You are," he declared. "You're the neatest girl I ever met."
"Do you want to have me suck your prick... with my mouth?" I rasped throatily, kissing the side of his cheek as I breathed the words, "Can I lick your cunt while you're sucking my cock?" he asked eagerly. "With my tongue? Can I stick my tongue inside your hot, wet pussy?"
I smiled as I felt the exhaustion flee from my body, the full force of passion returning in a rush. I found myself anticipating yet another eruption of his syrupy jizz, this time hotly filling my sucking mouth and washing stickily down my throat to fill my stomach.
"Yes, yes," I begged, "stick your tongue in my pussy while I suck your prick. Let's do it now!"
He grasped his rigid cock in a trembling hand and pulled it with a pop from my sopping cunt, crawling backward on his knees before he dropped flat on his stomach, burying his face in my muskily dripping gash. I closed my eyes to experience the total feel of what he was doing to me, and when three inches of his stiff tongue stabbed up my spasming pussy, I had a quick, savage orgasm as I realized he was tasting the sweet nectar of his own sperm with which his spurting prick had filled my cunt.
"Oh, sweet Jesus," I breathed with sheer delight, "you make me so terribly, wonderfully hot. Do anything you want to me."
He did not answer me verbally, once again possessed by the demon sex. He twisted his stiff tongue around in my cunt like a corkscrew as he turned his body around so that he was on his hands and knees, his legs straddling my upper body. As he ate my drooling cunt, I gazed longingly up between the spread cheeks of his smooth, white ass directly over my face. Grasping his waist with both hands, I pulled my head up between the sweating crack of his spread cheeks, and with my heart pounding dreadfully, kissed his puckering asshole repeatedly.
With the taste of his ass still tingling in my mouth, I slid my tongue down his crack and went for his tightly hanging balls, greedily getting one and then both of the slippery eggs inside my mouth, sucking them so hard I thought they were going to turn inside out.
After I had sucked, nibbled and teased his swollen balls to the verge of bursting, I was ready for the main course. "Ahhh," I cried, releasing his nuts, "give it to me, baby!"
He lifted his body slightly, pushing his prick backward a little until I caught the knobby end of it with my swollen lips. While he continued to lick and suck my gaping pussy, his cock entered my mouth and I felt it growing even larger and harder against my tongue and gums, the bulging head pushing all the way down my slippery throat; I struggled to breathe properly, raspily choking from the burden that drove down my throat like a saber.
"Suck me!" he cried into my cunt. "Oh, Jesus, suck me off!"
I had every intention of doing exactly that. His prick was so hard and long and thick and lovely and delicious... I could have sucked it nonstop for a week. His bare haunches pressed against my face and I could smell the musky scent of his flesh as well as the sexy odor of his wet cock and balls. I was so deliriously happy that I sighed even as I sucked his cock. Then I grasped the cheeks of his ass fiercely, hanging on for dear life as I moved my head up and down, madly mouth-fucking the guy's thrillingly rigid cock. Frantically, I worked my lips back and forth in blissful suction, using every trick at my command to make him come for a fourth time. He moaned beyond control as he fucked me in the mouth, doing an equally intense job down below with his stabbing tongue in my gratefully oozing cunt.
Once again I had a wildly exhilarating orgasm, and for the first time the teen came simultaneously with me. His cock went off in my mouth with the force of a geyser, the torrent of his hot cum striking the roof of my mouth so intensely that I was forced to swallow in slurping gags as he continued to fill and re-fill my mouth repeatedly. While I choked from the massive gobs of sperm that filled my throat, my pussy-walls constricted mightily around his tongue as I writhed in total, unrestrained coming. I felt my senses reel and my body swoop and soar from the thrusting forces pounding at each hole, reality ebbing rapidly from my consciousness as I asked myself one last question before I collapsed: "Where is he getting it all?" I moaned thickly, wrapping my tongue around his still surging dick to form the prick-and-sperm-muffled words before the blackness overtook me.
When I regained consciousness, he was gone. There was no telling how long I had been lying there. He had taken the trouble to drag me behind some garbage pails so nobody would discover me and try to take advantage of me in my fuck-induced sleep. That teen was a gentleman to the end. His parents should be proud of him.
CHAPTER THREE
The weekend flew by after my intoxicating encounter with the nameless teen in the alley. Fucking that clean, innocent teen had made me clean and innocent inside. I felt the grime that had accumulated on my soul from being Madame Fellatio five days a week starting to fade, replaced by the sparkling memory of the teen's graceful, shining prick inside my cunt and mouth, and the remembrance of his endlessly spurting sperm that bathed my insides with its stickiness. His cum had been like a detergent that had scrubbed me clean, making me temporarily feel that life wasn't such a bad deal after all. And if I could be as happy as this just from sucking and fucking a teenager, then there was hope for the miserable souls who wrote in to Madame Fellatio.
But my new-found euphoria evaporated the instant I walked into my dingy office. Shark was too cheap to hire a regular janitorial service, and trash dating all the way back to the middle of last week was littered and crumpled around my office, a half a cup of coffee having started to turn a poisonous shade of green on top of my desk. Roaches feasted on the crumbs from my last Friday's lunch, totally unconcerned when I came into the room as they continued their munching.
I sat down, and instead of brushing a path of cleanliness across the top of my desk, I flopped back in my chair, already exhausted at nine in the morning, and watched the roaches feast. I was just getting to the point where I could recognize one roach from another when I was suddenly startled upright in my chair. When I glanced over to the roaches on my blotter, I saw that for the first time they were frightened and were scurrying away.
"Well, well," Shark smirked, "if it isn't the Dear Abby of the crotch-set, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and rarin' to go. Got the sunshine machine ready, poopsie?"
I felt like joining the roaches, but instead I managed a weak and hypocritical smile and mumbled, "Yeah, sure... I left it out in the hall."
"Ho, ho," he laughed, which I knew was a put-on, because when something really amused Shark he went "Heh, heh."
"Listen, Shark," I said, suddenly feeling testy, "the only time you play the part of jolly good fellow is when you have some ulterior motive in the back of your mind... some new thing you want to get away with."
"Madame F," he said with a phony wail, putting his arms out and his palms upward in a stagey gesture of innocence. "Would I do something like that, boobie?"
"You would and have," I snapped.
"Well, now that you mention it," he said quickly, the, hail-fellow-well-met facade dropping like a trapdoor, the lines of his face suddenly slanting down instead of up, the thin slit of his mouth closing like a steel trap, "there is something I want to talk to you about... Ah, let me amend that, something I want to tell you."
"Yes," I sighed, weary before he actually told me what it was, feeling certain in advance that it would be some atrocity and I would have to put my brains and guts in a turmoil while I decided which was more important to me -- my integrity or my paycheck. So far I'd been weak enough to always pick the latter. But the new insight I'd felt about Christ on Friday, which came back to me now fully as I sat in the chair and office where it was conceived, suddenly gave me the courage to hope that this time I could survive Shark with my integrity intact.
"Frankly, little lady," he said with the oily glibness he always adopted whenever he was certain he had the upper hand, "the freaks are getting tired of the stuff in your column."
"How can that be?" I replied, struggling to hold my own, praying for Christ to back me up. "They're the ones who write the damn letters. If they don't like reading them, they should stop sending them."
"And we'd be in the used-corduroy business," Shark snapped. "The freaks are what makes us go..."
"You, Shark, you," I interrupted. "I think I'm stalled."
"Listen," he hissed, "the letters stay as they are. It's the answers that have to change."
"How do you mean?" I asked defensively. "Well, you have to make them different. The fact is we're dealing with space-age letters and we're using Jewish-mother answers," he rambled. "We're still giving him that old crap about anything two consenting adults do. That's for liberals during the '50's, not his generation of weirdos. These people are strange. They don't want to be patted on the head and brushed off with an Ann Landers one-liner when they write you about the guilt they feel from fucking the family cocker spaniel in the ass."
"Well, what do they want?" I asked impatiently, knowing that as far as I was concerned I had the answer, Christ, although I despaired over the lack of hope of getting across the message of Him to a heathen like Shark.
"I dunno," he said in a rare moment of naturalness and fallibility, although for all I know it was just a clever ruse designed to nudge me toward going along with whatever he had up his sleeve.
"Sure, Shark," I challenged him.
"No, I kid you not," he said.
"Then how can we change if you don't know the answer?" I asked.
"I didn't say I was completely baffled," he said. "It's not that I don't know all of the answer, because part of it is obvious. We have to come up with a new, more startling response to these letters... something that will really grab the reader in counterpoint with what the freaks write."
Suddenly I saw an opportunity being presented to me on a silver platter that I wouldn't have thought possible a few moments before. "Don't worry, Shark," I said, practically saluting him in my sudden enthusiasm. "I can handle it for you. I've got something great in mind."
"No kidding?" he said, obviously surprised. "What is it?"
"No, I won't tell you."
"Why not, afraid I won't like it?" he leered.
"Maybe," I admitted in the understatement of the year. "You said yourself you don't know what'll work, it just needs to be different. So you admit you're no expert on specifics, so what you think isn't important. If you let me just go ahead on my own, I'll be able to develop my idea without feeling you're looking over my shoulder."
"Okay," he said, kicking the leg of the desk like a child reluctantly conceding a point, "I guess you can do it. But I'm warning you, boobie, don't fuck up."
"Total control?" I asked expectantly.
"You better believe it... and total responsibility," he said, pronouncing the last word like it was a death sentence. "I'm going on a vacation for a week or so. Before I leave, I'll tell the printer to pull off the column we already have scheduled, and if you get a new column into him by Thursday morning, he'll be able to substitute it in the next issue."
"You mean the first time you'll read it is when the magazine hits the stands?" I asked, straining to hide my amazement.
"Right on, Madame F," he said. "But just remember, I can afford a month of fucked-up Madame Fellatio, but you can't... See you sometime next week."
His warning sailed harmlessly over my head as he stalked out of my office to his vacation. The instant he was out of sight I turned and opened the drawer in my desk containing the stored letters, terribly anxious to begin my mission to save the readers of Honey Pot for Jesus Christ.
No sooner had I transferred the letters from the drawer to the desk-top and arranged them into a workable pile than a new shipment was rained over me by the careless mail boy, who just dumped the bag over me without looking. After I'd retrieved the letters from the floor and put them on the desk with the others, their enormous pile blocked my view of the door. I was totally sealed off from the sleazy environment of the rest of the offices of Shark's magazines, completely absorbed in the crusade that I was sure was going to turn my life around.
I spent the next three days poring over the letters, searching for ones suitable to answer. I wanted to pick letters that seemed to have been written by people who actually appeared to want to change. I wanted my answers to do some good, for the call to Christ to be genuine. But so far, in my desire to do exactly the right thing, I had only been able to handle one letter in a manner which I thought was acceptable. I had put everything I felt into my answer to the first letter, and now I felt I was drained. Obviously, I was too inexperienced at doing the Lord's work to take on such a big job at once entirely on my own. I needed guidance from someplace, but I was at a loss to ascertain where. Working over the puzzle in my mind I re-read the only letter I'd been able to satisfactorily answer, searching for clues which would point me toward further knowledge.
"Dear Madame Fellatio: I'm not a regular reader of your magazine, but I feel like it's the only place where I can tell somebody my problem and maybe they will try and understand it."
"To begin with, part of the reason I'm not a regular reader of your magazine shows up part of my problem. I'd like to be, but I'm afraid if I was, every time I bought a copy, the newsstand attendant would suspect the reason why I was purchasing it. The fact of the matter is, although I try and help it, I'm hopelessly aroused by the pictures of naked women your magazine features."
"You're probably saying: there's nothing the matter with liking pictures of naked girls with their legs spread showing their open pussies, that's what the magazine's for. Well, maybe it is if you're a guy. But I'm a girl, and I know there must be something dreadfully wrong with how my mouth waters whenever I see a picture of another girls open pussy and bare tits. If I'm alone with a copy of your magazine, before a half an hour has passed I'm completely in the nude and spreading my thighs in front of a mirror so I can gaze excitedly at my own cunt, watching myself masturbate as I manipulate the juicy folds of my pussy, comparing my frothing slit the whole time with the glossy cunts I've just been drooling over in the magazine."
"I know it's wrong to be turned on by another woman, but I don't seem to have any control over my feelings. I guess I could use that as an excuse, but it just makes me more disturbed. I've tried and tried to get interested in cocks, but they seem brutal and slimy to me, like huge, spitting snakes that are trying to tear me in two. Truthfully, I can't imagine one of those monsters ripping up my cunt. I'm sure it would shred me to pieces."
"Up until recently I'd managed to keep some of my self-respect by never having actually engaged in a lesbian act despite all my explicit fantasies and the temptation in everyday life. But then I met Margo, and even that last vestige of decency was lost to me through her firm tits, rapidly darting tongue, and sizzlingly pliant pussy. When she propositioned me after we had only been introduced ten minutes before, and then backed up her offer by abruptly unbuttoning her blouse and thrusting her honey-colored tits in my face, there was no way my achingly aroused body would let me resist her. We were quickly at my apartment in bed, totally naked, our tits and cunts squeezing and squishing against each other in sexual frenzy, fucking and sucking like there was no tomorrow."
"But there was a tomorrow, of course. There always is, unless you commit suicide or something (and I'm so depressed I'm thinking about it, Madame Fellatio). After meeting Margo, my 'tomorrow' told me that I'd broken down the last baffler of decency and that I was a hopeless pervert. I didn't know what to do. My body was drawn magnetically to Margo's charms. My mind kept picturing the split lips and ripe gash of Margo's pussy, the glistening thrust of her cunt through the frame of her dark, curly pussy hair resembling a peach in a bucket of meat. But my conscience begged my body to recoil from the thrill of lesbian delights. My cunt, stronger than nay brain, won out. My 'tomorrow' found me a hopeless lesbian."
"To make it worse, Margo turned out to be nothing but a cheap hustler. She used her body to lure me to her cunt, and then when I sucked her juicy gash, programmed me to do her bidding. After two weeks of our mouths constantly being at each other's cunts, tits and asses, I got out of bed long enough to discover that Margo had been robbing me blind. When I openly accused her of taking advantage of me, she gave me the finger, put on her clothes, and split. Logically, I should have been happy to get rid of such a leech, but all I could feel was a dead sensation in my breasts and a throbbing in my cunt as she walked out the door, characteristically wigging her ass in a way that drove me wild."
"After a while, I psyched myself into believing that Margo leaving was all for the best. With temptation out of the way, I could go back to being normal. But, Madame Fellatio, I haven't been able to make it, and that's what's driving me crazy. Am I really queer?"
"Every day I make a vow to go straight. But then I find myself out on the street, knowing that because the weather's warm the women will be dressed in light clothes and I can get a better look at their bodies. I've stopped wearing panties because I've ruined every pair I have creaming in them in the street while I undress with my eyes every woman who passes me by."
"By afternoon I'm crazy, dying for any kind of cunt. I'm not like Margo, I can't proposition anybody. What if they turned out to be a policewoman and arrested me? Or worse, a male officer in drag on a stake-out? Lately, I've been hanging around in residential neighborhoods after school lets out and getting the only kind of pussy that can't say no, young pussy, so desperate am I to have the sweet taste of cunt in my mouth. I'm degenerating by the minute, I'm afraid. Right now I'm sitting here typing this with only one hand; that's because I've got the other one between my legs, finger-fucking my horny cunt into another frenzy, but soothing it at the same time for not having another pussy to rub against."
"If somebody doesn't help me soon, I'm afraid I'd end up with short hair and a tattoo, with a leather jacket, and wearing bus-driver's pants and driving a taxi. And now, if all this isn't enough, effeminate men are starting to be attracted to me. A man wearing a dress leaped out at me from the corridor yesterday and said he'd been watching me in my apartment at night from across the way with high-power binoculars. He begged me to go out with him. He says he knows what I want. How could he? I'm not even sure myself. What should I do about this man? He's waiting for an answer. T.P. California."
"Do not fear," I had answered. "Christ is looking over your shoulder. If you continue to look back at your past sins, you will finally see Him, waiting for you to accept Him. Then your sins will be washed away and you can start afresh."
"Look upon the invitation from the man in the dress as an opportunity. Get him to acknowledge that neither of you are perfect, and then persuade him that you can both do something better by attending the church of your choice. Get to know the Lord together, feeling His grace wash the sins from your bodies. Then, after you're saved, it may very well turn out that this man is essentially decent, and might make a good provider for you and any family you might care to raise together."
"God bless you, child."
"Yours in Christ, Madame Fellatio."
There was no doubt about it, I was on the right track, but I was also like the girl who had written the letter. I wanted to do the right thing, but I was still too shaky to be on my own. I needed guidance. Divine guidance.
Without stopping to get my coat, I dashed from my office, stumbling down the stairs because I was too impatient to wait for an elevator. In the street I called for a taxi and directed the driver to take me across town to the neighborhood where I was raised, and the Catholic church I used to go to.
"Can I help you, ma'am?" a priest with a beard obscuring his face asked me when I burst into the rectory, panting in anticipation.
"Is Father Coughlin here?" I said, asking for the priest to whom I had given a thousand and maybe more confessions during my youth.
The expression on the priest's face seemed to change, although I couldn't really be sure because of his beard. He remained silent.
"Is Father Coughlin... is he still here?" I asked shrilly, sensing something was wrong.
"I'm sorry," the bearded priest said, looking sadly downward. "He passed away a year ago. We all loved him so."
"Oh," I said sadly, sounding like a balloon someone had let the air out of in my disappointment.
"But life must go on," the bearded priest said.
"I'm surprised to hear you say that, Father," I remarked. "That sounds more like something a Protestant would say."
"Well, I mean it goes on before we reach the Kingdom of Heaven, and we must do our best during our short stay on earth in order to prove our worthiness to enter the Lord's Kingdom."
"Oh, right, check," I said, relieved that he wasn't one of those young, modern priests, despite his shaggy beard, who wants to turn the Church into a haven for homosexuals and the like.
"Have a seat," he offered. "I certainly can't bring the experience to your problem that Father Coughlin could have, but I'll do my best. And, besides, we have the same boss, if you, heh, heh, know what I mean."
Hmmm, he laughed just like Shark, but I put it out of my mind.
"My name is Father Marmelstein, and before you raise your eyebrows too high, I had a Jewish father but a Cuban mother, who returned to her faith and became a devout Catholic after my father died when I was very young," he explained rapidly. "Now what is the problem you wish to share with me?"
Suddenly it occurred to me that I had never actually told Father Marmelstein that I had a problem. For all he knew, I was looking for the bathroom when I came into the rectory. It must have been something about my pinched face and my searchingly desperate eyes that tipped him off. But, anyway, he hit it right on the head, and I abruptly became putty in his hands.
All my resistance to confiding in a stranger vanishing in the face of his masculine authority, I blurted, "It's like this, Father Marmelstein..." and proceeded to rapidly tell him the story of my predicament, trying to go easy on the details of the magazine I worked for.
However, Father Marmelstein, who insisted I call him Rick, seemed to sense that Honey Pot was all about, and teasingly insisted, "Tell me more about this magazine you work for. These letters you mentioned wouldn't be about sex, would they?"
"Yes," I admitted, my head downcast, afraid that he would take offense and refuse to advise me.
"Really?" he said with obvious interest. "Tell me. In these letters do they use the vernacular?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You know, those words for the private parts of the body. Four-letter words they call them. Cunt for the place between the woman's legs, and cock for what a man has. You know."
I nodded my head. "I know, and I must confess, Father, that the letters contain such words."
"And your answers," he said. "Do you use these words in your answers? Prick, pussy, tits, ass, and the like. Fuck, blow."
Silently, I nodded my head in abject confession, as he continued to recite a litany of filthy terms, all of which I had shamefacedly used at one time or another.
"Screw, twat, box, snatch, dick," he droned, filling the air with one filthy term after another until the room echoed with them and sounded like a children's chorus singing some obscene round.
Finally he ran out of words and started to repeat himself, coming back over and over again to cock, cunt and fuck, eventually slipping into a canticle of those words only, endlessly chanting them as though he were reciting some obscene mass. Something told me to leave the rectory, but when I tried to move, I found myself nailed to my chair, my pelvis involuntarily thrusting towards the seat, my cunt directing my body to stay put. I pressed my thighs together and felt them squish as I realized for the first time that my pussy was absolutely frothing with a thick lather of cunt-juice. I instinctively put my hand on my lap to feel the radiating warmth of my steaming cunt, and closed my eyes and took a deep breath to be able to endure the torment between my legs.
I noticed Father Marmelstein's eyes dart to where my hand rested over my crotch, and wondered if he knew what I was going through. When he finally stopped looking at my cuntmound, he rose from his chair and walked towards me, still droning his arousing chant, "Cock, cunt, fuck, cock, cunt, fuck..."
The closer he got to me the more I noticed the shocking bulge distending his cheap, shiny, black priest's trousers. I was alarmed, sure that I was seeing things, for I knew it was against the laws of man and God for a priest to have a hard-on. But then my overwhelming curiosity got the best of me, and I could not resist reaching out and touching to see if the bulge was real or just some cruel figment of my imagination.
My God, it was real! A thick, swollen cock pulsing throbbingly just under the threadbare fabric of his pants. I winced in shame as I uncontrollably conjured a mental image of his glisteningly erect prick thrusting pinkly out of his trousers, contrasting shockingly with his shiny black priest's clothing.
"Cock, cunt, fuck, cock, cunt, fuck," he continued to say, changing the drone into a seductive croon as he seemed to be telling me something, almost as though God were speaking through his lips. At least that's what I told myself I wanted it to be as I obeyed the implicit command that seemed to be filling the room and undid Father Marmelstein's zipper.
His cock burst free instantly, making me wonder if a priest's vow of poverty meant he couldn't afford underwear. It was a magnificent dick, long and swooping, with an exceptionally purple, heart-shaped head and a throbbing cum-tube that ran down the underside of the shaft like a pipeline. Immediately I thought of the old joke, "As worthless as tits on a nun," and wondered about this ten-inch priest-cock.
There was only one way to find out. I threw my mouth around his twitching prick, slurping my lips hungrily over it as I pushed its knotty cock-head all the way into my constricting throat while I tasted its salty shaft with my lapping tongue. The instant I swallowed his prick, Father Marmelstein began bucking his hips, rhythmically undulating his pelvis towards my face as he expertly fucked my mouth, showing that he knew exactly what to do with his heavy-duty dick.
Down below I could feel my cunt foaming with hot desire, pleading to be stimulated and not be neglected for the sake of my sucking mouth. I instinctively dropped my hand to my waist and started to slip my fingers under the top of my skirt towards the juicy mouth of my horny pussy. But as I felt my fingertips at my navel, Father Marmelstein reached out and stopped me. I thought I was finally in trouble, until he said, "Let me do it, my child."
With abject willingness I spread my legs for him, feeling my skirt ride up around my hips as I thrust my pussy towards him, the soggy fabric of my panties stuffed wetly inside my sopping gash. While his stiff prick remained imbedde
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