Loading...A number of years ago, I placed an ad in the local paper as a free-lance writer offering to write heirloom biographies for a reasonable fee. The idea came to mind after my mother passed away, and I realized how little I really knew of her life. I simply knew her as ‘Mom,’ and my kids only knew what I passed along to them.
My intent was to help families capture the essence of their lives to share with the generations to follow.
It was a way to show their children, mom or dad’s life before they were conceived. The idea caught on, and soon I had plenty of work.
The method used a series of personal interviews, a couple of biographical fill-in-the-blank sheets, and tape recordings of the interviews to gather the information required. The final product was a handsome, leather bound manuscript, about 100 to 150 pages in length, ideal to pass down from generation to generation.
Life was going pretty well, as I was able to pick and choose my other free-lance jobs as the ‘heirloom biography business,’ paid my bills. This allowed me to take the select high-profile jobs gaining the reputation as a solid writer. The best thing about these two paths was they never crossed—until recently.
My name, Emily Doer, helped sell magazines. I won awards for my article on Kenyan game hunting, as well as for the cloistered life of Tibetan monks and the sex industry of Amsterdam.
The only thing missing from my life was a full time partner—and for very good reasons I am about to explain.
Chuck, my husband of ten years, died a sudden and tragic death. While on vacation to the family lake house, he suffered a massive heart attack while swimming in the cold lake water. Saying he was going to swim across the lake and back (a bit over a mile), we thought nothing of his whereabouts for a good hour or so.
Tom, Chuck’s brother, was the first to notice, taking the boat out for a ‘look around.’ There was no sign of him. We notified the authorities, and two days later, they found his body. The autopsy showed no foul play and ruled it a heart attack.
That left me, at the age of 32, to raise our twins, Sarah and David, by myself. At the time, they were 11 years old. Chuck and I got married during college. We were each other’s first, we loved sex, and made love all the time. For some reason getting pregnant was a foregone conclusion.
Things didn’t slow down once the kids arrived. We would fuck every chance we could, or I’d give him a quick blowjob while the kids watched TV. This is when I developed a taste for cum. There was something about its warmth and thickness which turned me on.
It was also the same time I learned the fine art of masturbation. Although Chuck was a great father and social partner, sex was all about his satisfaction. Over the years, I slowly built an impressive cache of marital aids. So when Chuck was at work, and the kids were at school, I usually had clips on my nipples, a plug in my ass, and one or more devices working my pussy and clit.
Being a stay a home mom/wife drove me nuts. Becoming a free-lance writer was the perfect outlet for my needs. Chuck had no problem with me hitting the road for a week, followed a month at home to write the article. We had a great network of after-school/summer nannies, and Chuck was home each night so one of us was always around.
To be truthful, I suspected and later found out Chuck was banging one of the nannies, Kimberly, a pert 18-year-old red head that simply oozed sex. I can’t say it didn’t bother me, but who was I to call him out on it. While I was on the road, I explored my sexual needs and developed a rather wide range of interests, which I never shared with Chuck. Trust me when I say, he simply wouldn’t understand.
It was on the road when I unleashed my bi-sexuality. I always loved women, but not in the dyke type of way. Making love to a woman is so erotic. The smooth softness of their skin, the tenderness of their kisses, their curves, ass and nipples. I get horny just thinking about women.
I love cock, too. I love sucking cock. I love cock in my ass. I love to fuck. I love cum. But I don’t love the insensitive gorilla to which it’s attached. I want my man to make love like a woman. This means no body hair, and passionate sensuality.
There is one other thing I discovered during my travels; I am very kinky. I am as comfortable with a cuddling romantic evening, by the fireplace, as I am with a hot, latex clad session. I crave being before dominate men and women, violating every inch of my being, in any way they wish. This side came out during my trip to Amsterdam, five years after Chuck had passed.
I love to be flogged, cum upon, pissed on, fucked by dildos and strapped to fucking machines. Having my nipples twisted and tortured sends me into another dimension. I crave having all my holes filled, and hunger for anal play in any form.
Being fisted or having my tongue up someone’s asshole is incredible. The feel of a sphincter puckering and opening produces a yearning inside me unlike any other. The first time I experienced scat play my orgasms were explosive.
I find it to be the highest (or lowest) level of lust. To be so wanton that you crave everything possible is unreal. Scat isn’t an every time occurrence. I need to be taken to the proper heights (or depths) of arousal, but when I am…..Wow. The ultimate is when there is another person involved that has the same wants.
That first scat experience is also when I found out I was a squirter. Now I squirt every time. I AM a cum and piss freak; anytime, anywhere. I could be in the middle of a parent-teacher conference and if some brought me their cock or pussy, I wouldn’t flinch at sucking their juices. For the record, this hasn’t happened, nor do I expect it, but you should get my point.
Back home, things were very vanilla. Chuck and I did our thing, went to parties and to our kids functions. We were a typical suburban family. Once he passed, things at home didn’t change much routine-wise. Chuck was well insured, so money wasn’t an issue. The only real change came was when I traveled. Because we had a solid network of kid-care providers, finding a live-in wasn’t an issue.
For the record, Kim left after Chuck died. She told me there were too many memories in our house for her to live with. This was when my suspicion was confirmed.
The number of suitors coming my way was flattering. I was able to keep them at bay with my career. The reality however, was my sexual interests. Imagine telling a would be partner who went to the same church, that I want the two of us to be tied together and be receptacles for everyone’s fluids, juices, slaps, fucks, twists, pulls, fists, cocks, and cunts.
Imagine his look when I told him I want him to lick the cum and piss from my body and snowball it with me. Or that I want him to fuck me in ass followed by me licking the shit from his cock while he blows his load in my mouth. How about telling him that I want him to suck a cock, inches from my open mouth, forcing it to explode, and the oozing the cum from his mouth to mine.
No, that simply wasn’t going to happen.
The years flew by. At first the kids were devastated and to some extent so was I. My sadness grew into relief, as I no longer had to harbor my secrets from Chuck. I made a vow to myself never to hide my interests from a suitor, even if it meant years of single life.
The kids grew, headed to college, and now they are on their own. I am 45. My house is sold. I’m in a condo, and doing well. But, as I wrote earlier, without a partner.
I was still attractive enough to get second looks. My five foot seven inch frame, with long legs, a tight ass, and firm 34-Bs is still in shape from my daily jogs. My black hair is a stylish shag, which brings natural attention to my blue eyes.
As my skin is milky white, I use dark eyeliner and mascara, rose pink blush, and ruby red lipstick. I allow my eye shadows to go from mild to wild, depending on my mood. When I go with the wilder look, I become a bit vampish, ideal for the road, but not at home.
So my life was toys and masturbation at home, kink and the wild life on the road. It was somewhat satisfying, but if only I could find a partner with similar needs. I just couldn’t imagine finding a decent man who would have the same filthy desires.
Last week I received a rather unusual message from man wishing to speak with me about an heirloom biography. What made it odd was the nature of his message.
“Hi Emily, my name is Ron Davidson. I am a 61-year-old man with two kids in college. I understand you right biographies and I would like to discuss writing my memoirs from a bit different perspective. Please call me.”
He left his number.
Now most people leave a long drawn out message about their marital status, number of kids, careers, etc. But this message was simple and direct. I was curious.
When I called Mr. Davidson, he seemed pleased to hear from me. When I probed for details about the different perspective he wanted, he simply said we would discuss those details in person. I explained my procedure: first fill out the biographical data sheets, and then we would have a series of personal interviews.
Mr. Davidson, or Ron—as he insisted I call him, told me to email him the forms and he’d get them back to me within the hour. This way we could start the interviews immediately. I told him I needed to see the data first, but he said it wouldn’t take long to review his biographical material, and that we could probably start tonight.
Although he was a bit pushy, there was something pleasant about his voice. He seemed to be a good-natured man and I was a bit intrigued by his mysterious ‘different perspective.’ I ended our conversation by telling him the forms were on their way to him.
Ron gave me a pleasant and lighthearted response of “Sounds Good. See you tonight then. Say 6pm at my place?”
Feeling myself smile, I answered with a smug, but affirming, “If all of the paper work is in order, then tonight at 6 will work for me.”
Somehow, I knew this was going to be different.
The day was beautiful and I decided to take advantage of it with a long bike ride. Riding the trails always gives me time to think and make plans. I had to finish two articles by the end of the week, and also do some work on the bios I started. Since it was quite hot outside, I decided to do my work by my condo’s pool.
When I got home from the ride, I was soaked. Peeling off my biking top and pants, the cool breeze from air conditioner against my warm wet skin instantly covered me goose bumps. My nipples were huge and I couldn’t resist playing with them. I adore nipple play.
Standing naked in front of the full length closet mirror, I fanned out my fingers and watched them flick over my jutting buds—right hand, right nipple; left hand, left nipple. The feeling stirred me and after a couple of passes, the wetness between my loins was turning from sweat to arousal.
Switching my tactics from flicks to pulls, my desire rose dramatically. I went from arousal to need. One hand kept working my nipples, as the other went to my pussy.
I wasn’t in a gentle mood. My fingers ground roughly against my pussy lips while my thumb attacked my swelling clit. Juice was flowing freely from my cunt. The harder I rubbed the wetter I became.
The light-headedness of lust overpowered me. I wanted to fuck…no I needed to be filled. Yes, that was it. I needed something inside me…something needed to be in my cunt. With one thrust I pushed my hand deep into the wetness of my vagina.
It was too much. I collapsed onto my knees while turning my fist wildly inside my soaked snatch. The feeling of consumption was all I could sense; nothing else mattered—just my cunt. It needed more. My free hand began slapping my bald mons.
Each stinging slap triggered animal like grunts from my soul, and each slap was harder than the last. I rolled onto my back and pushed my feet against glass on the mirrored door. I was no longer watching myself, the door became a brace for my legs to push against.
With bent knees, I pounded my cunt and mound. My fist turned, pushing and pulling in and out of my soaked twat. My head thrashed back and forth on the carpeted floor while I recklessly slapped my clit. I hit it from every direction; each one landing directly onto it. I could feel it swell from the stinging impact. I was delirious and started spewing obscenities.
“You Filthy Whore! You Bitch! You Fucking Cunt! You Need This! You Want This! Do More You Nympho! Slap Your Pussy. Fuck Yourself…Harder…Harder…Fuck Your Nasty Box.”
My eruption was volcanic. Piss mixed with pussy juice sprayed over my arms and legs. I could hear it splash onto the mirror. I yanked my hand from my cunt releasing another torrent of cum and piss.
Instinctively, I shoved my cream covered hand into my mouth, using my tongue to snake the essence from each finger. The slapping switched to rapid frigging, causing minor orgasms to rip through me. Cream, juice and piss were flying everywhere.
I’m not sure how long I abused myself, but it was intense. I finally just stopped. It took a couple of minutes for thought to return.
The first was my surprise at how all this just happened. I could still feel my clit throbbing. The carpet I was lying on was quite wet from all of my juices. My hands went to my face and started massaging life into my head. I could smell my secretions on my hands.
Slowly I rose and stretched. I just did a number on my body and I was a little stiff. Ironically, the stretching and cool air caused my nipples to harden again. I just had to flick them, and the feeling was arousing.
God was I horny, but this time I controlled myself. I had work to do and my clit was too sensitive at the moment for any additional play. After drying from a quick shower, I pulled on a black one-piece swimsuit, gathered my laptop, cell- phone and writing case and headed out to the pool area.
The weather was hot but gorgeous. Being fair skinned, I took shelter at an umbrella table. While my computer booted up, I walked over to the food area and bought a large iced tea. My start-up screen said there were six new emails. Most were junk, but I saw one from Ron Davidson.
The man works quickly. Opening his attachments, I saw that he had filled much of the basic info such as name, address, phone, hometown, etc. But in the areas requesting details about his childhood, and other stages of life, he wrote, “Everyone already knows this stuff. This bio will be different. We’ll talk tonight.”
His message asked me to call him at 4 pm to confirm I was coming. He left me his address. As it turns out, Ron lived right in the heart of our little town in one of the new town houses.
I gave his info one more glance to see if perhaps I missed something. He had the same answer for everything. I was intrigued. What was his different perspective for a biography?
The afternoon was all work. I poured myself into my writings and before I knew it, it was 5:30 pm. I had completely forgotten to call Ron. On top of this my phone was dead too.
I made the decision to just show up at Ron’s place at 6 pm. With only a half hour to spare, I needed to hurry. Gathering my stuff, I raced back to my condo and started getting ready. Thank god it was summer, dressing was so much easier in hot weather.
Freshening my make-up, I kept it simple. Light pink shadow and blush, black liner and mascara, and ruby red lipstick.
I grabbed a white bra from the drawer; took a half sleeve, white polo shirt from the closet, and a pair of navy khaki shorts from the shelf. My clit was still tender, so I decided to wear a pair of white cotton panties—nothing fancy, just a pair of hipsters with a soft cotton panel to cover my area.
Throwing them on, I slipped into a pair of black leather flip-flops and went back to the bathroom for a quick up-do on my hair. Since it was a shag, it was easy to work with. Despite the rush, I was pleased with my look.
After packing up my lap-top, tape recorder, blank forms, and a few pens, I located my purse, car keys, and cell phone.
“Damn,” I said out loud. I had forgotten to charge it. “Oh well,” I thought. I plugged it in and headed out with Ron’s address in hand.
Ron’s town house was very cute, a narrow, four storied middle unit. The small patch of front lawn had wrought iron fencing around it and connected with the fences of the other units. Large pots of mixed color flowers brought sparkle to the entry.
Passing through the front gate, I made my way up the stairs to the second floor entrance and rang the bell. I waited a bit and rang it again. There was no answer. I surmised that since I didn’t call, Ron assumed I wasn’t going to make it tonight.
Closing the gate behind me as I left, I heard somehow hollering from down the street. Looking up, I saw a person on a bike riding towards me, waving and hollering my name. It was safe to bet it was Ron.
I gave a little wave back in acknowledgement. I could see Ron hunker down and peddle faster. He pulled up next to me slightly out of breath.
“Emily?”
I nodded yes.
“Great,” he added. “I’m glad I decided to check back to see if you were here. When I didn’t hear from you around 4, I gave you a call. It went right to voice mail message saying your phone was off or that you were out of the calling area. I figured your phone went dead.”
Ron was a handsome man, even dripping with sweat. He was a bit over six feet tall. His face was very youthful. If his message didn’t say he was 61, I would have guessed him to be in his mid-forties. He was a larger man, not fat, but athletically built.
When he took off his helmet, a full head of beautiful, charcoal grey hair adorned his head. It was a bit mussed, but I could see it was stylishly cut. There was a sense of life in his blue eyes, which I found attractive as well as alluring.
There was something else that caught my attention; his biking clothes. Although I wear the tight fitting biking apparel, I also have the body for it. So many people try for the Lance Armstrong style, and look hideous.
Ron was wearing a pair of loose fitting, dual-purpose, brown biking shorts with pockets for a wallet, keys etc. They were perfect for stopping at a bistro while on a ride. His shirt was a loose fitting white polo, made from wick away material. His look was appropriate and unpretentious.
Another thing I noticed about Ron, no body hair.
Responding to his assessment, I told him my phone did die on me, but I also worked right thru the 4pm call time and had to hurry up to get there on time. He gave me a quick, non-sexual once over with his eyes. I could tell he wanted to say something, but he just glanced at the ground with a little smile.
“Let me put my bike away and I’ll meet at the front door. You are more than welcome to follow me around back, but it would be faster and easier to just meet me at the front door.”
He was smiling as he spoke. It was natural, not the nervous one typical of first meetings. I liked the man standing before me.
“I’ll meet you at the front. This will give me a few minutes to admire your flowers more. Your arrangement or your wife’s?”
A premonition told me Ron wasn’t married. The embarrassment flushing his face told me I was correct.
“I’m not married anymore, so those are my arrangements.” Ron seemed somewhat apologetic.
“I’m sorry,” came my truthful response. “I hope I didn’t upset you. It’s just that men with older kids aren’t usually into flowers. I must say they are beautiful.”
Ron smiled again as he looked at them. “Thanks. I guess I’m just the type of guy that likes flowers. I’ll be back in a minute or two. Now don’t run away.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t. I don’t bite either.”
Ron chuckled as he hopped on his bike saying, “Well, sometimes I do.”
I let out a small laugh. I could tell we both made notes of each other’s comments.
When Ron disappeared around the corner, I re-entered his lawn area. The flowers were very pretty. I picked a couple of the dead leaves from the plants. I felt good about the start to this biography project. Ron seemed easy going.
Before I knew it, the front door opened. Ron had a hand towel and was wiping off the excess sweat from his neck and arms as he welcomed me into his home. I walked up the steps and into his stylish and manly-appointed townhouse.
He led me into his kitchen and offered me a seat at the lengthy kitchen counter. It was very comfortable. Ron went to the other side. I liked the layout. The counter allowed guests and the cook to take part in conversation without being in each other’s way. I also liked that the guest could watch the food being prepared since the stove, chopping and work area were just over the counter top. The layout was well done.
Taking two water glasses from a cabinet he asked, “Water?” I waived him off saying I was fine. Ron took a pitcher from the refrigerator, poured himself a tall glass, and downed it quickly. He returned the pitcher and took out a bottle of wine.
“Now for the good stuff. Can I interest you in a glass of decent Chardonnay?” Ron gave me a devilish grin while holding the bottle up for me to inspect.
“Toasted Head, one of my favorites. I’d love a glass.”
Ron took two glasses from another cabinet and filled them. He was a generous pourer.
He handed me my glass and then picked his up in a toasting fashion.
“Thanks for coming over, Emily. And here’s hoping you agree to write the biography.” Ron clinked my glass. He was looking into my eyes with a questioning look.
I appreciated Ron’s politeness as well as his non-assumptive toast. I accepted his toast saying, “Thanks for inviting me into your home. Unless your biography is about unsolved murders you committed, I don’t know why I wouldn’t agree.”
We both took a sip. Ron’s eyes were studying me over his glass. I was wondering what the mystery was.
Ron placed his glass down on the counter in front of him. Extending his arms to the counter, Ron leaned forward on his hands. He stared at me for a few seconds.
“I was hoping to ease into this, so I’ll let you make the decision. Do you want to know now or after your glass of wine?”
There was a little sense of nervousness in his voice. I felt bad. Poor guy, something is eating at him. I wasn’t about to extend his anxiousness any longer.
“Tell me now,” I replied calmly. “I have been intrigued ever since your phone message, and the questionnaires you sent back today did nothing to quench my curiosity. But there is one thing you need to do first.”
He looked at me inquisitively.
“Relax.” I smiled and saw the tension drain from him instantly. “Now tell me what this biography is all about.”
“it’s about sexuality,” came Ron’s quick reply. He stood there trying to gauge me reaction.
“That’s an interesting topic,” I started….little did he know….”but there are hundreds, probably thousands of books on the subject already. And they are all written by doctors, therapist, counselors, and others who are experts in the field. What makes this book different?”
My answer put Ron at ease a bit, or at least the non-rejection gave him the chance to explain.
“This isn’t about sexuality in general. It’s about the sexuality to which most people are doomed. My kids are entering the stage in their lives where they will meet their potential mates or spouse. Sex will play a part at first. They’ll build a relationship based on societal values, and get married. However, if they are like most people in the world, their sexual relationship will never grow, and once they have kids, they can kiss it goodbye.”
I really understood what Ron was saying, but I still wasn’t sure what role a biography would play in all of this. We both took a sip of our wines. Before I could ask the question, Ron continued.
“Once a couple gets into a rut, it is damn near impossible to get out of it. Their options narrow quickly. They can live with it and go through the rest of their lives without experiencing all that eroticism has to offer. Or, they can find a partner or partners on the side and snake around, which leads to a life filled with guilt. They can always divorce and hope to find the partner or partners they have conjured up in their fantasies. And then there is nirvana, where the couple has an epiphany and they both open their lives to the wonderful world of eroticism.”
Ron’s analysis was spot on. Raising my finger, I gestured for a short pause, interjecting, “Question? What is your book going to do about this?”
He smiled, “Does this mean you’re interested in writing my book?”
“I’m very interested. I like what you are telling me. I just need to know the hook.”
“Hook? What’s a hook?” Ron seemed puzzled.
“Sorry, it’s the underlying theme that draws a person into an author’s writing. It’s like your message about writing a bio from a different perspective. It drew me to calling you and our meeting. Now the subject has hooked me into knowing more.”
What Ron didn’t know was how hooked I was. I could feel my pussy getting moist, and my lips clinging against the cotton panel of my panties. Sexual topics always turned me on.
“Oh,” he said with new understanding. “I want this book to expose the various avenues of sexuality to my children. I want them to realize that nothing is taboo if cultivated properly. So, this book will use my journeys into sexuality to show the wonderful power eroticism can play in their lives.”
Shifting my hips slightly, I moved into a new position, an appropriate position, but one that allowed me to feel the kitchen stool against my area.
Ron smiled. Could he tell? After a small sip, he opened a new dimension to our discussion.
“If you agree to write this book, I envision that we would spend a great deal of time together in order for you to really grasp the messages I want to deliver. How would that work for you, and your husband or significant other?”
His last sentence trailed off slightly.
My mind was instantly processing what he just said. I knew that Ron and I were going on a journey into the depths of eroticism. At least that was my plan.
“That won’t be a problem since I don’t have a husband or significant other. The only issue I have is travel. I do a great deal with my free-lance work, but that is flexible based on my desires.”
The word “desires” caught Ron’s attention. I could see the outline of his cock beginning to appear on his biking shorts. I let my eyes drift to his crotch, giving my lips a slow seductive lick.
Instead of turning my gaze back to his eyes, I dropped it to my wine. I slowly began to trace one finger along the rim of the glass.
“Tell me Ron, in order for me to truly grasp the messages you want to convey, do you envision my need to experience your journeys into….how did you say it….ah yes…into the depths of eroticism?”
I lifted my eyes to his as I spoke the words ‘into the depths of eroticism.’ My mouth opened in a sultry manner and I erotically shifted my entire body…never breaking eye contact. The sexual tension between us thickened.
“I think you already have,” Ron stated in a calm, knowing manner.
This caught me quite by surprise. I looked at Ron for further input.
“I believe I have a slight confession to make. Aren’t you THE Emily Doer, who wrote ‘The Amsterdam Sex Scene: Beyond Canal Street?’ ”
My jaw dropped. Never before has anyone in my hometown linked me to any of my writings, especially the unbridled story I penned about Amsterdam. I was upfront in the article, telling the readers the article was written from first-hand experience, and not from a voyeur’s perspective.
Ron could sense I was indeed THE Emily Doer as he continued.
“It was quite by luck that I came across your name. Wanting to find an author nearby, I searched the net and your name popped up a number of times. The first result was all I really needed, but what caught my eye was a link further down. I saw the words, award winning and sex in the same preview.”
We both paused for a sip of wine. Sitting across from a man who knew something about my sexual interests was exciting. It felt much like the clubs I visit when I travel, except I am in my hometown and in his home. My pussy was becoming very wet.
Ron continued, “It took some digging to find the article, but once I did, I read it with a passion and desire. By the time I was done, I thought you would be the right person for this biography. I just wasn’t sure on how to approach things.”
There was a slight pause. Our eyes were locked. We both knew what was about to happen, along with the fact that I would take on the project. Never the less, an agreement was not made.
“I must admit knowing someone with your background lived in my town was and is very heady,” Ron said through a slight grin. “I am not sure what disciplines you may want to explore, but if there is a need, or, as you put it, a desire to experience something, then I encourage you to do so.”
“Before we go any further however, I have three questions. One, will you take on this project? And two, how much will it cost?”
He stopped and waited for my reply.
“Yes,” I said in a very seductive manner. “I will take on this project. The cost……hmmmm….to be determined…..but at most, it would be my standard rate…..however, I am inclined to write such an important book ‘pro bono.’ Let’s see how things play out. Now, you said you had a third question. Just what might that be?”
By this time I was squirming in my seat. My passion was growing with each innuendo exchanged. I wanted things raw and dirty tonight and the look in Ron’s eyes said the same.
With a slight lick of his lips he said, “I’ve changed my mind. It’s now four questions. Number three: would you like to stay and join me for dinner?”
Again he waited for my reply….
“I’d love to. And question number four?” This time I paused for his response.
“Is our conversation having the same effect on you as it is on me?” His look was piercing.
Cream was oozing out of my pussy. My horniness from earlier in the day was back with a vengeance. I could feel my clit throbbing. The pounding I gave it did nothing to subside its want for more.
My reply was suggestive and direct. “I am not quite sure what is happening with you, but I’m starting to feel a little ……” I let my body finish the answer.
Leaning back on the stool, I spread my legs apart and dropped a hand onto the outside of my shorts. Slowly I started a deep rub over my drenched box. Ron watched for a few seconds before slowly and seductively groping his cock.
With a slight moan of approval, I spread my legs wider. My other hand went to my breast, kneading it through my shirt and bra. I squeezed it hard and let out another moan.
Ron moved to my side of the counter. His cock looked like it would tear through his shorts. He stood in front of me and removed his shirt. I groaned and pushed harder against my twat. His upper body was hairless, the way I want a man to be, and both nipples were pierced with small golden rings.
“I was going to take a shower before dinner. Would you like to join me?”
My mind was going into fantasyland.
“Only if you let me give you one first.”
His reply, “Golden, brown, or both” sent a quiver through my body, producing a minor climax that soaked the crotch of my shorts and began to run out across my inner thighs.
Ron slipped his shorts completely off, producing another gasp from me.
He was totally hairless. Not as much as a whisker on his crotch or balls. His cock was standing straight up. It was the perfect size; thick but not overly, and its length would fill all of my holes nicely.
He dropped to his knees before me and slowly brought his face between my thighs. He gently began licking the juices from my inner thighs. His hands never touched me, nor did his mouth or lips. Ron was using only his tongue to lick and savor my creams. He seemed to know exactly what I wanted, and I needed more of it.
With Ron still on his knees before me, I stood, pushing the stool back a few feet. Quickly I undid the button at the top to my shorts pulling them apart and down my legs, along with my panties. My wet hairless snatch was inches in front of Ron’s face. It was his turn to gasp and moan.
I kicked off my flip-flops along with my shorts and panties and pulled the chair back into position. Sitting back onto the stool, I positioned my buttocks as close to the edge as possible. Pressing against the backrest, I grabbed the sides of the stool seat.
Spreading my legs before the kneeling Ron, I partially answered his ‘shower’ question. With a strong push, I sent a short burst of piss through the air towards Ron’s mouth. He captured most of it, swallowing what he could while letting the rest run down his body.
The feeling was surreal. “I adore showers.” The lust in my voice was telling. “In fact, I adore all types of showers; I think my asshole needs a little attention right about now.”
The die was cast and there was no turning back. I couldn’t believe this was happening…finally happening. I always knew or dreamt it would. After years of playing solo, I knew Ron was the one, and I wasn’t about to let this slip away.
I could feel the warmth of his breath on my anus as he positioned himself before me. The sensation of having his mouth encircle and suck my hole was unbelievable. His mouth and lips massaged the outside of my sphincter while his tongue traced and rimmed its opening.
Ron brought his hands to my ass cheeks, slowly squeezing them together then gently pulling them apart. On each spread he worked the tip of his tongue into my passage. I was out of my mind with desire. My pussy was creaming itself pushing its thick whiteness from its hole and down onto my asshole and into Ron’s suckling mouth.
My clit was throbbing and in desperate need of attention. Removing one hand from the stool, I began to rub my swollen nub. It only took two or three passes before my bladder started to release.
Mixing with my pussy juice, my flow found Ron’s hungry mouth. He wasted no time in lapping it up and moving his mouth from my ass to my vagina. Sucking on my urethra and hole, Ron’s mouth captured every drop of piss and cream I could frig from myself.
Two of Ron’s fingers slipped into my cunt. He used them to coax more from me by massaging my g-spot. I felt a major orgasm building and so did Ron.
Just as I was about to release, he pulled his cream coated fingers from my snatch and jammed them deep into my ass. That was all I could handle and started screaming incoherently as my orgasm overpowered me.
Cum, cream and piss flew everywhere. Ron hungrily lapped all he could, filling his mouth with my essences. His fingers were working my asshole, pushing in and out. He was going deep and I could feel them touch against a piece of my next movement.
Ron didn’t shy away but rather begin to circle it, helping it slip towards my sphincter. I was in heaven and knew exactly what I wanted.
“Fuck my ass!” My tone was now lewd and commanding.
Ron pulled his fingers from my chute. They were coated with brown cream, cum and piss. Grabbing his wrist, I brought his fingers to mouth and engulfed them. The tastes sparked another small orgasm, sending cum and piss onto Ron’s cock.
I removed his fingers from my mouth and ran them all over my face, leaving traces of my essences wherever they touched. Releasing his hand, I tore off my polo top and bra, tossing them without note.
“Fuck my ass,” I commanded again. “I need your cock up my ass now.”
Ron positioned his cock head at my hole and pushed it in slowly. It entered with ease as I pushed out to allow its smooth passage. Wrapping my legs around his back and flinging my arms around his neck, I pulled myself up into his sweaty torso. Our lips met and instantly began to explore deeply.
It was ironic that our first kiss was filled with the taste my shit. Neither of us was phased. In fact, we devoured each other.
I bucked my hips up and down on Ron’s thick cock. He met each buck with his own deep thrusts, slapping his balls onto my ass cheeks on each stroke. We fucked and kissed for an eternity. Our bodies were covered in sweat.
Ron finally broke our kiss. The look in his eyes told me he was about ready to cum.
“I want you to cum in mouth. I want you to cum in mouth.” I was in a frenzy. “I need to suck the cum from your cock.”
Quickly I dismounted Ron, and went to my knees before him. His hard cock was covered with my shit, just the way I wanted it. Wrapping my lips around its head, I used both hands to stroke his cock while he fucked my mouth. I was sloppy.
I feverishly slurped and sucked his entire shaft and balls. My hands never stopped working his cock. Shoving his dick to the back of my throat, I could taste every secretion it carried—my piss, my cum and my shit. I was out of my mind with carnal desire for his cum.
It didn’t take long. Ron was very ready.
His legs quivered slightly as his balls erupted. It was incredible. Burst after burst of his warn, thick, cum filled my mouth. Some I swallowed, some I used as lube while he fucked my face, and some I let ooze from the corners of my mouth and onto my stroking hands.
The intensity of his orgasm had Ron weakening. When he was finally spent, he bent over slightly then dropped to his knees in front of me. Wrapping his arms around me, he pulled me into his embrace. Our lips met and our mouths opened; our tongues danced together exchanging whatever remnants we found.
Collapsing onto the floor, we cuddled and kissed as we tried to regain our strength and composure. The look in our eyes said it all. This was going to be one interesting biography.