Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Mult, Consensual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Anal Sex, Cream Pie, Exhibitionism, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Petting, Safe Sex, Voyeurism, .
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - The loneliness was so overwhelming for him that he finally sent in his application to the company that sponsored the Mail Order Brides for instant marriage. It was risky but he was too desperate to worry about the risk.
The black bordered advertisement on the back page of the newspaper seemed out of place for a Sunday when things were supposed to be all laid back and peaceful.
The ad was accompanied by a string of portrait photos of females of all ages and descriptions with their sad eyes the only common thread. Of course, being an inveterate curiosity addict, I entered the “dotcom” address and discovered no less than one hundred files of available female prospects for marital bliss. They all came with a “money back guarantee” and I chuckled wondering exactly how that might work especially across international borders.
At the back of the site there were a group of about a half dozen women with the caption that assured the reader they were all eager to mate with any American gentleman desirous of impregnating them with the seeds of life in return for a valid marriage certificate and a fifty percent share of the new spouse’s assets. I had immediate visions of a lawyer drawing up a divorce suit shortly after the new bride tossed the flowers to some stranger in the crowd.
The concept of a “Mail Order Bride” seemed totally old-fashioned and I could only equate it to desperate measures to bring the supposedly submissive gender to some remote area that was long on bearded men living alone and terribly short on anything in skirts.
It just so happened at the time that I was living on an island in the Atlantic that was completely devoid of nubile females in the off-season, which lasted from October thru March. Since the visiting females, who were few and far between, were too bright to consider the barren place as suitable for year round habitation, I surmised this offer might be the ideal solution for my problem of “lack of nooky” for the better part of the year.
Most of the photos were strictly “head shots” or portraits that accentuated the female’s facial features but gave no clue whatsoever about her geography below the neck. It was almost like playing Russian roulette with the process of wife selection and seemed quite risky to say the least.
Still, I was in the midst of a period of severe loneliness and I was so deprived of the touch of a feminine finger taking firm control of my center of deprived flesh and bringing me to the “tingle” that filled my memory with previous “happy endings”, that I started to seriously start a selection process that obsessed me night and day. In fact, my perusal of several of the head-only shots led me into shameful bouts of self-gratification based entirely on sheer speculation about the remainder of the poor girl’s body parts. Strangely, that particular method seemed the best predictor of possible future wedded bliss than any other format based on length of hair or sparkle in the subject girl’s eyes. Fortunately, most of the candidates were in their early twenties. It was an age that most men seemed to think best suited for prospective brides. Hopefully, at that age they would probably have a bit of experience to help grease the wheels of horizontal communications and eliminate unnecessary fumbling to get into a good rhythm of joyful humping and mutual satisfaction. On the other hand, they were young enough for one to assume their youthful female parts were relatively untested and generally tight and nubile and easily consummated by even older gentlemen with only partially stiffened resolve.
My dear departed father, Harold Walker, Senior was aggressive in his advice that the only thing better than a real Cuban cigar, was a young pussy with “a bit of fuzz around that tight elastic that gives the best tingle a man can ever expect.”
I made a habit out of following my father’s advice and I certainly found that particular bit of advice most illuminating and I tried to follow it to the best of my ability except for those cases of certain widows or dissatisfied housewives that practically put “it” right in my lap at risk of seeming a bit crude in describing the circumstances of such relationships. I confess that on rare occasions I had dipped my wick in the pussy pie of one or two actual virgins that tearfully thanked me for my efforts in “opening” their nubile stage of life with gentle introduction to the world of intimate relations. Of course, they were strictly experimental in nature and I had no inclination to enact a prolonged training course to bring such darling sparrows into the real world. It had often seemed to me that males in that position found themselves being used by the female in question just to “polish” her receptive techniques.
Eventually, I narrowed it down to only three candidates out of the one hundred listed as available for immediate shipment to the prospective husband’s location. Apparently, the parent company had a good response to the initial ad, and the second advertisement the following week had only forty of the initial offering still available for contract. I was gratified to see that my focus of attention, the smiling face of Rose McGowan was still in the mix and I decided I would enter my bid for her hand in marriage on the off chance she might still be available for transportation to my lonely little island. I had to agree with the fact that my island was not complete without that special feminine touch needed to make it shine. Especially, in the nocturnal hours when companionship was the name of the game cuddling under the covers for pulse-pounding slap and tickle that made everything seem a bit more inviting when the sun rose in the morning.
I sent off my letter along with the requested application fee that carried the promise of full refund if Miss Rose McGowan was not delivered at my doorstep on the contracted date.
I went to bed that evening with the picture of Rose McGowan taped to the headboard and fell sound asleep in the midst of rocking the bed with agitated thrusting as I gazed into her sparkling eyes filled with that faint promise of happy days and joyful nights straight ahead. When I awoke in the morning, I finished my sinful draining lost in those deep eyes that never complained no matter how rough I gave it to her at those times when the loneliness overwhelmed me with despair.
I received the answer within the week informing me that Miss Rose McGowan would be arriving at the island in five days accompanied by a representative of the company to finalize the contract and a minister of her choosing to perform the ceremony. Suddenly, I was totally a nervous wreck imagining her disappointment with my shortcomings or some dreadful consideration that had escaped my notice whilst making my plans to wed and bed the pretty Miss McGowan.
The single-engine fishing boat carrying my weekly order from the central market in the tiny seaport arrived exactly five days later with my Rose and a spindly sliver of maleness with a white collar of the clergy and a middle-aged, rotund woman with a terrible bonnet that made her face look like the “doughboy” ad in one of the old magazines in the common room.
I greeted them all as heartily as I could muster considering I was somewhat out of practice from the “off-season” empty rooms and lack of humanity with whom to converse. We repaired to the common room and I distributed the tea and scones that I defrosted from the freezer. The preacher seemed in a constant state of nervous agitation but it was more due to his short ride on the fishing boat that triggered his sense of nausea from the stress of bouncing through the waves. He was not very talkative but introduced himself as “Reverend Simpson” and he sipped his tea holding the cup in both hands as if to steady it even though he was standing on solid ground and not on a tiny boat lurching through the whitecaps like a runaway steed. The ship’s captain was out in the kitchen no doubt helping himself to my stash of Johnny Walker Red that I kept in full supply to drive away the woes of solitude. He and I were old friends and I guess he was not inclined to be involved in any degree with the nonsense of folks getting married when they hadn’t even seen each other yet.
The middle-aged lady was the widow Mary Murphy. She was childless and fortunately of a friendly attitude that made her a good companion for a lonely fellow in need of speech like the arid ground requires rain to make it flourish. I liked the widow Murphy despite her lack of facial character or slender figure because she made one feel comfortable just by her presence.
My intended, Rose McGowan did not disappoint me in the matter of her below the neck arrangement of female figure in an appealing shape and size. Her bosom was most prominent with her swelling breasts swaddled in shapeless yards of dark colored fabric. Her waist was slender for a female of her size and her hips welled out in promising curves of feminine delight speculated by me to be of “perfect” design. She was thankfully several inches shorter than I and it was a comfort to know that her head would fit comfortably into my shoulder on a dancefloor.
We moved quickly to the ceremony and before long I was wedded to my Rose and we were safely addressed as “Mister and Mrs. Harold Walker Jr.”.
The widow Murphy was to stay in one of our cabins for the next two week period just to make certain everything was to Rose’s expectations. I was not overly excited by that prospect because I was not certain if that meant to her housewifely duties or to my anticipated husbandly duties to properly consummate the marriage. I knew that one of the requirements of the contract was that the marriage was to be consummated within a two week period or it would be null and void and the Mail Order Bride was to be returned to her city of origin.
It only took about two hours for that requirement to be fulfilled as I caused my Rose to shed all of her clothes and took her to bed even before the fishing boat captain and the Reverend weighed anchor from the dock and headed out to the open sea for the return journey. Thankfully, they were out of hearing distance to hear the shrill sounds of my Rose expressing her joy at my lusty pounding into her tight channel of delight with my hardened resolve to melt away her reserve of dignity and open her inner core to my searching spout of creamy seed determined to swim further up her channel to that place they might call home for the next nine months.
I suggested she might enjoy some oral or anal delights as well just to get properly introduced but she assured me in no uncertain terms that such indignities were not a part of her nature and I would be best in delivering my fluids to her natural opening designed for carnal interaction between God-fearing and well-behaved members of society.
My initial reaction was that she might be having fun at my expense, but I soon realized that she was not the type of female to be cajoled or persuaded to change her mind about such matters of personal dignity. The next morning I read the small print in the contract and it specifically stated that the Mail Order Brides were only expected to furnish their female parts for husbandly duties and those other entryways were not part of the bargain. In all honesty, I was so desperate at the time of marriage that I believe I would still have gone ahead with the contract even though I heavily depended on such foolishness to enhance my stiff attention to matters at hand.
It looked like I was stuck with the bargain and would have to sacrifice my obsession with the other activities in order to have my Rose available for wifely duties on a permanent basis.
I explained my disappointment to the Widow Murphy and she giggled at my frank words that seemed to bring a great deal of color to her face.
“Well, Mister Walker, it is not my place to take one side or the other in this regard, but a deal is a deal and we can’t expect Rose to change her religious beliefs for your more liberal way of looking at sexual enjoyment.”
I was forlorn but understood her logic.
“It is just that I feel that I need a willing mouth and a submissive bottom to round out my sexual needs, my dear Mary and I would hate to be reduced to self-gratification in order to fanaticize about such expressions of carnal relations.”
The widow Murphy patted my hand and told me,
“Before I have to leave, I will give you both of your desires providing you don’t tell your new wife about our sinful activities.”
I readily agreed to her terms and we spent the entire morning with her on her knees and with me mounted on her buttocks getting well acquainted in those oral and anal activities that my new bride seemed determined to exclude from our love life forever and a day. In all honesty, I even slowed down long enough to christen the older woman’s female slit with my stiffened member just to show her that I was a serious fellow with a capability to bring her long-denied pleasures. I was pleasantly surprised to find she was unexpectedly tight and put that down to the fact she had not experienced childbirth and the fact that according to her recitation of her sexual history had only had a single male inside her and that was her dear departed husband. Apparently, the fellow was more addicted to the drink and the use of his belt to keep her obedient and attentive to his private personal needs.
Now, all I had to do was convince Mrs. Murphy to stay on the island at least until the end of the off-season when I could utilize any one of the female visitors for oral and anal favors. I knew my Rose would be in agreement with my sub-contracting the “dirty work” to some faceless female from the visiting herd than to muss her clean undies or her pretty mouth with such nonsense.