by JUNE HUNT as told to Mike Hunt
Bad news, dirty story fans.
The Smut Writers Guild (SWG) is holding a job action, and I can't write for you this week. If I did they could pull my card, and then where would I be? Seems they're protesting the exploitation of immigrant women, or something.
Shit, I've never exploited immigrant women. I've never even fucked one that I know of. Well, maybe that Latina broad in Chicago, but she had legs that went up to her neck and an ass that looked like two pumpkins in October. How are you going to pass THAT up? Anyway, I don't know if she was an immigrant or not. I never got her name, in fact. Remind me to tell you the story sometime.
I'm enclosing one I wrote a while ago. It's called "June's First". It's been in my drawer, cause it came up a little shorter than usual. I thought I'd pump it up later, so to speak.
But these are special circumstances. And I don't think the Guild can get me for just posting. I'm not actually writing it, after all. I don't know why I have to suffer because of some stupid immigrant women. What can I do about it, anyway? Maybe I'll go see the Selena movie. Maybe that will help.
To read it you should be over the age of 18. Including immigrants. I'm an equal-opportunity but not for the kiddies (EEO-BNFTK) purveyor.
The story's still a little short. To fill the posting, I'm including an interview I had a couple weeks ago. It didn't go too well, but I thought you might find it interesting. At least it fills some space better than this boring intro. It follows the story.
HEY GUILD. I'M JUST REPOSTING.
Everybody wants to get in on the act.
I mean, you write a couple of dirty stories, and the next thing you know, you're famous. Well, semi-famous. OK, you get e-mail notes from a few dozen people who appreciate your effort. Of course, some schmucks get on the list and never write again. They probably don't call their Mother, either. You know who you are.
It's a lot of effort, these little stories. Each one has to be meticulously researched. I have to go back into my memory banks and reconstruct the scenes, remember old girlfriends, recall unimaginably sexy memories. During every single one I get horny. I always play with myself and that leads to other things. You understand. At least once. Usually twice, and sometimes more. That all takes time.
Then I have to go back a couple of days later and proofread. I always get another hard-on, and have to jerk off again. I'm telling you, this pornography stuff isn't as easy as it's cracked up to be. But I do it anyway, because I'm an artist, trying to bring a little pleasure into the world.
My wife, June, thinks I'm crazy. Or at least she used to think so. After the first few stories, I asked her to help me with the proofreading part. I would print the stories out and bring them to her, and watch her as she read them. Now I know on my own personal Peter Meter that each story has to have a rating of 9.3 or better before I'll let it out the door. But I never had any way of knowing how they rated with the ladies. Now I do.
After the first couple, June decided she would do her proofreading in bed. And now I can always tell how the story is going by how long it takes her to get her hand inside her pajamas and to start playing with herself. If she's there within the first three pages, I figure the story's a winner. If she has an orgasm by page 7, I feel victorious.
It was last week, I think, when she suggested that she help me write a story. Now, if you have spent any time in MIKE HUNT's archives, you know that my stories are true (well mostly), and are told in first person, as they happened to me. That's why this is the third time I'm trying to write this. The first two times I tried to write in the third person as they happened to her. I failed. Hey, I'm just learning this writing stuff! This time I'll pretend I'm her, and write in the first person, as I'm used to doing.
You and I, dear reader, will share the secret. When it's me talking, it's really her. I've always wanted to be a woman for a day anyway. Maybe this is the ticket.
To convince me to tell her story, June promised to blow me under the table as I wrote. We often trade little sexual favors for other things. You know, "I'll let you fuck me in the ass if you'll unload the dishwasher, hon." Things like that. You probably have those same kinds of deals in your house.
Anyway, she's under the table, and is playing with my dick. I'm sure she'll be able to communicate the essence of the story to me between licks and sucks. My job is to get it down on paper. Well at least on the hard drive. Art is not easy, believe me.
I was just a kid when I had my first real sexual experience. I mean an experience with another person, as opposed to just rubbing myself as I lay in bed in the morning. (This is June talking, remember? I'm just the writer.) It happened quite by accident, but I suppose those things often do at that age.
I had been growing breasts for about a year. Up until I was 13, I had an inferiority complex the size of Wyoming as I saw other girls in my class begin to bud. I was flat. Nearly concave, actually. Now that can really hurt a girl's ego, because she knows that to grow up to be a woman, you are supposed to get tits. And when you finally start to get them, your father teases you, and then they get big and you don't know what to do with them, and then all the boys want to grab you. And when your 'friend' comes to visit you bleed all over your underpants in school. It's very confusing, believe me.
I was already a B cup, and I was showing no signs of stopping. My tits looked a little funny on my body, which had not yet added the smoothness or the curves which would come later. So I was more or less "tits on a string" if you know what I mean. Still, it was nice to have breasts. Especially when I remembered that Becky Thompson was 17 and still didn't have enough to fill a training bra.
My friend Riley was over at the house.
**** "Riley?" I asked June under the table. "How do you spell that?"
**** "R-I-L-E-Y," she answered. "The family was the "O'Reilly's. Can you imagine? Riley O'Reilly. Some parents are cruel."
**** "Yeah," I agreed. Poor fella. What a name to stick a kid with! He'd take a lot of shit at school, that's for sure. Big kids probably beat him up every Tuesday and Friday.
**** "Can we get back to the story?" she asked.
**** "Sure. Sorry."
It was a Saturday afternoon, and my folks were gone for the day, and I had the house to myself. I thought Riley and I might go swimming or something, or just hang out. Instead we got into a conversation about the differences between boys and girls and stuff like that. One of the things we talked about was why girls like to dance and most boys don't.
At some point I turned on some music and said "Come on, let's try a few new steps." Riley reluctantly agreed, and we searched for a station that was playing some dance music. I found one. We danced fast dances for maybe 15 minutes and worked up quite a sweat. Then a slow number came on, and Riley said dreamily "This is the kind of dancing I like to do."
Our arms sort of melted together, and we moved in closer, until there was body contact all along the front of our young, firm bodies. We were both damp from our earlier, more vigorous exercise, and our bodies clung together from the wetness.
"I'll show you something I like, if you don't mind," Riley said.
I said "I don't mind at all."
The next thing I knew, I felt lips nuzzling against the slope of my neck, kissing, licking, tenderly biting my skin. "Wow!" I had never felt anything like it. My neck was all tingly and I felt these sensations running up and down my body. You know, the kind of sensations I usually only got when I wore my "too tight" shorts, or when I had the shower massage pointed directly at my vagina, accidentally on purpose.
I didn't want to stop, but Riley said, "Now you do it to me."
"Of course," I thought. "How selfish of me." I bent my head and started returning the favor. It felt just as good to give as to receive, and my own tingling sensation increased. I could feel my tits pressing against Riley's chest, and I became aware of my nipples growing, poking through the thin material of my T-shirt. I didn't care. I was feeling something new and strange and different as we stood there, swaying to the music, nuzzling each other.
Without warning, I felt hands begin to walk up my sides, and before I could protest, I felt one of my breasts being fondled. A thumb flicked back and forth across the nipple; the T-shirt material did nothing to mask the gently hardening tip. Then another hand came up to cup my other breast, and I leaned back and softly moaned. The hands squeezed, and I made no protest.
It felt too good. Too natural. The music, the sweat, the sex. I was so young and inexperienced I didn't know where this would lead. I didn't care. This was an experiment too good to pass up.
One of Riley's hands released my tit and began to slide slowly across my belly. It found the button on my shorts and tugged. The button gave way, followed quickly by the zipper below. Then I felt a foreign hand slide into my shorts, and shove its way roughly between my legs. Fingers were dancing on my panties, searching for the target which lay beneath. Riley stepped away, then moved back in and gave me a passionate kiss on the lips.
.... There is more of this story ...