Busy Week
Chapter 1: Greg

Copyright© 2006 by maryjane

Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1: Greg - The carnal adventures of a female stockbroker.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Fa/Fa   Mult   Consensual   BiSexual   Oral Sex   Anal Sex  

You might wonder why, when I suspect, merely suspect, that my lover is going to be screwing around on a business trip, that I decide to fuck everything in sight as revenge. Well, first of all, I've never really been a Puritan, nor had any strong belief in fidelity, faithfulness, at least on my own part. Fidelity, just another useless 'F' word. I had already been screwing everyone I could; screwing as in sex, I mean, not in business. Well, maybe a little bit in business also. Secondly, it's my own pussy, cunt if you prefer, and my own anal entry point, and I can share them, and my mouth of course, and hands and tits and toes — toes work best on other women - with anyone I care to. I always have, and always will. After all, I'm a stock-broker, oops, make that a financial consultant, and everyone thinks I'm a whore anyway.

The sun was dying slowly in the western sky, still putting up the good fight to illuminate my living room thirty stories above the noisy street. I was sitting, half lying down, lengthwise on the couch, my panty-hose clad feet resting on Greg's lap, my back, or more accurately my neck, supported by the arm rest, with my flowing blonde head turned toward the television set, already in shade. He was sitting up straight, his hand softly running up and down my legs — legs which, as the expression goes, reached all the way to the ground — his hand not moving much above my knees. Though his touch was chaste, nevertheless my body tingled, lubrication oozed from my loins.

He had been at the apartment a half hour before me and already had the DVD ready to go as soon as I kicked my shoes off, another advantage of having given him a key. In stark contrast to the Waterford crystal glasses from which we sipped our first Chardonnay, he was dressed in workout shorts and a wife-beater t-shirt. Except for the shoes, I was still fully dressed from a hard day selling stocks and other high-commission investments: severe suit, frilly white blouse like those worn by the female Supreme Court Justices, but the hair no longer pulled back tightly. My glasses sat atop my head, not needed for the video; hell, I knew it by heart anyway. Greg, manager of a different office of the same firm, had taken advantage of his position to cut out early, as he did every Wednesday.

Wednesday was our 'fuck like bunnies all night long' appointment.

In fact, we made mad, passionate love probably five or six nights a week anyway, but Wednesday was our special time, when no interruptions were permitted; no meetings, no calls to the children, no restaurant dinners, no social events with friends, just that single DVD. To tell the truth, I was getting kind of tired of that video.

'All night long' generally meant five orgasms for Greg. Do not laugh please, do not shake your head in disbelief; wait until you've lived through it. Oh yes, the fourth really isn't much and the last one usually happens in the middle of laughter, when it is more like an endurance contest than a sexual activity, accompanied by just a few drops of his semen, but I can feel his throb and I know that he's not faking it. The first time he did it, we were still married to other people, and we had to get together during the day. We drove over the bridge to a nice place a little inland from the shore. We had all day; I had packed a little lunch for us. Greg says that he didn't plan a marathon, but that's the way it worked out. We got there about 9:30 in the morning and didn't leave until after 4:00. He used every opening available, plus two not usually considered to be holes: a hand job and a tit fuck. All of that left my pussy in good enough shape but my body was aching all over. Sure enough, my ex had wanted my body before dinner, and I was still oozing front and back, at least it felt that way, so I had to make him settle for fellatio, a blowjob — not that he minded it all that much. It was something he didn't think I liked, which was true only as far as he was concerned, not for anyone else, but after that evening he wanted me to suck his dick continuously, which didn't help my orgasms at all. Well, the hell with him; he's history, though he did leave me with a couple of great kids.

Anyway, that was the occasion of my first anal visit, compliments of Greg. I was terribly in love with him, far more — but I guess this is usual — than I had ever loved my ex. That one was an OK guy, never drank, never hit me, adequate in bed, but all around blah! I had met Greg back when we both worked in the same office. He had seen me one day in the office when I'd had a meaningless argument with my ex on the phone; Greg saw something in my face.

"What's the matter, kid?"

"Oh, nothing."

"C'mon, tell Uncle Greg."

Greg's not that old, but he is senior to me in the firm. I refused a lunch date but let him get sandwiches for us to eat in the conference room; it was glass walled and seemed decorous enough. Greg is shrewd; he went right from the recitation about the argument into a straight hit on me, no drinks, no music, just 'you're very exciting'. The next morning, I was in his apartment, in his bed and in his web, madly in love. You guys don't think about that, do you? You just want to get laid. But for us, we don't need you for that; we have vibrators and cucumbers and our own fingers, and you don't get to touch unless we have some affection for you. It doesn't have to be love, not then at least. It almost never starts out that way, but it has to be a lot more than plain old lust.

So there we were, some months later, that day of the marathon, in that nice little motel, naked on the bed, just kissing and caressing. The place was a hundred feet off the main drag, just enough to keep the cars in the parking lot away from casual passersby. It catered to the male business traveler, with some business from couples meeting for a 'nooner'; a female traveling alone would have chosen a slightly more upscale venue. Greg had his hand between my legs, his thumb inside me and his fingers splayed on my cheeks. I had my hand wrapped around that big beautiful penis of his. Was it beautiful to my eyes? Yes, but why? A penis is a penis is a penis. I've seen them big and small, but never too small to do the job as needed. Other than its inherent ugliness, how bad could it look? Bent in an arc, the way Monica described Bill? So what? No, the beauty of that thing sticking out from between Greg's legs was not in what it would do for me but in the fact that I loved the man attached to it, a love that I was ready to throw away my marriage for. That and the fact that he loved me, or so he professed and I believed.

Thus it was that when Greg's fingers began to move, when one of them slid in between my cheeks, I tensed but immediately relaxed. My lover sought sexual release, albeit in a non-traditional orifice. That sexual release is what makes the world go round, what makes the reproductive process pleasurable and thus efficient. No, we weren't planning to reproduce; my own reproductive years were past, thanks to a handsome young doctor who had invested enough time to find out what was really causing my internal pain. And who, once the doctor-patient relationship was concluded, was rewarded far beyond dollars. But the instinct to copulate remained in both of us, and my job, my goal, my fervent desire was to give my lover the release he needed, the release he craved. It mattered not which part of my body he used. They were all his, to use, to caress, to make love with, and when he desired, to just plain fuck.

I knew that my lover desired to spend his lust in my bowels, perhaps the ultimate domination of male over female, yet I felt no subjugation. It was a lust that I had always denied to my then-husband, and to all the other males of my youth, but I would not deny it to Greg my lover, my Adonis. We had never discussed it; I didn't know if he had experience in anal sex or not, but it didn't matter. What I had was his for the taking.

My body relaxed, inviting the probe of his finger. The passage through my sphincter was easy, facilitated by his lips moving from nipple to nipple. Then they moved to my face and our tongues met. This was not our first time making love, and he knew what made me hot, what got me ready to welcome him inside me.

"Roll over please, baby."

I complied, I obeyed, presenting my lover with the opening he had chosen to begin the day. Suddenly his finger left me and moments later, as if by magic, as in a theatrical performance, from out of nowhere appeared a tube of lubricant. Ah, my lover had planned this day to move into uncharted territory; he had known without asking that my back door would be his, then and whenever he wished. Forever it could have been, if only, if only...

Gentle fingers applied the cream, all over the area of my cheeks that would serve as the route for his penis until it was inside me, all over the opening to my body and even the lining of my bowels. One finger went back into me, then two, to coat me and to stretch the muscle that would fight his entry, despite my willingness to accept and to welcome him, to welcome my lover and his cock. He spread my legs and got between them, then reached under my stomach and pulled me up. This left me resting on my knees with my face and breasts on the bed; I used my arms to lift my upper body, bringing my back parallel with the mattress, as if ready for a doggy style session, though I knew that the pit bull behind me had other plans, that he intended to impale me in a manner never learned by our four legged friends.

He spread my cheeks and drew close; I could only imagine the sight he saw, his target glistening with lubricant. His body pressed against the backs of my thighs. My heart pounded as I awaited this strange onslaught, this buggery of my previously untouched anal opening. He was my lover and I welcomed him; how is it that what they call sodomy, no longer illegal in most places, is still so looked down upon, even when welcomed by love?

Greg's hard penis lay against the opening. Instead of pressing forward, though, he backed up and resumed the lubrication, this time on himself. I smiled at his thoughtfulness; with no experience of my own, it never occurred to me that being prepared myself would not be sufficient without him also being lubed up.

And then it was time. Strong hands which had been juggling my breasts, weighing them, now moved to my hips. Without instruction, I reached back, took that sweet penis in my hand and directed it against the opening it sought. Again untaught, except for some casual reading and listening, I strained as in a bathroom to relax the muscular sentry guarding entry to my bowels.

The purple crown moved slowly, silently, where none had gone before. Perspiration poured off my body; my head bent so that I might bite the pillow, lest my screams alarm late sleepers in the other rooms, or even adulterous lovers such as us. After what seemed like an eternity, the entire head was past my sphincter. Greg paused, first to allow me to recover from the new pain, to allow my body to become accustomed to this new intrusion, and then to reach again for the tube of lubrication, to re-grease his own member as well as the inner ring of that obstreperous muscle. Trust me, that finger wasn't particularly comfortable with that blood-filled penis already in there.

It was the combination of those two things that led me to believe that Greg had plenty of prior experiences plunging into the depths of the female anus. Actually of course it could also have been into a male anus, but Greg and I never spoke of such things, and I doubt very seriously that he went that way, even in secret.

After that, he began to pull my hips back toward him, easing his full length into me oh so slowly. Ultimately he was seated to the hilt, his testicles resting undemandingly against my labia. Again he paused, as my mind compared this new mechanism for male orgasm with the more traditional methods I had learned. I discovered that I was able to exert muscular pressure on the organ inside me, in much the same what that I could do so with my mouth or my vaginal muscles; I liked it, and so did Greg.

But the inertia of non-motion cannot last forever against the churning demands of filled testicles and soon Greg was pumping at top speed, alternating between my breasts and my hips as the fulcrum to facilitate his thrusts. On my part, the pain was gone, having been replaced by the joy of knowing that I was helping my lover attain the extreme pleasure of what his mind knew to be a wicked intercourse. He was in fact concentrating so hard on speed that he forgot to consider my own need and desire for orgasm; my fingers had to take over that task but it didn't matter, for love forgives.

His orgasm arrived with the usual announcement: "I've gotta cum, I've gotta cum, I've gotta cum", followed by a moan, a series of throbs and the expected creamy wetness inside me, albeit in a new location. A good man, my Greg, he stayed inside me instead of popping right out, using his hands to massage my back and neck as he waited for his penis to become again flaccid. Then it slid out easily and I turned to take it into my mouth, to clean it off, a gift every man fully appreciates.

When I later rolled onto my back to relax, feeling Greg's fluids seeping out of me, I realized that I had enjoyed my first venture into anal sex; the pain was bearable, the pleasure to the man so great, the new power I now had to allow a man to use me for that unspeakable act so invigorating. Or, and I admit to my egocentrism, the power to deny him that same use. I had a new orifice to contribute to my love-making repertoire, and it wasn't long before my ears became adept at sensing the right moment for me to say to some fully erect man, "Do you want to fuck my ass?" Yes, with a little experience, I came to love it.

Back to Wednesday. As it always did, the pounding music of the video got to me; I felt the beginning of a headache coming on, and that wasn't to be allowed.

"Excuse me, Greg, but I've got to get into something more comfortable. And maybe you can turn down the volume a little."

He nodded and reached for the remote, first softening the volume and then hitting the pause button.

"No need to pause, honey. I know very well what comes next."

He laughed. "Need some help changing?"

I smiled and shook my head. It was the same banter we exchanged whenever we watched that particular video, the one we had made in the round bed and heart shaped tub in the Poconos. The time it took to set up the camera and move it from room to room did take some of the excitement out of the evening, but we've used it to relive the vacation quite often. I never knew where he got the background music; he probably downloaded it without paying for it. I did know that I would die if one of my children ever saw it. Greg's children I wasn't concerned about, except that if his son Sandy saw it, he would hit on me to try to mimic it. It wouldn't be the first time he's tried; well, I can't help it if I look very sexy. Heck, if you don't mind me being crude, call me 'fuckable'. At the same time, I couldn't but help notice Sandy's suave charm; perhaps that's an oxymoron, but you get the idea. I threatened to tell his father, but he knows that I wouldn't. I'm too flattered.

Someday with Sandy, maybe?

I carried my wine into the bedroom, planning to sip as I changed. My suit needed a cleaning and I threw the jacket onto the bed. The bed linens were a mess. That was my only vice; my only housekeeping vice, that is. We almost never slept without a lot of rolling around on each other — that's the polite way to phrase it — and we always slept naked, even when I had my period. All that makes for a lot of bodily fluids on the sheets, but they're always dry by the next night. The only time the bed gets made is once a week, when Carolina, the cleaning woman, comes in. She obviously knows what's causing the mess; I wonder what she thinks about it.

Someday with Carolina, maybe?

My slacks followed the jacket, and then I decided that the blouse might just as well keep the other stuff company at the Cleaners. I sat on the bed to roll down the pantyhose. I hate those fucking things, but they're part of the job, a habit I've gotten into. While the brokerage company has no formal dress code, they're something I have to wear because much of my business is with husband and wife couples who come to the office for financial planning. I know how well my legs look, and I try to keep an appearance of modesty in the office, lest some of the wives think that I'm making a play for their husbands and decide to take the family finances elsewhere. Well, making a play for some of those husbands might be fun, but losing out on those commissions would make me very, very unhappy. And worse than that, they'd make to company very unhappy, and that could be serious, especially if the reason became known to the powers that be.

Someday with a client, maybe?

I stood up in front of the full length mirror, now wearing nothing but my bra. I'm a 34B and quite happy with my figure. The bra itself was plain vanilla, again just in case one of those husbands happened somehow to see it through my blouse when I bent one way or another. I wouldn't want him thinking that I go around ready to strip for some guy. Listen, I've gotten my share of invitations to lunch from some of those husbands, and I knew that they didn't mean to bring dear old wifey. And sometimes I've accepted those invitations, and yes, most of those lunches wind up in a bed somewhere. But Greg doesn't have to know about those.

I unhooked the bra and tossed it in the general direction of the hamper; I would pick it up whenever I got to that part of the room. I ran an appreciative eye over my naked body, thanking as always my dear mother for giving me her genetic materials, the ones that give me the ability, almost without effort, to turn soft cocks hard in my presence. I often wonder about our twenty-five year age difference. Yes, I know we've had mother-daughter talks, but I wonder, did she ever love to fuck the way I do? I know that her generation was wild, but was she one of them?

My nipples stood at attention, a combination of their natural tendency, the glow of the wine, the chill of the air conditioning and the lust I was feeling. Which of those was the reason that I was looking at my breasts rather than my non-sexual parts? My head, for instance. I had loosened my hair as soon as I had walked into the elevator at work. Once freed, a shake of my head had the natural blonde all fluffed out, the severity gone. My eyes twinkled, their normal condition. I needed my full five foot six to impress both male and female clients, or at least to not frighten them away as a shorter woman might have done.

A glance at my glistening labia always pleases me. I don't shave the area bald, but I do trim it with a scissors. The usual dampness oozed, the bane of my existence; sometimes it will show up on tight clothing even when I'm not sexually aroused, which of course doesn't happen too much. Most of the time, I'm ready to go on a moment's notice. The realization that this was a Wednesday, and that Greg and his gorgeous equipment were within a thousand miles, was sufficient.

My Wednesday peignoir lay at the top of the drawer, waiting to wrap itself around my body, for those oh so few minutes before it would be removed for action. It was just a tradition, totally unnecessary to stimulate Greg's libido. And his cock. Also unnecessary, yet equally important, were the black heels, the highest imaginable heels, the ones that made me look like the whore I am every Wednesday. As I mentioned, we do what bunnies do whenever we get together, but Wednesday is a special tradition.

When I returned to Greg, the video was again in action. Though he was not even touching himself, his breathing was shallow as he watched his favorite scene unfold, the one where he finishes pumping me in the back door, pulls out at the last second and jerks his semen onto my round cheeks, bending quickly to lick me clean of the baby sauce before it could run off onto the sheets.

I twirled around in front of him.

"How do you like this, stranger?"

He pulled his weapon out of the leg hole of his shorts. Eight inches of love muscle, fully engorged, it was impossible to imagine it inside any orifice of mine, yet I knew that it would easily fit wherever he wanted to put it. He shook it while his eyes looked directly at my mouth.

"Suck this, cunt."

I giggled. "Oh, are we going to play the rape game tonight?"

He smiled. "OK, my love, let me rephrase it. Please wrap your beautiful wet mouth around my definitely needy phallic instrument and use your lips like a straw to get me all the way to heaven."

"Aah, that's better."

I dropped to one knee and reached for the waistband of his shorts, pulling them down toward his ankles, not even bothering to tell him to lift his bottom to make it easier. In recognition of the perspiration and dripping body fluids that occurs in these situations, I keep an old sheet covering the fabric of the couch, another subliminal reminder to my housekeeper that I like sex, possibly an unintentional invitation to her to join me in it. I hadn't really thought that through yet. No, not much I hadn't.

Though I have never refused any man's penis on the ground that it was not circumcised, I do prefer that kind, which Greg so kindly provided. The crown was glistening with his pre-cum, which I dutifully, and happily, licked off. Then I dribbled a little bit of saliva on that helmet and sucked it dry, again and again, ignoring the potent shaft supporting that mushroom shaped delicacy. I looked up and saw Greg's face concentrating on the video, a smile playing across his lips. Turning my head, I saw that I was mimicking the electronic record, sucking live and on the disc. Without letting go of his crown, I reached over him for the remote and clicked off the set.

"You can only have my body one way, Greg, live or video-tape. Which do you prefer?"

His response was to close his eyes and caress the top of my head. And despite his remarkable self control, I felt a gentle pressure as he, perhaps involuntarily, began to force my head down, to make me ingest more of his member. Which, in the case of Greg, required no convincing on my part. Oh, hell, I admit it; it didn't take much convincing no matter whose cock it was. I twisted my head so that I might approach his delightful weapon from the side, allowing me to lick up and down the veined underside of his shaft. My tongue snaked around from side to side, enabling me to wet the sides as well.

But again there was that hint of pressure, encouraging my lips to meet his sensitive sac. I kissed and I licked, but I knew my Greg. He wanted his testicles in my mouth; he wanted me sucking them, gumming them, one at a time and both together. To an extent that I've never noticed on any other man or boy, Greg loved me to give him a blow job on his balls, to suck them hard with as much diligence as the job he would get on his cock. That heightened the pleasure of the masturbation.

My hand moved up and down, caressing the soft skin enveloping the blood-hard penis. I made sure that the palm would rub the entire sensitive crown; every male in my lifetime of experience loved that sensation. My mind wondered about the schizophrenic feelings the world has about masturbation. Almost all parents teach their children that it is a filthy habit, an obscene habit; some children are merely lectured, others punished. As kids, we defied our parents, yet we spoke to each other only in whispers about those wonderful orgasms we ourselves achieved. But now that we are adults, now that our hormones run amok screaming 'fuck, fuck, fuck', now masturbation is a routine part of sex. We do it for each other, we do it to ourselves for the visual pleasure of our lovers, we do it when we are not near our lovers and we tell that about it, to let them know that we trust them with our secrets and how much we miss those lovers.

Did not our parents masturbate? Did they not do the very things that they were telling us not to do? We did not go blind; we did not grow warts on our hands. Why did they tell us such stories? Personally, I masturbated often, and enjoyed it immensely; as a habit, it continued until I found out how much more fun it was with real live boys. And yet, truth be told, I lectured my children when I caught them masturbating. No, I didn't punish them, and I well knew that my admonitions never deterred them, but they heard from me the same thoughts that my mother conveyed to me when I was their age. I didn't tell them how pleasurable it is; they already knew that. I didn't tell them that it would become an integral part of their lovemaking process; I left that for them to learn on their own.

And so when I gummed Greg's sac hard and wrapped my hand around his hot meat, I felt the swelling, I heard his soft moan of release. He let go with that first shot, always the heaviest, blasting his sweet pearly cream all over the side of my face and into my hair. The first time he did that, it felt so yucky, reminding me of that stupid, awful movie where the guy is masturbating and ejaculates when he's interrupted; the semen winds up in his hair. Well, that's bull, Greg can't shoot it out that far by himself, but with my mouth right down there on his testicles and my hair right by his slit, it wasn't a difficult shot. When I had looked in the mirror, it seemed ridiculous, but then I thought of it like it was a dog marking his territory by pissing in the corners. And the cum in my hair marked me as belonging to Greg.

For the time being, at least. But somday, maybe not!

In the beginning, I was so turned off that I wanted to wash my hair immediately, but then I decided to just leave it there all night long. Eventually it would all be rubbed in and disappear, but knowing that it was there made me feel like a slut, and when my hormones start raging, that's just the way I like to feel. Depraved, whorish, sensual, wanton, all for my lover and for the eventual pleasure of my sex organs. The sight of that cum in my hair made my pussy gush.

And yet, and yet, it bothers me to this day whenever I think of it. No matter what my love for Greg, no matter the depth, I was never his possession; I knew deep in my heart that I would never fully belong to any man. Or woman! The pleasure he received whenever he deposited his cum in such an unusual area slowly began to disgust me more and more.

Greg reached over to the end table and tapped a cigarette out of the pack. His lighter flared and smoke drifted up. I shook my head slowly, in abject resignation. I mean, I can take his cock anally, as I expected to before morning, and suck it clean the moment it came out of me, but the idea of him smoking repelled me. Oh, I still loved him, in spite of it, but I resolved each time that my next lover, and I was sure that there would be a next one — I mean like full time, not the quickies I always do - would not be a smoker.

Greg's son doesn't smoke. How would Greg react to that? Neither does my cleaning woman, nor do most of my clients. Hmmm; someday, Sandy?

But not just then. At that moment, all I could think of was that the night was young and I was wet.

I watched Greg as he inhaled deeply, and then let the smoke curl out of his mouth toward the ceiling. He was a man in a mellow state, his (I think) good looking slut-lover having just helped him clean out his pipes, getting rid of what he called the dreaded DSB, deadly sperm buildup.

"OK, lover, get rid of that smelly weed and take care of me."

He tamped out the butt into the clean ashtray, a reminder of the only cleaning I do all week long.

The cleaning woman is due tomorrow. Maybe I'll take the day off. Damn, I haven't had pussy in a while.

"Eat me, Gregory." The way I said it left no doubt that he had better do it, though we both know that he loves to do it to me all the time. I rolled onto my back, bent my knees and spread them. My peignoir fell back toward my lap, still barely covering my pussy, and my spike heels dug into the bed, tearing the sheet. I heard the rip but couldn't care less; I could afford new bed linens but my clitoris was the focus of my entire thought process at that moment.

Having her pussy eaten is the most exciting thing that can possibly happen to an aroused woman. To lie there and to be serviced without effort on her own part is the height of luxury; to know that she alone is the one receiving pleasure at that moment is like winning the lottery. If we assume that the be-all and end-all of sexual contact is the orgasm, forgetting about procreation at the moment, then she will be the only beneficiary of that little roll in the hay. Oh sure, the partner with his mouth, her mouth, on the woman's pussy is getting pleasure also. The taste, the scent, the occasional squirt of fluid, the knowledge that he or she is pleasing the recipient is truly rewarding. You can trust me on that, I've been on both sides on cunnilingus. But the party doing the eating will not attain at that moment the all-important orgasm.

I'm sure that the same feeling goes through a man's mind when a willing mouth is wrapped around him. He knows that he will soon climax and be satisfied while the fellatice — or fellator — are those the right words? — will receive naught save a mouthful of cum. And sure, when I'm on my knees and some guy ejaculates in my mouth, I love the taste, the gooey consistency, I love the aroma, I love the power I have to please him. And if I love the owner of that cock, if giving him pleasure is my goal in life, it's even better. But I don't have an orgasm, and that's what counts.

Greg stuck his nose under my peignoir, the proverbial camel's nose under the tent. I heard him inhale as he drank in my aroma of excitement. He lifted the frilly garment.

"Ooh, lookie lookie what we have here."

Then the smooth satin fell onto his head, hiding him from my view but still enabling me to feel the expert gentleness of a world-class cunnilinguist. He lay there motionless, his head poised above my leaking lips, continuing to enjoy the scent wafting from the core of my lust. I could feel his eyes straining in the ambient light under there, burning on me as he stared at my center of pleasure. He shifted his weight to his elbows, perfectly placed so that his fingers could spread my lips, for his study and attention.

His thumbs ventured to the very top of my slit, spreading me to aid access to my clit, which waited for his ministrations. First there was the very slightest of licks; though the tongue was soft, it reminded me of that not so long ago drunken night when, my date of the evening too inebriated to stay hard, I had guided the cat's face and tongue down there to please myself. A she-cat, no less. A pussy cat. The poor cat had no idea what it was that she was licking, nor any idea how much pleasure she was giving me. I doubt that she had the mental ability to know why I treated her so nicely for the next few days.

I giggled silently at the memory, the slight tremor of my body causing Greg to pull his head out to look at me, to try to determine what had caused that reaction. I would never tell, and I know that he never reads this website; at least I'm pretty sure.

Strong hands lifted and spread my ass cheeks so that he might begin one of his patented long licks, his tongue's slow gentle journey from my rear pucker to my clit, never stopping or deviating from its course. He went through six or seven reps, each accompanied by my squeals of delight as my brain tried to decide whether to allow him to continue or to press him to decide between one portal and the other. For sure both would be well taken care of before the night was concluded, but at the moment, I voted for my clit.

"We'll get to the back door later, baby. Just concentrate in front for now."

Greg shortened his stroke, running it just along my slit, diving between my labia every once in a while, then moving his tongue up one side and down the other but always dallying at my clit. He licked it, he fingered it, he sucked it like a nipple; he even bit it, but ever so gently. Once in a while he came up for air and I could see his face glistening with my moisture. He knew what I was looking at and he grinned with childish pride, though the twinkle in his eyes showed that he knew what he was doing was far from being childish. My lover was pleasing himself while pleasing me at the same time; life was good.

My hands grabbed the thick hair in back of his head and pulled his face against me, so tightly that I knew he couldn't breathe easily. He twisted his nose free, inhaled deeply and then attacked my little girl-cock with a vengeance. I withstood it as long as I could, let out my traditional "AAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEE" and began to slap his ears until he stopped, finally, after my second or third consecutive orgasm.

At that point, he came out from under the peignoir and crawled up until his face was suspended over mine. The kiss was soft and slow; his tongue transmitted the taste of my own juices, a taste I knew well. And loved. He broke the kiss and looked up at the drying semen in my hair, a smile of pride lighting up his face.

Next Wednesday, I'm going to rub the stuff from my hair into his and see if he likes it. He probably will.

By that time, he was hard again, and soft; hard from the blood filling up his cock, soft from the skin being gentle to the touch. I took him into my hand and guided that wonderful piece of meat right between my legs. My pussy was so soaking wet, awaiting the arrival of my lover into that welcoming grotto, that his penis slid easily into me, hitting bottom immediately.

He was then in a hurry; there was no lover in bed with him, just any old female who would accept his thrusts. I didn't mind; it was part of my duty as one who lived only to please him. No niceties on his part, no prolonging of his plunging so that I might cum again, just hard, fast, uncaring, urgent. His face was over mine but he wasn't looking at me. Rather, his eyes were glazed over, seeing nothing. He pumped madly, in, out, in, out, hitting bottom with every stroke, his approaching orgasm announced by a low hum, building up to his warning grunt, "NNNNNGGGGGHHHHH," as his sperm, racing from his balls and exploding deep inside me, delivered the wetness of his orgasm. His juices seeped out of me with each backstroke, leaking down toward my anal opening.

"I love you, Greg; I love you, I love you, I love you."

He didn't respond; it hurt when I realized it.

Without waiting, I pushed him off me and bent to suck him clean and dry, the delicious protein enough food for me. While I did that, Greg lifted my body and twisted it so that his mouth could reciprocate, taking back the semen that oozed from the pink channel into which he had just deposited his creamy gift.

Man (and woman) does not live by the protein of orgasm alone, though, and soon it was time to call for the pizza. When the doorman rang, I threw on a robe to be decent for the young delivery man. Handsome he was, in his boyish way, athletic build, this young man Ned. The recommendation, not for the pizzeria or its food, but for Ned's sexual prowess, had come from a friend of mine. She said that Ned was always ogling her when he made a delivery, and she finally decided to use him carnally, biblically that is, fucking him is what I really mean, to get even with her traveling — and dallying - husband (see 'Kitty's Pussy' by maryjane), but I already had too many future assignations in mind to go after such young stuff, virile as he might be.

Still, maybe someday, Ned?

Greg and I ate on the couch. The large box, empty except for pizza bones and napkins, as well as the empty beer bottles, would still be there when Carolina arrived the next day to clean up. That was the time for chit-chat, company gossip and all that shit, the sole purpose of which was to give Greg's testicles time to rejuvenate for his next erection and orgasm. That's when he told me about the next-day's planned trip to New York. I seethed but remained silent; there was a much better way to express my anger, even if he wouldn't know about it. Or maybe he thought I didn't give a damn. I also seethed over the other thing I learned from that, that I wouldn't get to celebrate a full five orgasms for Greg that night. Oh, I'd probably get enough to tide me over, but it wouldn't be a real Wednesday night.

That lying bastard! There's no way the firm would pay for a five day conference out of town with a two day weekend in the middle.

All I would get that night would be one additional orgasm, from Greg's fingers as he thrust his penis into my face while leaning backwards to play with my clit. We were on the bed, romping like the nudists we were, when Greg playfully pinned my hands to the bed and straddled my face. My pussy gushed from the idea that I would soon be receiving a mouthful of sweet semen for my dessert, to wash down the beer that had washed down the pizza, all to prepare my pallet for the delicious sperm cells in cream sauce.

The organ at my face smelled raunchy, though not offensive; more like the pure male musk of perspiration, the mixture of male and female juices, in the groin of a man who had recently been inside a welcoming pussy. I inhaled the scent deeply, and then inhaled the salami shaped weapon of love and lust, in whichever order one prefers, hanging down between his legs, shadowing his balls like earth and moon during an eclipse. I licked the ridge behind the crown, wondering if he had felt any pain when the doctor had cut off his foreskin, shit, I would have hated to have that done to me if I was a boy, no matter how young I was.

Greg sighed and closed his eyes, the familiar signal of a man in the middle of joyous pleasure, that beautiful interlude when a man knows with certainty that he will be afforded the opportunity for another orgasm, without coaxing on his part nor hesitation on hers, yet still so early in the process that he hasn't yet lost control of his organ, hasn't yet lost the ability to pull out — though why would he ever want to do that — hasn't yet turned his brain to mush and his penis into a mere tool of a bodily function, existing only until that screaming indescribable moment when it fulfills its function, when it ejaculates his current supply of sperm and semen into whatever vessel is ready and willing to accept it, some receptacle of his lover of the instant or even of the palm of his own hand, or maybe a toilet bowl, because at that moment he doesn't care where that creamy spurt goes to.

No, Greg wasn't there yet. He was still enjoying the warm wetness of my mouth on the crown and then on the shaft of his rigid stick, my tongue racing up and down the hard weapon. He was quivering with excitement, for he knew from much experience that this little Susan — I've never introduced myself, have I — is one fine cock-sucker. Am I the best? I don't know; I do know that I've been eaten by some women who made me think that they must be able to do a great job on a man, so even if I'm not the best, I definitely am pretty damn good.

I was angry, as angry as I had been with Greg in a long time, over the idea that he was taking a long weekend in New York, that he surely didn't plan celibacy for the weekend, and that he took the trouble to lie to me about it. No, the main reason for my anger was not the lie, but the insult in that he expected me to believe him.

I reached down to play with his testicles, those teeny things where the sperm is made — or is that done in the prostate? - that delicate spot that Mom taught me to caress, with my knee, whenever Step-Dad got frisky. I only had to do it twice before she threw him out. I don't know why she ever made me wait for the second time, but I ultimately forgave her; I guess she was just lonely. But I never had to do that with Greg, because whenever he touches me, he does it because I want it, want it so badly. So I played with the little guys, one at a time, having fun feeling them squirm away from me when I gave them just the teensiest little squeeze, not hard enough to hurt him. It always turns him on terrifically, whether by the tactile sensation down there in his crinkled sac hanging below his cock or by the mental sensation of knowing what I'm doing, I can never tell, and he can't explain it to me.

Once my hand was down there, though, I figured I might as well use my finger on him. My own company office manager frowns on long, noticeable finger nails, figuring that it's enough for the female brokers to be attractive without chasing away the customers by looking cheap. So that made it safe for Greg's prostate as my finger slid slowly along behind his crinkled sac toward his back door. He tensed, as usual. My urologist told me that all men tense up when he's about to check the prostate, even the gay ones. That last part I already knew, from experience, but I only did that once, because I hated the feeling of sucking latex and winding up with nothing to swallow. I still can't believe that I sucked a gay cock, even with a rubber. I feel sorry for whores. I mean, it's OK to fellate for money, but I would think that she'd still want some pleasure out of it, some gooey cream to savor.

My thin finger went in easily, the only lubrication being perspiration. Greg knows better than to try to stick his penis into my anus without a lot of lubrication, but his weapon is much bigger than my finger. He moaned when he felt it go in. That happens every time, just like the tightness with which his sphincter tries to hold my finger, while at the same time squirming as though to get away from me. I don't understand; I'm not like that. Once he is seated in my back passage, I don't try to wriggle away; I just relax so that he can pump away. Well, who ever said that men know how to fuck?

Having given him his thrill, for despite all his protestations, he really loves it, I took my finger out, because I just didn't want him to ejaculate too fast. I do love that taste, but I love the sucking sensation almost as much, and I'm willing to prolong it until my head gets tired. Especially this time, when my head was flat on the bed and he was kneeling above me, so I don't tire easily.

But I wasn't finished with Greg's testes. I twisted my head to pop his penis out of my mouth and then pulled him so that his ball sac was over my face. I swallowed it while at the same time I held onto his beautiful organ, stroking it but without much effort.

Damn, I wish I could get a guy's entire three piece set into my mouth at once. I love it all

I worked on each little guy separately, tongue and lips, not too much gums or teeth. He was panting, looking down at my face with his own, contorted in a combination of 'agony and ecstasy' as I chewed softly. Mimicking my fingers earlier, my tongue crept toward that same place, licking its way toward his anus. I knew from experience that Greg loves that touch; I felt his weight shift on me as he closed his eyes and threw his head backward, savoring my unspeakable conduct. It took a full minute before he spoke.

"Finish me off, baby."

My mouth opened again to accept his love muscle, accepting it to the hilt as it battered the back of my throat, attempting to force its way toward my stomach. That was when he leaned back and his fingers attacked my clitoris, not lovingly, not lustfully, but fiercely, almost painfully. It was the way I had taught Greg to take care of me in such moments; he claims that he hates to be so rough, and I probably believe him.

It quickly succeeded and I began to cum. With my mouth wrapped around his hard piece of meat, I could only moan. His body understood, and responded with his own orgasm, in short creamy bursts, so deep that I almost missed out on the taste. My throat closed so that I might force his juices back toward my palate, where I savored them before swallowing those gallant little soldiers.

We fell asleep with our lips joined, his tongue fruitlessly searching for the last remnants of his cream in my mouth. I had no idea then what the next day would bring. I did know that I was pissed off as hell at him.

For the rest of this story, you need to Log In or Register