PATRICK – by Ric

I'm rich, tall and slim, damn good looking. Oh, you say tha I shouldn't call myself good looking, it sounds so egotistical? Well, fuck you. I can see myself in the mirror, and I've never had to ask twice to get into some female's panties. And by the time I get to those panties, they're always soaking wet. So what should I call myself, ugly? Forgive me for being so snappy, but my looks are relevant to this story.

Not particularly relevant, but just part of my background, is that my twin sister Pamela and I were both smart enough to choose the best possible set of parents to be born to, because she too has those same initial attributes. That's very strange, because since we have different sex organs, by definition we are fraternal rather than maternal twins, and yet we look very much like each other. In fact, when we fuck – oh, I guess I'll tell you about that – we almost look like opposite sides of an ink-blot test.

Neither Pam nor I ever had any trouble getting dates. By the time we were about fifteen, in high school, we double-dated a number of times. Of course, dating in a single car, it wasn't easy to have enough privacy for sex, most of the time, anyway. The best we could usually do was some oral sex in the big parking area at the bottom of our driveway – about a quarter mile from the house itself. There was always the chance that one or both of our parents would decide to go for a late drive, or that some stranger would use the parking area as their own make-out location. Every once in a while, Mom or Dad would find a used condom dropped there, and Pam and I would get a mild third degree grilling. Also, Mom used to get pissed off when Pam would walk around the house in something skimpy.

But when we did use it ourselves, generally I would get my cock sucked by my date and Pam would go down on her date. I had no problem with the idea of eating my date's pussy, and Pam told me that she didn't mind a tongue in her cunt. But those made for more difficult clothing situations, so they were saved for solo dates.

The problem of course was that when we double dated, I'd get my pipes cleaned but Pam wouldn't get to cum in the other seat. So when we got back to the house, I'd be ready for sleep but my loving sister would have to use her fingers for a while.

"Good night, Pam." I was already in my pajamas.

"You bastard. You got off but I'm still hanging. Why don't you stay up with me until I get myself off?"

I swear to you, that's just what she said. But me, being the pussy hound I am, took it as a come-on. I sat on the side of her bed and watched as her hand wriggled into her panties and began to rub. And believe me – well, I guess you really shouldn't – when I put my hand on top of hers and started to rub, I was only trying to be helpful.

The look she gave me was somewhere between 'what the fuck do you think you're doing, you're my brother' to 'I need that, don't stop'. My preference was to go for the latter option, and so I did. My lips touched hers, my tongue flicking out. Then she lifted my head off of her face.

"What took you so damn long to take the hint, the stuff I wear around the house?"

"Jeez Pam, you're my sister."

"Well, dear Patrick, that fact doesn't seem to bother that bulge in your pajamas."

She was right of course, and in fact when I had no date, I used to imagine her body naked as I flogged my log.

"Go down on me, Paddy (my nickname)."

I rolled her wet panties down off of Pam. Her pussy was bald; that was no surprise, since she had told me that she shaved herself down there. I inhaled the sweet aroma of female in heat, washed my face in her copious lubrication. My tongue did the work, up and down and around her private slit, her pink labia. I forced my tasting tool inside of her, washing as much as I could of her loose vaginal canal. Mom would shit if she knew how many cocks Pam's cunt had welcomed.

My tongue attached her clit, licking it my lips sucked on her orgasm tool. The folks were out; she had no need to control her yelling and screaming. We rolled over so that she was on top of me. My finger probed and found her g-spot. As I touched it, she began to gush. It felt wonderful. It was as if I was being water-boarded and I loved every second of it.

When her orgasm finished its throbbing, Pam thanked me. I was tired from being blown in the car. We fell asleep, she wearing only a t-shirt and I in my pajama top. Both of us were naked from the waist down.

Two hours later, I awoke to the feel of my side of the bed sinking down. Pam was already awake. Mom was staring at the two of us. Oh shit!

"I was hoping that this would never happen but I knew there was no way I could prevent it. Be discreet, children, and be careful."

I played football in college. Starting quarterback, so my face didn't get too banged up. I went to Harvard and Pamela went to Radcliffe, Harvard's sister school. There was plenty of cunt around for me, and cock for Pam, and best of all, we didn't have to fuck our dates in the back of a car. We also had plenty of opportunities to be with each other. Our folks just prayed that neither of us, individually or as a team, would present them with grandchildren. After graduation, we both moved down to New Haven, to Yale. I went to the Law School and Jan to the Medical School. Law was never in my plans; I intended to go directly into managing the family real estate empire.

Time passed. Pam and I each married and each of us gave the folks two grandchildren. But I never lost my roving eye. And then...

I had seen her before, right here. I come to MoMA every Thursday at lunch time, planning to get back to the office before the market closes. (After all, I hired my hot looking secretary and bought a Murphy bed on the same day. If I struck out at MoMA, I could always get my rocks off Suzie – my secretary - before I went home.) For those of you who aren't familiar with New York City abbreviations, MoMA stands for Museum of Modern Art, which is not to be confused with MMA, which are the call letters for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, sometimes referred to as the Met or the Metropolitan. Which is itself not to be confused with the Metropolitan Opera House, also known as the Met. Nor with MDMA, which is a drug. Nor with the Mets, a baseball team that needs some drugs.

As I was about to say, before I so rudely interrupted myself, she was one fine piece of ass. At least five foot seven, with legs that stretched all the way to the floor – you'd know what that means if you saw her – she had a fantastic rack and a nice tight ass. Even fully dressed, as she then was in an expensive business suit, she'd be a great picture to jerk off to, which I had done a week earlier.

She could have been a runway model, but her tits were too big. She could have been a business executive, but the lines of her face were too soft. Her eyes though were business-like, and I was ready to swear that she was a call-girl.

"Haven't I seen you here before?" I asked politely. It seemed a better start than to say, 'get the fuck out of my way so that I can see the painting too, ' for she was blocking my view from the bench. I stood up as I said it and approached the wall she was facing. She turned her head toward me without moving her torso.

"I do get here from time to time, when I don't have to be with a client,"

"Oh, what kind of clients?"

"I negotiate property rentals."

"What kind of properties?" I pressed on, nosily.

"Specialty properties," she said.

"Like concert halls or stadiums?" I asked.

"Specialties," was all she said. I got the idea that I had better change the subject if I wanted to get into her panties.

"I'm in securities myself," I said, "stocks and bonds, plus real estate." She nodded, bored. Time for another try.

"I like Gauguin best of all. How about you?" I asked.

"Mondrian is my favorite," she said.

"There's a mystery story revolving around Mondrian's works, you know."

"I've read it. Thoroughly enjoyed it," she said. But by then she had a smile on her face. The ice was broken.

"I'm Patrick, by the way."

"Theresa."

We chatted for a while and then I looked at my watch. "I haven't eaten yet. Would you care to join me for a bite of lunch and a drink?"

She smiled. "I'd love that, Patrick, but there is something you must know. When I eat and drink with a man, I get paid for it. The property I rent out is my body. I'm a professional, Patrick. I get $2,000 for an afternoon."

My guess had been confirmed. "Hey, that's great."

"Great?" she asked quizzically.

"I can afford the $2,000 and I don't have to expend any time or energy charming you and seducing you."

We crossed Fifth Avenue and headed east to a charming little hotel that I use when I'm looking for a bed during the day. Her arm was hooked inside mine, like a suburban couple in the city for a vacation day. At the hotel, the clerk looked at me and when I nodded twice, made sure to give me the room I always used. We were alone in the elevator and she gave me a gentle rub along the bulge in my slacks. It was like that little bite of meat you might get in a Food Court in front of a Chinese food counter, to get you to buy the full lunch. And just like in a Food Court, I had already bought the meal but it wouldn't be delivered and I wouldn't get to eat it until I paid for it.

And the meal I had ordered was surely going to taste delicious; I just knew it.

Inside the room, she stood there, waiting silently for me to open my wallet and begin to count out the twenty large bills. I don't usually carry such large amounts of cash, but that day I had specifically been looking for this 'specialty property' to spend it on.

And I'd seen Theresa leaving the museum on several occasions with different men.

THERESA – by maryjane

The front of my panties was soaking wet. The sex that morning had been pretty good, but he hadn't made me cum. He'd been in a hurry to get to his office, and after all, it had been an all-nighter. I'd been hoping to get out of there quickly myself, for I had my sights on the tall fellow who goes to that museum every Thursday. I'd left the morning semen inside me, dribbling into the panties. If Mr. Thursday went for it, I'd have his cash before he realized that he was getting sloppy seconds, but I was gambling that he'd be turned on by the idea, turned on enough to want me to have my own orgasm. In the worst case scenario, I could run into the bathroom and get rid of the sloppiness. Anyway, there was no way he'd be getting a refund in any case.

I'd been in that hotel several times in the past. Never as a tourist, always as a working girl. Sometimes it was for a Nooner, but usually for an all-nighter. Any smart whore – I'm talking about fucking by appointment, usually, not as a street-walker – always carries her own shampoo, tooth paste and tooth brush, clean underwear, etc. One never knows when a guy wants to change a short date into a full night. So long as he carries enough cash, or even a credit card, no sweat. Though my fucking lawyer charges me my left tit to run a card number through his processor. And please don't think that this little assignation with Patrick makes me a street-walker. I went to that museum fully expecting to see that particular man and taking home some of his cash.

Anyway, before I interrupted myself, I was going to say that I like that hotel because it uses 1000 thread sheets and pillow cases and has top of the line shampoos, creams, etc. in the bathrooms. They make me feel as though I'm really worth what he's paying me. It also has new, wide-screen television sets, with super-raw porn available on demand. Hey, you never know what it takes for a guy to keep it hard. I like to think that I can accomplish that without visual aids, but unless I'm paid to stay until morning, all whores like to get the guy off quickly so that we can move on to the next client.

I'd managed to hang on to my cherry until I was sixteen. I knew even then that I was attractive to the male of the species. Mom had given me the talk about the birds and the bees, without mentioning either of those species, just before I was due to have my first period. The only reason she did that was because I had asked, after hearing girls just months older than me talking about what their mothers had referred to as 'the curse.' But it wasn't until I came home one evening from a date looking all flushed that she got me to confess that I had let the boy squeeze my tits, and that I'd felt his erection when he pressed against me during a kiss. That was when the discussion with Mom got seriously detailed. And exciting. She said that he had probably gone home to jerk off after I had stopped him from going further. Though I'd masturbated often enough, that night got my panties as wet as they had ever been.

And I knew that I needed to get rid of my cherry as soon as possible.

Roger was his name. We lived out in the middle of nowhere and teenagers were taught to drive at a very young age. He was a year older than I. On our next date, the one after I had let him feel me up, we had gone to a movie. After the movie, we drove down to the clearing by the stream, the place where we had been previously. A few other cars were there, some with heads silhouetted through unlit windows. Others had no one visible, but we could tell that they were occupied by the gentle rocking of metal on springs.

First a kiss; that was like a given. Then his left hand was on my right breast, squeezing, fondling in time with the flicking of his tongue in my mouth. My hands were around the back of his head, holding him to the kiss. Without warning, he took one of my hands and moved it to the front of his slacks. That caught me by surprise.

I had never before touched the bulge in a boy's groin. I knew what it was, of course, because I'd seen enough porn films, but the sensation was new. I also knew that the cock inside those slacks was a symbol of the transformation from girl to woman, far more real and significant than the traditional symbol of a girl's first period.

And, now don't laugh or think I was crazy, but I was more than a little bit angry that my father had never molested me, that none of my uncles nor my big brother had ever tried anything sexual with me, for then I would have known what to expect, physically and mentally. They had all told me that I was pretty, 'built', sexy, etc., but none had tried to take advantage. Of course I should have felt lucky, but now this boy named Roger said all those things to me and wanted to pleasure himself with my body. Instinct told me to take off my panties and spread my legs, but I knew that making love had to be more than that, and television had never taught me enough. I had to wing it.

OK, I admit it, I was a little crazy. I squeezed the lump in his slacks, my message that the touch of his cock was welcome. And when his soft moan indicated enjoyment, I used both hands to pull down his zipper. White cloth, his under shorts, pushed up a tiny bit past his open zip. My fingers reached in, searching for a new experience, the touch of erect male flesh, that mystical thing the teen-age girls wonder about, talk about. Mom told me that in her day the girls whispered about it, but now they talk out loud, even teasing boys about playing with themselves.

I was too shy to tease, but my pussy was past the point of no return. Roger's manhood (boyhood?) would soon penetrate me, would rend asunder – forgive the flowery words - the protective barrier that in my earlier years had been deemed so sacrosanct. My fingers pulled out the tool of sex that would spread the petals of my labia, the first tool other than my own slim digits.

Look, I know that the last paragraph reads like pure bullshit, but since I've taken to short term rentals of the vacant space between my two big toes, I can't help using every opportunity to advertise.

My lips moved down to kiss the soft crown of the hard cock. I wanted to say 'is that just for me' but I knew enough not to want to make Roger giggle until I was well and truly fucked. But that required comfort.

"Let's get into the back seat, Roger."

He had no chance to argue the point. I squeezed between the two front bucket seats to get to the roomier bench seat in back. Since he wanted to get laid, his only option was to follow me. Horny as he was, he had no desire to announce our intentions to other parked cars by opening and closing car doors.

He pulled off his slacks and undershorts, throwing them back over into the front seats. I lifted my skirt over my waist, slipped off my panties, soaking of course, and spread myself for him. I wanted to shiver in fear of the upcoming pain but nevertheless I controlled myself. My eyes closed but I smiled at the picture of two people, naked from the waist down but fully clothed above.

Kissing was beyond our interests. Sucking his cock was never given a thought. Hands caressing and squeezing my tits were nowhere to be found. His hands were around me, on my ass. Mine were on his cock, lining it up to where I wanted, to where he wanted it to be.

"Make love to me, Roger."

Please understand that I had no intention to convey any desire for love, it was just my polite way to say 'fuck me'. And he certainly never gave a thought to my use of that L-word, for all he wanted to do was to fuck.

He slammed into me, my cherry tore apart. I let out a little yelp but the pain quickly disappeared. My soaking vagina welcomed his what I now know to be 'merely' five inches long, but with enough girth to fill me enough for his shaft to excite my clit. He thrust rapidly and my clit responded with that wonderful feeling that I would soon cum, that beautiful feeling heretofore being accomplished only by my experienced fingers or the fat end of a carrot.

My face perspired, my underarms, my groin. My breathing became shallow as this fleshy toy brought me closer and closer to the thrill of orgasm. Yes, Roger, yes, let me have it, nice and hard.

Roger grunted, stiffened. I felt the warmth of his creamy gift flooding me, throb after throb after throb. He pulled out rapidly, opened a back door and pissed the rest of his sperm onto the ground. Closing the door, he picked up my panties and used them to wipe his shaft dry.

"You fucking bastard. You didn't make me cum. What's the matter with you? Go down on me, make me cum."

Even in the dim light of the pale moon, I could see his face. His expression meant either that his orgasm had struck him deaf or that he couldn't decide if I was speaking Mandarin Chinese or Middle Eastern Arabic. Ignorant or disinterested. He didn't know and he didn't care.

With no expression on his face, he watched as my fingers finished the job. I sat up to let his cum ooze out of me onto the back seat.

"Take me home, prick!"

He told his friends that he had broken my cherry. I told my friends that he had raped me with his fingers but that he couldn't get his cock hard enough to fuck me. Boys told girls and vice versa. I think my lies trumped his truth. I never saw Roger again. My dates were often enough, and when sufficiently interesting, more than one boy was invited to my bed. Not mine, actually, because Mom had rules, but in a car, or his place, or even a motel. None of them ever made me cum. Fortunately, my fingers were healthy. Then I got to college.

I went to a State school, inexpensive enough for my parents to squeak out the money but far enough away from home so that I needed to stay in a dorm room. My roommate that first year was Edie, a nickname for, surprise, Edwina. She helped me get through some of the stodgiest English Literature ever to tarnish a ream of paper. Did she also get me past a period of celibacy broken only by masturbation? If you think I mean did she teach me to munch blonde carpeting, you can bet your ass that she did.

Just before Christmas recess, I came back to the dorm to find Edie sitting up in her bed, watching some girl on girl on her laptop. I was in one of my pissed-off moods; the guy I had dated had tried his best, but like all the others, he had failed to make me cum. My only solace would be to fall asleep to the thrill of my fingers, soaking in his juices, bringing me off.

"What's the matter, Teri? You look like shit. Didn't he want to fuck?"

"Oh, we fucked all right. I'm full of his cum. But I didn't get to cum myself."

"Well, there's always tomorrow night for that," she said.

"Something I've never told you, Edie. No man or boy has ever been able to give me an orgasm. Wham, bam, thank you, Ma'am."

"Holy shit, Teri, get on my bed with me and let's watch this video together."

I climbed onto her bed and slid my legs under the blanket. It was warm from her body heat. The screen was equally warm (read hot) as the two whores licked each other's pussies. Girl on girl was great for masturbation, even though I'd never done it in real life. I opened the belt and unzipped my jeans, slipped two fingers under my wet panties and began the age old task of bringing myself to orgasm. My eyes were closed. They stayed closed as Edie silently moved her hand inside my jeans.

I was surprised and yet I really wasn't. After all, she had been watching a video of the very action that her fingers suggested. And even with my eyes closed, I could feel her eyes looking at my face. Was it serendipity, she making a move on me at the very moment that I was sorely pissed off at the entire male gender?

I smiled, opened my eyes and turned my head toward Edie. Then I closed my eyes again as our heads learned towards each other, meeting softly as the lips. I knew what I was doing. My full intention was to make love with another woman, something I had never done previously. Someone hopefully would touch me as a man had never touched me, would use her mouth on me the way a man had never had never licked nor sucked, the way I thought that I should be treated.

Mom had told me, in that roundabout style used by shy mothers, that women who looked like me, by which she clearly meant women who would be called good looking, should restrict their sexual activity to men, for the personal pleasure of the woman and for reproduction. But I was nowhere near any desire to reproduce, nor close to the date when it would be 'too late', and all of my sexual pleasure had been delivered by my own fingers.

And so my kiss with Edie moved on to French style, with tongues intertwined, each of us fighting for territorial control of the other's mouth. She broke the kiss and whispered to me.

"Let's get undressed, Teri."

We were off on opposite sides of the bed, facing each other. She wore a lace teddy and matching panties, white. They were off in a second. I was more encumbered, what with skirt, blouse, bra and panties, the latter wet with my date's cum that had oozed out of me in the last hour. Edie came around the bed to help me strip. When I was down to my panties, Edie knelt down and put her mouth on the wet crotch, as if trying to suck it dry. When that garment finally was rolled off, she pulled her head back in surprise.

Looking at my neatly trimmed but still full brush of blonde hair, she said, "First thing in the morning, we shave this off." I was so wet, so hot, so anxious to revel under the tongue of another woman that I made no objection.

In the bed, face to face, we resumed our kisses. Her knee forced itself between mine, and vice versa. Pussies rubbed against thighs and we thrust against each other. Edie's fingers went between us, sliding inside me, into the cylinder of flesh so recently lubricated by a now forgotten young man. She giggled, removed her fingers and presented the gooey digits to my mouth. I sucked them dry as though together they amounted to a cock.

I returned the favor, although the only lubrication inside my roommate was the wetness of her own lust. I withdrew my fingers and brought them to my nose, inhaling the aroma of the first ever alien cunt I'd sniffed. Her pussy smelled just like mine after masturbation. I've never known my own aroma after sex, for I'd never taken a penis into my mouth after it had ejaculated inside me. Nor had I ever kissed man or boy to know my aroma after cunnilingus, since none had ever eaten me.