Chapter 1

To help defray the expense of college, I got a part-time job at the Westfield Rehabilitation Center as an aide. Basically I helped serve the food and clear the table. The most interesting resident was Amory Dickson. The nurses agreed that he had the worst table manners, and they called him Amorous Dickhead. It was fitting, at least in a physical way, for he had a very long neck. Exceedingly long, and his head, perched on that long neck and fully bald, did resemble the head of a penis. None of the other residents would eat with him, so invariably he had a table to himself.

One evening after I’d cleared his table, Amory told me he was a swashbuckler from Jamaica. “I know how to speak pirate,” he said. “Thar she blows. Har, har, har.” He had a strange, deep, ulta-smooth voice, probably because of his long neck. He told me he liked my outfit. “It’s the color of your lovely pink nipples,” he crooned. When my eyebrows raised, he said, “You don’t believe me,” and he lowered the blouse of my uniform, exposing my breasts. “See!” he exclaimed, and then he traced a fingertip from the top of my breast down to the nipple. “There!” he said, when the nipple stiffened. Then he started again from the top.

“There! There! There!” My knees were growing weak. My pussy was soaking, my clit tingling. “There!” he exclaimed, and I came. He smiled. He dipped his finger into my pussy, then brought it to his mouth. “Dessert,” he whispered. “Delicious.”

Faint with pleasure, I nearly fell upon the table.

“Now let me help you with the cleanup,” he offered. I needed no coaxing, for Dixon’s lips were smooth as his voice, and his tongue was long and thick and pure pirate.