Joseph Sherly Sheppard – Blaze Starr

It’s not that I wanted to be Blaze Starr, all those greedy men with the wild greedy eyes and thick smelly cigars and thick smelly cocks clamoring for more more more and me giving it to them, giving them everything, almost, but slowly, reeling it out, bit by bit, catching them fully, catching them just right, until there’s nothing they could do but come in their pants. Oh Lordy!

The real Blaze, at least the one in Shepard’s painting, took one look at me, semi-scoffed, said, “Geez you know there aint room on this table for two, here, have fun,” and she handed me her scarf and hopped down. The men, those greedy men, might have liked a show the two of us could have put on, me and Blaze, and I might not have minded it either, but that’s not what I came for. So I swirled the scarf, catching the wicked light, and swirled myself, round and round, whipping the light as it whipped me, that wild yellow greedy light, and my tits were topped by fiery knobs, and my clit screeched and my cunt yowled, and I danced and danced. I might have come. I don’t know. I might have come a dozen times. When I was completely drained, sopping wet inside and out, I ventured into the dressing room. Blaze was riding the Governor’s lap. “How’d it go?” she asked without interrupting her fuck. “Fine, I guess,” I replied. The Governor reached out and pinched my right nipple. Blaze tweaked my left. “Good for you, girlie,” she said. It was the girlie that really got me. That come was obliterating.