Small quantities of love-tunnel oil splashed out of my hole; slowly, hotly, meandering down over the taught orb of my lower buttock.
I could see my coral-colored, puckered, bung-hole blinking spasmodically in the reflection of my bedroom-closet mirror; constricting erratically in anticipation of what I was thinking of doing to it. Secrets from my pooh-pooh hole, or love-tunnel are ones impossible to keep under lock. Those two; my cod-hole, and my stink-box hole, why, they always know, long before I do: Thieves in the night, robbing my mind of its intent; stealing unconscious thoughts and sights of out of my imagination, even before I have condemned my shadowy soul, in the very thinking of them – yet…
I was at Nordstrom’s; the weekend past. Wearing my skimpiest mini-skirt: No panties, of course — alas.
I feel so–free–when I walk down the street: Carrying my firm buttocks on top of my thighs with me: A bounce in my step: Flipping the skirt up at the back, like an early-spring foal, propelling its tail into the air, as it romps effortlessly about its mother, in a field of their own.
I revel in the feeling of freedom, as cool, breezy, wafts caress my bare buttocks; windy tendrils flowing over tight little buns, like the cool water of Styx on its run, rushing naughty souls down into the cavernous gullet of Hades reluctant — keel-haul ’em: Gentle currents of air, fanned by rhythmic motions of vibrant steps, and swinging cloth of pleated plaid, flipping up, without a care, exposing grinning mounds; and smiling too, vertical mouth torn in flesh, upon its captive pair under duress; whizzing puffs of mullet and mackerel notions into the air, vaginal cream dripping over my shoe. Pony-tail whipping, sunlight dripping, down over golden locks of hair: Breathless beasts of bra-less breasts dancing wildly inside their nests; a blouse to me and you: Teats rubbing stiffening relentless, over rough, starched, familiar cotton fabric that tempt us, a territory of translucent white weave — mother of pearl buttons and short sleeved: Everything bouncing, everything whipping, everything fanning in perfect speed, and rhythm, with my choreographic stride; everything swinging, and jiggling, except my, calm, confident interior, and my sultry, sensuous inside.
My torso and mind: They are stable, and steady – solid. They are at my core: Carrying all of my ornaments at the ready — bouncing in time, and more – stolid.
My ass, my tits, my vulva and my face; I need my core; it is my—Self: I use it to hang my beautiful persona upon. My core hides under my ornaments. I leave my-Self, in my bedroom, at the door. In a box, after I put on all of my adornments, fir shore.
I bounced through Nordstrom’s like a rubber ball on a string.
I love popping onto an escalator some three steps up of a hot guy; in pretence of preoccupation, giddy and awestruck by elegance in the surround: Just an innocent sweet little cherub excited to be shopping, at all, on her own, like her mommy does. Yes, so, so, excited–that she forgot to put panties on for the occasion, even.
I bend over at the hip, setting down and picking up, shopping bags; and when I get off at the top, I watch the men trying to walk with that huge thing of theirs swelling between their legs; ripping out pubic hairs by the root, as it engorges, autonomically pumping shots of blood into its flaccid tube, up the flexible rod, into the helmet. Peeling back the foreskin, readying the magenta missile, set atop a thickening, rigid, shaft. A meat-rocket primed for launch. The probe set for possible penetration.
I duck between racks of clothes and wipe the thick creamy fluid running down the inside of my thighs on a sleeve of clothing, or I just go and try on a handful of underwear, and dry my pussy off on lingerie gussets. I smell so sweet.
The sheer power of it makes me tingle all over — it’s a treat!
My poor little pooh-pooh hole was still swollen from last night, when my girlfriend, Sarah, and her new boyfriend came over to my apartment for dinner.
Tom wanted to try a threesome, and that was okay with me, and his girlfriend–Sarah; we share her between us. She’s such a little bitch, she can never get enough. Tut, tut!
Although I prefer women, I will have the occasional fling, with a guy, just to clean my holes out. Usually I use whomever Sarah has as a boyfriend at the time. We share that way too, but I only do-it with him as long as she is there — Sarah, I mean: I insist that she lick my pussy and bung-hole dry afterwards. I like it, she likes it, he likes it: We like it!
Sarah’s told me about Tom’s cock.
Although it is not very long, only about six and a half inches, (we measured it), nevertheless, I swear I have never seen one so thick! It looks like a boa constrictor trying to swallow a purple Ostrich egg.
Sarah trawls the bars, picking up tit-bits of information here and there about the size of men’s dongs. Her Ankara escort love-tunnel isn’t very deep, but I swear I could get both my feet in her if I tried. Her vulva is like a horse’s collar, and more-often-than-not, it smells like one too. I constantly have to remind her to wash it, but it’s in use so often, that it’s a lost cause I feel. I just don’t know how she handles the sheer volume of cumm that comes her way!
Sarah hones in on men with short thick dongs, but when they get tired of her cunt, and start probing her rosebud, well, that’s where I come in. I always know when it happens too. I don’t hear from her for a week or two, because she’s — “in lo–ve” — Oh God, Give me a break! Then, out of the blue, she wants to introduce me to her new boyfriend, over dinner — at my place usually. Bitch!
Over dinner, “The Coke-Bottle Story”, just happens to come up in casual conversation! I know then, she has brought her latest concubine over to try and quench his lust for fudge-packing. Sarah’s bung-hole is as tight as a crab’s ass at ten thousand fathoms, so coupled with her huge clout-hole, and her penchant for enormous dongs, the poor little whore has to become — creative, if she wants to hold onto her latest beau.
I watch her as she attempts to maneuvers the whole focus of the dinner party around, to meet her own ends. She wants to borrow my bung-hole for the night; to give [it] to Tom; in the fervent hope that this new beau, won’t evolve into another ex-beau, as usual.
She’s lucky I’m a good friend–and that I just love getting my fudge packed — but that’s totally beside the point! She owes me, and that’s that!
I’m the very opposite of Sarah: I have the longer, narrow, slender type of love-tunnel, but can get almost anything into my ass-hole.
At a mutual friend’s birthday party: We all got a little too drunk, and the games — well, they, became a little too –naughty — to…!
Sarah won her game category, by taking a rather large gourd deep into her pussy-hole: Some seven inches in diameter, it was. She didn’t bat an eyelid, and I swear there was room to spare.
I won my category, by taking a 2 liter coke bottle all the way up my bung-hole, blunt side first! I came hard the instant it was pushed it into me, and sprayed the lot of them from head-to-toe with my squirting pee-pee hole, before they had chance to dive out of firing range.
It cost me a week’s wages in dry-cleaning bills, they were pissed, in more ways than one!
After some considerable coaxing and I do, so, love the coaxing, and a couple of glasses of wine, to boot, I was enticed into showing-off my party trick to Tom after dinner: But not, on this occasion, done with the 2 liter bottle! I didn’t want all the cleaning-up in the morning. I had to be at work early, and I always come and squirt everywhere with the 2 liter. So I used the wine bottle from the table instead.
As it happens, I might as well have done the 2 liter one anyway, and raked in the usual applause for it at the end, because Sarah grabbed the neck of the wine bottle sticking out of my bung-hole, and did my ass good and proper with it! OoOoOoOoOW!
It felt so good though, that I just couldn’t find the will in me to stop her. In fact I had both my hands grasped tightly around her wrists helping her thrust; I wanted it all the way in me, hard and fast!
I was laying flat on my back in the middle of the floor: Tom holding my legs apart and way-up over my shoulders. Sarah, meanwhile, was pumping away at my ass-hole, with the bottle, like she was making butter the old fashion way.
…Long, and sure, with a sharp intensity, that opened my urethra wide!
My slit-hole was quivering: shooting blast, after blast, of piss out of me with each and every inward thrust of the Chardonnay dildo, rammed deep into my bung-hole without quarter, until every drop of warm golden rain was being pumped out of my bladder, squirting high up into the air above us, like an oscillating, hesitant, fountain.
The squirts were so powerful that they hit ceiling.
The sheer force of the stream creating a plume: A fine misty spray, billowing-out from the impact zone; raining-down over the three of us, almost atomized, until we were drenched to the skin, with my warm, orangeade.
Sarah pulled the bottle out of my ass, the bottom-dimple packed solid with my mud. I blushed: There was a mud ring about 8 inches up the bottle.
It made a loud pop as it came out, and my ass-hole slammed shut tighter than a clam at low tide.
A moment later, internal pressure that had been built-up in my anal chamber by the relentless, vicious, pumping of that bitch Sarah-on-the-bottle; finally got its release!
I, involuntarily, let-loose with a deep, protracted, fairly baritone fart: A wind, issued-forth out of my innards, with such immediate force; vibrating the over-stretched curtains of my bung-hole, in such a manner, as to closely mimic, a rendition, not unlike a sextet of Ankara escort bayan trombone, mixing-it-up in a New Orleans funeral march parade. I blushed red with embarrassment! And the air was filled with a thick aroma of wet clay, mixed with honey, and cinnamon, coupled with that pungent smell, that comes off the steaming, wet, coat of a galloping horse. Sarah loves it, and makes me open my pong-pong hole with her finger as she licks my slit for hours during an evening: I let her have her way with me of a night. It allows me time to catch up on my reading, while she is quietly occupied.
Tom had tucked one of my ankles under his arm-pit, and with his free hand, had gotten his hairy ball-sack and thick, swollen, cock out of his pants. He was wanking at his stork furiously; his balls dancing in their bag like ice-cubes in a martini shaker.
I could hear his foreskin rolling over his huge magenta knob-end; it sounded a bowl of jelly like being stirred with a large wooden salad fork.
The speed of his foreskin, alternately wrapping and unwrapping the head of Tom’s rigid proboscis, had whipped up a light-creamy-froth of cock cream; spewing continuously from his winking eyelet: Thick Maple syrup leaking its viscous seed out of thick barked trunks. The sweet fluid driveled down, thickly, over his white-knuckled fist as he pumped, valiantly, and unashamedly, at his rock-hard shaft. The creamy goo flowing down the center of his hairy scrotum sack: Sticky droplets dangling off the bottom of his swinging, bulging, bag.
Whipped cumm dripped: Suspended on long gossamer-threads of seeded-syrup, hanging on — until, just, too heavy: Dropped off, shaken free – genital agitation the culprit, you see.
Disturbance of the entire equipment region: Frantic, malicious masturbation responsible; inflicted upon its protuberance, by the instrument holder himself; and his desire unleashed itself.
I watched intently, as globs of frothy semen fell like snowy scenes printed on cheap Christmas Cards. I threw my head wildly from side to side beneath him, stretching my long slender neck almost to the point of dislocation; my mouth, wide open tongue flicking chaotically about like a flag in the wind, plucking mouthfuls of steaming hot rod-cream out of the air, like an Amazonian frog, unfurling its coiled tongue; plucking at flies-on-the-wing; snaring its airborne prey: Greedily reeling them in: Fly after fly, drop after drop, into an all accepting; insatiable open mouth – don’t stop!
Ravaging gotten prizes; Ingesting won protein, only to reset an instant later; mouth open, tongue readied. Anticipation of the very next; dropped gratuity, repetitive routine, gobbling Tom’s salty cream.
Sarah held the soiled bottle up to Tom’s nose.
He breathed it in deeply, and then groaned.
His intoxicated head rolled around on his neck like a ball being delivered back up into a bowling ally consol: The apparent popping of his vertebrae doubling for the sound when balls shunt into one another in the stack—“Pop!”
Tom lost control and shot a hot stream of cumm out of his turgid magenta helmet, from his standing position over my head.
The majority of the shot landed directly in the center of my gaping, pulsating, ass-hole.
My rosebud, had taken on a mind of its own, and was opening and closing rapidly, like a starving gold-fish’s mouth intent at the feed. It was out of control, and it was making a sound like a pregnant duck.
My ass-hole was in a feeding frenzy: It was hungry.
It would eat anything when hungry, and today, cumm was on the menu – and it was being served hot!
Tom’s load-shot was instantly gobbled-up by Veronica’s rot-hole. The only remnant of the transaction between them, being a sticky bubble blown out, and popped, as the spasmodic bung-hole-contractions quavered down into a steady, throbbing, pulse.
Tom wanted “In”!
He nodded to Sarah, and they switched places.
He sauntered around my body and positioned himself, kneeling, between my legs; squeezing his fat cock hard to hold the cumm inside.
His teeth were hanging-out-to-dry, and I wondered why it is that when men, are wanking, and about to cumm, why, do their teeth and eyes seem to pop out of their head like that? I mean, it’s not very romantic. I hate that face! and all the grunting. OoOoOoOW!
This is why I prefer women! Women, just purr, and gasp, and moan and groan–and look more and more beautiful the closer they get to their orgasm; their labia swelling, Red like Admiral butterfly wings, their hole flowing with warm honey, their nun’s headdress pulling back exposing an erect clitoral nerve-missile war-head: Teats constricting, deepening in color, towering above mobile-mammary glands: Unlike Man, who looks more and more like a fucking gargoyle, and sounds like a slobbering, snorting, hog being slaughtered, the closer he gets to [His]—puny—orgasm. OoOoOoOoOW! Rat-fucks! Huh! The fucking noise of it all…!
Chapter Escort Ankara 9.
Sarah handed him the bottle, then reached under her mini-skirt that I had lent her weeks ago, the little bitch!
I thought, “I want that fucking skirt back! Dry cleaned and pressed — the cheeky cunt!”
I watched, as she pulled her soaking wet gusset over into one side of her vulva’s lips, securely tucking it down there into her groin, with such flowing dexterity and precision, which tended to betrayed the feigned naivety of the action, in and of itself as a tautological event, rather than one born of desperate, uncontrollable passion, and sheer animal desire, carried out into its full entirety, with planned precision, and strategic intent… The crafty little fulgurous spark of The’ Whore flashing under her — between her lovely milky-soft thighs, and her perfect orbed , fuzz-less buttocks, masquerading beneath her, as benign accoutrements of the female form, but nevertheless, stinking like Grimsby fish market at wrapping-up time, after a busy trade, over a hot summer ‘s Saturday meet: And her ring – fuming like Beelzebub’s gut-breath, itself, ill-wiped, and unwashed — as usual. This! Is what she chose to offer up to me, for the eating! And she knew, from old, that I would be unable to resist, once I got all worked up and all. the skanky little Bitch! I was going to have to take the skin of her butt with my leather whip — but not right now, I had a pussy and a dirt-box to gobble, and it might take a while…!
Obviously she had done this many times before! Sarah I mean. I felt a pang of…disappointment, and the gnawing of feeling digging deep in the pit of my stomach, like a hyena clawing at the entrails of its fresh kill, made me feel sad.
I felt used. I would have to punish Sarah—severely!
Her gusset was heavily stained yellow, and beige in the middle, generally, where her vent luxuriated; sleeping snuggly, all day long in its expensive French lingerie cunt-hammock.
Sarah opts to top-of-the-line underwear–always!
Notwithstanding her obvious idiosyncrasies, many of which relate to a basic underlying belief within her…that “She” is absolutely “perfect”, and [that], literally, and metaphorically, [She] believes [that] “Her shit doesn’t stink!”: But she does have such exquisite taste — I can tell [you] — [and] ([T]he[‘]) style of a Star, lost to generations through mediocrity; thrust upon ([W]om[a][e]n) — since the unfortunate advent of trouser-wearing.
Such deliberate sabotage of The’ femme de la femme affair, between, us and — Them…!
It must cost her a small fortune–her belief that is–.
As far as I can see, after three to four consecutive wearing; her panties are wrecked!
Sarah doesn’t think this way.
Daddy is rich, and she was never taught that she ought to consider–work, as a virtuous discipline.
Wiping her ass, washing her pussy is–Work–in Sarah’s book!
Toward the rear of the gusset I noticed huge skid marks: Brown ochre in color, which could only have come from her incessant ass-hole scratching. I told her about it, but it is like trying to warn someone off nail-biting. They don’t know they did it until it is all over: Alerted, boringly, within raw feelings of discomfort from the quick.
They seemed dark and thick, the skids, I mean.
Ground-in-to the expensive silk. Worked-in deep, by the action of her ample buns rotating provocatively, each and every time she took as much as a single step off from a stationary pose.
I mean it’s the blame of the parents, it is! who never taught her proper potty-etiquette!
Many a night I have gone down on her during a mutual 69 session, and had to come up for air!
I would ask.
“Sarah, have you taken a shit today? “
She would pull her face out of my ass, and answer.
“Yes, twice actually… Why? “
I would inquire.
“Did you wipe? I mean did you wipe your ass, after your took a shit?”
There would be silence!
“Sarah, I just asked you a question! Did you wipe your ass after you took a shit today?”
“I’m thinking, Veronica…I’m thinking!”
“What the fuck is there to think about Sarah! Either you wiped your ass after shitting today or you fucking well fucking, fucking didn’t, you fucking little fucker…!”
“Oh! Veronica, why are you bringing this up now when we were having such a lovely time…?”
“…Because my fucking nose is rammed right into your ass-hole Sarah! How the fucks do you think I can lick your cunt out in a 69 position, unless my fucking nose is right on your fucking little dirt-hole! — You fucking little bitch!”
“Oh! I’m sorry Veronica, I forgot.”
“Forgot what? You cunt…!”
“Look Veronica, I had a lot on my mind today…”
“…And…?” I asked incredulously.
“What do you mean Veronica? I mean…”And”…and what…? Tell me what! You had a lot on your fucking little mind today…”And”…and fucking what…?”
“Oh, okay Miss Perfect, so I forgot—if you must know…”