Making Love is True Peace on Earth
By Charles E.J. Moulton
His favourite place by the water hadn’t changed. In all these years since his adolescence, the stone by the water hadn’t been moved, the seagrass was still swaying in the breeze and the storks still walked on the lawn on the other side of the lake. It even seemed the same people were sitting on the same chairs by the lakeside inn, probably the same waiter, now greyish and older, serving them the same drinks, people talking about the same things.
David smiled, for he remembered proposing to Anthea right here on the stone where he now sat. She wore that yellow dress she had bought at Miller’s downtown, shortly after their graduation. He had gone down on his knees and proposed and she had said yes.
David sighed a sigh of relief, trying to make an overall picture of the things lurking in his mind, trying his best to see it all like he could see all of this from here. The feeling was extraordinary. From here he could see the entire lake, his entire childhood, the place where he had partied until dawn after receiving his driver’s license, bathing nude with Anthea and rushing off secretly into the Gordon’s toolshed to make love with her, only having the old car mechanic screaming at him when he came home early from the bowling alley.
“Damn it, David,” he had screamed. “I’ll tell your mom what you rascals are doing, breaking into my work-place to fuck.”
The fact that his mom told her patients to practice free love seemed to mean nothing to Gordon. His neice had become a sex therapist against his brother’s will. Or so, he said. But that was bullshit, wasn’t it?
David’s grandparents were perfectly okay with it in Heaven.
David gazed across the water at the ducks, a mother duck, a father duck and three baby ducks, all following their parents solemnly and obediently.
Would those ducks tell their baby ducks never to make love? That wouldn’t make sense. Not in a million years. Then why was humanity so ashamed of sexuality when it secretly knew it not only created little babies, but also was programmed into the human system?
The ducks disappeared out of sight and left David to himself, at least for that moment before someone from the exhibition called for him.
He stood up, raising the glass of white Chateau Briand 2019 to his lips, remembering those bygone days before grey hair and red carpets. The breeze returned, turning his wine drinking moment to a sweet fresh reminiscence.
David turned around, one of those moments when he was being turned around by some angel to see some wondrous sight.
The yellow dress still fit her, so well at that, her gorgeous 40 inch C cups stretching the fabric so beautifully, making him remember how his girlfriend’s breasts had grown to that spectacular size throughout her teens, making him a very envied teenager indeed.
“Penny for your thoughts, Dave,” she whispered, her whisper even overpowering the chatter behind her, people probably half-drunk on Chateau Briand and beer already as they all studied Anthea’s paintings, trying to analyze every brushstroke, every shade of blue and every whiter shade of pale, every red berry and every beautiful person under every palmtree.
David took a few steps toward his wife, reaching forward his free hand, inviting her to hug him. Anthea stepped up and pressed against him, her humungous knockers turning his intoxication into arousal.
Their mouths met in a lucious kiss. Her cherry flavoured lipstick slowly melting onto his tongue and making him feel he was a teenager again. Anthea’s tongue danced around sensuously around his tongue, saliva mixing with saliva. This energy astounded David so, especially since he had read about how quantum physics influenced the emotions. Anthea’s emotional energy mingled with David’s, their 99,9 % empty space influenced by the vibrating rest.
“And so the two shall become one,” Anthea moaned.
“One flesh created by two spirits,” David groaned as he completely immersed himself inside his wife’s electrons, vibrating atoms dancing the salsa with each other.
“Do you care that everyone’s looking at the celebrity air-fucking her husband?”
Anthea let her nail-polished hand slide down to her husband’s crotch, feeling the lump steadily growing between his legs.
“The important people are all gone,” Anthea chuckled, shoving her tits against David’s chest, “the rest are freeloaders.”
David grabbed his wife’s buttocks and squeezed them tight. “We’re incouragable.”
“No,” Anthea answered, reacting with a moan to David’s passionate smooching of her neck. “We just see sex for what it is.”
“What is sex?” David chuckled.
“A jubilant way of praising the creator of the universe. You should know that with everything you read about quantum physics, David,” Anthea giggled, taking a step back and smiling at her husband.
David nodded, smiling.
“You wanna go fuck in the toolshed?”
Anthea opened her mouth in surprise.
“Right now in the middle of the exhibition?”
David shrugged. “Why not? You said yourself that they’re all freeloaders. You can pamper the rich art collectors after swallowing my cum.”
Anthea jokingly slapped David’s arm.
“They will notice my breath reeks of sperm.”
David laughed. “I have mints in my pocket.”
Anthea raised one eye-brow.
“You have the key to the shed?”
David nodded. “I popped into Gordon’s house for a quick jolt of Scotch to ask him if I could use his old unused shed for a trip down memory lane.”
Anthea now raised both eye-brows. “I thought you were off fetching some cash.”
“That was a lame excuse to arrange a romantic fuck in the place where we lost our virginity.”
Anthea giggled. “Fifteen minutes,” she complained, raising one finger, “and first you lick my pussy.”
“Will do,” David answered.
And off they were, the couple that had been married for twenty-two years. As they rushed around the lake to let their electrons mingle, David saw the duck family from the corner of his eye criss-crossing the lake in solemn beauty. Three duck kids created by a romantic duck fuck. And David suddenly felt like a teenager.
As he opened the shed with shaking hands, Anthea started unbuttoning his dinner jacket, giggling as she threw off her high-heels. David threw off his pants, growling like a bear. Amongst the screwdrivers and hammers on the wall, the old posters of Busty Dusty and Karen Velez, Kirsten Imrie and Samantha Fox and the occasional model car, David felt like the actor in a vintage porn flick.
“Now, pretty missy,” he grumbled, “you’re gonna see what I can do with my elegant tongue.”
“That’s what you told me back then, as well, you pervert,” Anthea mused.
David stepped out of his Calvin Kleins, sporting a huge erection, wanking happily to the sight of his gorgeous cock-loving wife.
And the wife that loved fucking her husband slipped out of her knickers and jumped up onto the table, lifting her yellow dress and displaying her pussylips in all their divine glory.
David did what he did so well, sink into that cunt, face and nose and mouth and tongue, tasting that lovely salty clit, every lip, every nook and cranny, every pubic hair, making him run out of air. Anthea groaned happily, grabbing his head and literally shoving his head further into her cunt.
“God, you lick well,” she chuckled.
David was lost inside his wife’s pubic area, sticking his entire tongue out of his mouth and sliding it from the base of the pussy up toward the stomach about a hundred times.
“Now it’s your turn to please the bear,” David grunted, inspiring his wife to literally throw all her clothes off onto the floor and stand there stark naked.
David dived down between his wife’s fantastic 40C glory balls, turning them into solid, cherry-decorated and saliva-drenched bowling balls.
Not before long, Anthea did what she adored. Even after twenty-two years of marriage, she deep-throated her husband, taking his entire seven inches into her mouth and massaging his testicles as she did. She gave him a pretty POV look as she sucked. That made him take her brown hair in two hands and giving her a pigtail hairdo. That way, Anthea looked like one of those big boobed sluts he always wanked his cock to.
It was hard to know where she got the hair ribbons, but amazing as women are, she suddenly appeared with two of those things and gave herself that hairdo, turning herself into one of those cocksucking little two-pigtail babes. And she bobbed her head so fast, David almost saw electron sparks flying.
Well, before David knew it, he was slappin his wife onto the table, fucking her doggy-style, letting her gorgous big buttcheeeks wobble, her tits bouncing like crazy, his balls slapping against her pussy, the table squeaking, two adults moaning so loud the people at the exhibition must’ve heard it across the lake.
Fucking that woman from behind was probably the best sight he knew, next to a sunset over Grand Canyon or his family together on a Sunday picknick. Those wobbling buttcheeks were like a Rubens painting or a large buffet over at the Ritz in New York City. He just loved grabbing ahold of that waist and ramming his long schlong into his wife’s body from behind. And, funnily enough, sex with his wife felt like becoming one with someone, really becoming one body, at least for one second, two beings became one. Who had ever said that sex was superficial? In this crazy and overspeeding world, sex might’ve been the most peaceful thing known to mankind.
Anthea made sure to signal to David that she wanted to be rammed missionary style, so the hubbie slid out and had her laying on that rickety old oak table on her back. David slid in his cock again, enjoying every pussylip on the way into his wife’s glory. While doing so, he grabbed ahold of his wife’s boobs, those mammary wonders. Nothing felt as good as a couple of big breasts.
Okay, here it went. That familiar feeling in his balls tickling upward toward the base of his penis, feeling some darned rocket about to hit space. Anthea saw her husband’s agonized face and immediately hopped down off the table onto her knees. David crumpled the blue table cloth with his left hand while wanking his dick with the right. He was a right hand wanker. That was a good reason enough why his right arm had more muscle than his left.
Anthea opened her mouth wide, sticking out her tongue way down past her chin. David knew what his job was, Anthea did not have to tell him. Shooting all the cum into his wife’s mouth not only gave her a necessary protein dose that supposedly was good for her digestion and immune system, but also making it possible for her to return to the party without reeking like San Francisco during the active fish market.
David’s hand really worked it now, his eyes spanning the room, all those big screwdrivers, all those posters of naked women, all those tools and the little door to the garage where no car had parked since Gordon’s retirement. It all turned into a blur with the hubbie laughing as he squirted long strains of cum onto his wife’s elegant tongue.
“Oh, man, baby, you know how to swallow cum,” he laughed, his wife laughing with him. “You are the best fuck on the planet.”
“I love swallowing,” she giggled, letting her husband’s hot jizz slip into her bowel. “Your sperm tastes like the pop-corn over at the cinema by the river. Hot and buttery. Your cock croons me serenades of laughter and sunshine. I love having sex with you, baby.”
David and Anthea couldn’t remember ever being so happy, the vibratory buzz of their happiness visable in every pore. As he adjusted his penis and balls in his jocks and she lifted her knockers together into her wonderbra, there was a silence in the toolshed only interrupted by the slow splash of a duck family swimming in the pond outside. The blackbird sang a sweet tune of happiness and a dog barked. The clouds above had the deep blue tinge of summer and the clouds looked like flying rabbits.
The married couple had one mutual thought, one thought they did not share with each other because it was in the air of quantum vibrations, present as they stood there half naked after a glorious fuck.
That must have been how Adam and Eve had felt back in the beginning of everything. Making love under the sun just like the animals did, no reason for infidelity, no reason for shame. Fucking until sunrise with one mate and loving it, sharing, for one moment two beings becoming one, ensuring that peace on Earth prevailed and win once more. No complicated ritual was necessary for two people to know they were part of creation made by the universal creator. Making love was a way to know God. Peace on Earth was a step closer than an embrace.
And as they passed the garbage can by the door, David noticed his mother’s medical condoms, the one she always said she gave the patients that were close to divorce but tried her Kama Sutra treatment to save their bond. Anthea and David needed no words to know that those condoms had no other place in Gordon ‘s tool shed garbage can than by her mother’s hand.
“Your parents have copied our ritual,” Anthea told her husband, putting her head on her husband’s shoulder.
“It seems so,” David whispered back.
“Did you ever hear them making love at night when you were a kid?” Anthea mused in an equally soft whisper.
“Peter and Linda, the eloquent wine-connoiseurs?”
Anthea raised one eye-brow again. “Those are their names, yes. Why? Are you jealous that they have a membership card of the Virginia State Wine Foundation?”
David laughed solemnly, shaking his head, looking at the ducks again, still swimming in the lake, the ducklings still following their parents, one day soon to be parents. “No, dear, I’m just wondering when people started condemning sex as a sin.”
“That’s not the universal creator, David,” Anthea said. “Those are the bishops trying to keep their power and the people under control.”
Anthea now kissed her husband tenderly, her tongue playing with his, again the quantum vibrations sizzling.
She gave his nose a peck.
“You know we’ve met before in previous lives, David, whatever we were back then,” she crooned. “You know that you feel we are one when we make love. You know that you feel your soul move and fly when we fuck. Why should that be a sin? Heck, we made our kids that way.”
David smiled. “I know why I married you.”
And the kiss that followed seemed to last forever.
The party lasted way past midnight, their kids spending their time dancing to modern pop-hits, bachelor Gordon having joined them to give them their own key to the tool shed just like he had given his parents their own three years back.
And it seems that an angel spoke to David that night in his intoxicated dreams. It was the angel of love, the angel that had been a royal lover of his in an earlier life.
“Love comes in a thousand forms, David,” the angel spoke. “No shame is needed, for you are a glorious creation meant to enjoy life just like make sure that others enjoy it as well. Happiness and fidelity for all. Go out and reproduce and sing your homage to life.”
That next morning, David and Anthea picknicked in
the garden in front of their parents house with their kids.
His parents? Well, let’s say they had decided to take a little walk down to the lake to watch the ducks swimming in the pond. After all, Gordon’s tool shed was not far away.
And David enjoyed the second most wonderful thing he knew. Breakfast in the grass with his family.
And the kiss his wife gave him and the smiles his kids gave him, well, they seemed to last forever.
And in that other world, they did.
That, ladies and gentlemen, was true peace on Earth.
Dear sensual reader,
When Frank Sinatra sang about someone watches over him, love being the tender trap or him having her under his skin, he was singing about caresses, tenderness, kisses and hugs. He was also singing about the beauty of kissing women. When Elvis Presley swooned about can't helping falling in love with her, then he longed for her to blend in with him, feel her, be with her. When Juliet longed to feel the nightingale flutter in her heart, it was love that danced in her stomach. True sex is pure romance and it is all we want. Anything else is a pure misunderstanding.
That is why we dedicate this issue to the kisses of beautiful women: Scarlett O'Hara, Rose Dawson, Juliet Capulet and Anna Scott. Or as we know them by their real names: Vivien Leigh, Kate Winslet, Olivia Hussey and Julia Roberts. The fact of the matter is that women inspire us for a reason. They are so admired and so revered and sought after because they are truly the soil and earth and foundation in which life is planted and grown. A woman carries a child, raises it and cherishes it to adulthood. A woman's love, therefore, is sacred. That is why most women know what they need, the family needs and what the man should do to create abundance. Let's be honest. This is, or should be, a woman's world. Name one straight man who isn't absolutely nuts about women. It is our job to honor them.
This is not just about sex. It is about chivalry. I believe in reincarnation and the fact that we are born as women if we have deserved it. So a soul was a woman and could then be reborn as a man. I was a woman in a previous life. Now I am a straight man. Make no mistake, do not just view women sexually. That would be extremely limited. But then again, sex and spirit are joined forces, our clothes mere uniforms. We were born naked and can regard nudity as absolutely holy. We join in sex as a prolonged kiss. Sing to your loved lady when you make love to her. Make her feel like a Goddess. Because she is.
God lives in your lady's gentle kiss. If she kisses you, it means you have deserved it.
Best regards,
Charles E.J. Moulton
Editor in Chief
Castagnette
When Frank Sinatra sang about someone watches over him, love being the tender trap or him having her under his skin, he was singing about caresses, tenderness, kisses and hugs. He was also singing about the beauty of kissing women. When Elvis Presley swooned about can't helping falling in love with her, then he longed for her to blend in with him, feel her, be with her. When Juliet longed to feel the nightingale flutter in her heart, it was love that danced in her stomach. True sex is pure romance and it is all we want. Anything else is a pure misunderstanding.
That is why we dedicate this issue to the kisses of beautiful women: Scarlett O'Hara, Rose Dawson, Juliet Capulet and Anna Scott. Or as we know them by their real names: Vivien Leigh, Kate Winslet, Olivia Hussey and Julia Roberts. The fact of the matter is that women inspire us for a reason. They are so admired and so revered and sought after because they are truly the soil and earth and foundation in which life is planted and grown. A woman carries a child, raises it and cherishes it to adulthood. A woman's love, therefore, is sacred. That is why most women know what they need, the family needs and what the man should do to create abundance. Let's be honest. This is, or should be, a woman's world. Name one straight man who isn't absolutely nuts about women. It is our job to honor them.
This is not just about sex. It is about chivalry. I believe in reincarnation and the fact that we are born as women if we have deserved it. So a soul was a woman and could then be reborn as a man. I was a woman in a previous life. Now I am a straight man. Make no mistake, do not just view women sexually. That would be extremely limited. But then again, sex and spirit are joined forces, our clothes mere uniforms. We were born naked and can regard nudity as absolutely holy. We join in sex as a prolonged kiss. Sing to your loved lady when you make love to her. Make her feel like a Goddess. Because she is.
God lives in your lady's gentle kiss. If she kisses you, it means you have deserved it.
Best regards,
Charles E.J. Moulton
Editor in Chief
Castagnette
Of all the character traits in the universe,
the feminine qualties
are the most beautiful.
Every woman is a work of art.
Making Love is True Peace on Earth
By Charles E.J. Moulton
His favourite place by the water hadn’t changed. In all these years since his adolescence, the stone by the water hadn’t been moved, the seagrass was still swaying in the breeze and the storks still walked on the lawn on the other side of the lake. It even seemed the same people were sitting on the same chairs by the lakeside inn, probably the same waiter, now greyish and older, serving them the same drinks, people talking about the same things.
David smiled, for he remembered proposing to Anthea right here on the stone where he now sat. She wore that yellow dress she had bought at Miller’s downtown, shortly after their graduation. He had gone down on his knees and proposed and she had said yes.
David sighed a sigh of relief, trying to make an overall picture of the things lurking in his mind, trying his best to see it all like he could see all of this from here. The feeling was extraordinary. From here he could see the entire lake, his entire childhood, the place where he had partied until dawn after receiving his driver’s license, bathing nude with Anthea and rushing off secretly into the Gordon’s toolshed to make love with her, only having the old car mechanic screaming at him when he came home early from the bowling alley.
“Damn it, David,” he had screamed. “I’ll tell your mom what you rascals are doing, breaking into my work-place to fuck.”
The fact that his mom told her patients to practice free love seemed to mean nothing to Gordon. His neice had become a sex therapist against his brother’s will. Or so, he said. But that was bullshit, wasn’t it?
David’s grandparents were perfectly okay with it in Heaven.
David gazed across the water at the ducks, a mother duck, a father duck and three baby ducks, all following their parents solemnly and obediently.
Would those ducks tell their baby ducks never to make love? That wouldn’t make sense. Not in a million years. Then why was humanity so ashamed of sexuality when it secretly knew it not only created little babies, but also was programmed into the human system?
The ducks disappeared out of sight and left David to himself, at least for that moment before someone from the exhibition called for him.
He stood up, raising the glass of white Chateau Briand 2019 to his lips, remembering those bygone days before grey hair and red carpets. The breeze returned, turning his wine drinking moment to a sweet fresh reminiscence.
David turned around, one of those moments when he was being turned around by some angel to see some wondrous sight.
The yellow dress still fit her, so well at that, her gorgeous 40 inch C cups stretching the fabric so beautifully, making him remember how his girlfriend’s breasts had grown to that spectacular size throughout her teens, making him a very envied teenager indeed.
“Penny for your thoughts, Dave,” she whispered, her whisper even overpowering the chatter behind her, people probably half-drunk on Chateau Briand and beer already as they all studied Anthea’s paintings, trying to analyze every brushstroke, every shade of blue and every whiter shade of pale, every red berry and every beautiful person under every palmtree.
David took a few steps toward his wife, reaching forward his free hand, inviting her to hug him. Anthea stepped up and pressed against him, her humungous knockers turning his intoxication into arousal.
Their mouths met in a lucious kiss. Her cherry flavoured lipstick slowly melting onto his tongue and making him feel he was a teenager again. Anthea’s tongue danced around sensuously around his tongue, saliva mixing with saliva. This energy astounded David so, especially since he had read about how quantum physics influenced the emotions. Anthea’s emotional energy mingled with David’s, their 99,9 % empty space influenced by the vibrating rest.
“And so the two shall become one,” Anthea moaned.
“One flesh created by two spirits,” David groaned as he completely immersed himself inside his wife’s electrons, vibrating atoms dancing the salsa with each other.
“Do you care that everyone’s looking at the celebrity air-fucking her husband?”
Anthea let her nail-polished hand slide down to her husband’s crotch, feeling the lump steadily growing between his legs.
“The important people are all gone,” Anthea chuckled, shoving her tits against David’s chest, “the rest are freeloaders.”
David grabbed his wife’s buttocks and squeezed them tight. “We’re incouragable.”
“No,” Anthea answered, reacting with a moan to David’s passionate smooching of her neck. “We just see sex for what it is.”
“What is sex?” David chuckled.
“A jubilant way of praising the creator of the universe. You should know that with everything you read about quantum physics, David,” Anthea giggled, taking a step back and smiling at her husband.
David nodded, smiling.
“You wanna go fuck in the toolshed?”
Anthea opened her mouth in surprise.
“Right now in the middle of the exhibition?”
David shrugged. “Why not? You said yourself that they’re all freeloaders. You can pamper the rich art collectors after swallowing my cum.”
Anthea jokingly slapped David’s arm.
“They will notice my breath reeks of sperm.”
David laughed. “I have mints in my pocket.”
Anthea raised one eye-brow.
“You have the key to the shed?”
David nodded. “I popped into Gordon’s house for a quick jolt of Scotch to ask him if I could use his old unused shed for a trip down memory lane.”
Anthea now raised both eye-brows. “I thought you were off fetching some cash.”
“That was a lame excuse to arrange a romantic fuck in the place where we lost our virginity.”
Anthea giggled. “Fifteen minutes,” she complained, raising one finger, “and first you lick my pussy.”
“Will do,” David answered.
And off they were, the couple that had been married for twenty-two years. As they rushed around the lake to let their electrons mingle, David saw the duck family from the corner of his eye criss-crossing the lake in solemn beauty. Three duck kids created by a romantic duck fuck. And David suddenly felt like a teenager.
As he opened the shed with shaking hands, Anthea started unbuttoning his dinner jacket, giggling as she threw off her high-heels. David threw off his pants, growling like a bear. Amongst the screwdrivers and hammers on the wall, the old posters of Busty Dusty and Karen Velez, Kirsten Imrie and Samantha Fox and the occasional model car, David felt like the actor in a vintage porn flick.
“Now, pretty missy,” he grumbled, “you’re gonna see what I can do with my elegant tongue.”
“That’s what you told me back then, as well, you pervert,” Anthea mused.
David stepped out of his Calvin Kleins, sporting a huge erection, wanking happily to the sight of his gorgeous cock-loving wife.
And the wife that loved fucking her husband slipped out of her knickers and jumped up onto the table, lifting her yellow dress and displaying her pussylips in all their divine glory.
David did what he did so well, sink into that cunt, face and nose and mouth and tongue, tasting that lovely salty clit, every lip, every nook and cranny, every pubic hair, making him run out of air. Anthea groaned happily, grabbing his head and literally shoving his head further into her cunt.
“God, you lick well,” she chuckled.
David was lost inside his wife’s pubic area, sticking his entire tongue out of his mouth and sliding it from the base of the pussy up toward the stomach about a hundred times.
“Now it’s your turn to please the bear,” David grunted, inspiring his wife to literally throw all her clothes off onto the floor and stand there stark naked.
David dived down between his wife’s fantastic 40C glory balls, turning them into solid, cherry-decorated and saliva-drenched bowling balls.
Not before long, Anthea did what she adored. Even after twenty-two years of marriage, she deep-throated her husband, taking his entire seven inches into her mouth and massaging his testicles as she did. She gave him a pretty POV look as she sucked. That made him take her brown hair in two hands and giving her a pigtail hairdo. That way, Anthea looked like one of those big boobed sluts he always wanked his cock to.
It was hard to know where she got the hair ribbons, but amazing as women are, she suddenly appeared with two of those things and gave herself that hairdo, turning herself into one of those cocksucking little two-pigtail babes. And she bobbed her head so fast, David almost saw electron sparks flying.
Well, before David knew it, he was slappin his wife onto the table, fucking her doggy-style, letting her gorgous big buttcheeeks wobble, her tits bouncing like crazy, his balls slapping against her pussy, the table squeaking, two adults moaning so loud the people at the exhibition must’ve heard it across the lake.
Fucking that woman from behind was probably the best sight he knew, next to a sunset over Grand Canyon or his family together on a Sunday picknick. Those wobbling buttcheeks were like a Rubens painting or a large buffet over at the Ritz in New York City. He just loved grabbing ahold of that waist and ramming his long schlong into his wife’s body from behind. And, funnily enough, sex with his wife felt like becoming one with someone, really becoming one body, at least for one second, two beings became one. Who had ever said that sex was superficial? In this crazy and overspeeding world, sex might’ve been the most peaceful thing known to mankind.
Anthea made sure to signal to David that she wanted to be rammed missionary style, so the hubbie slid out and had her laying on that rickety old oak table on her back. David slid in his cock again, enjoying every pussylip on the way into his wife’s glory. While doing so, he grabbed ahold of his wife’s boobs, those mammary wonders. Nothing felt as good as a couple of big breasts.
Okay, here it went. That familiar feeling in his balls tickling upward toward the base of his penis, feeling some darned rocket about to hit space. Anthea saw her husband’s agonized face and immediately hopped down off the table onto her knees. David crumpled the blue table cloth with his left hand while wanking his dick with the right. He was a right hand wanker. That was a good reason enough why his right arm had more muscle than his left.
Anthea opened her mouth wide, sticking out her tongue way down past her chin. David knew what his job was, Anthea did not have to tell him. Shooting all the cum into his wife’s mouth not only gave her a necessary protein dose that supposedly was good for her digestion and immune system, but also making it possible for her to return to the party without reeking like San Francisco during the active fish market.
David’s hand really worked it now, his eyes spanning the room, all those big screwdrivers, all those posters of naked women, all those tools and the little door to the garage where no car had parked since Gordon’s retirement. It all turned into a blur with the hubbie laughing as he squirted long strains of cum onto his wife’s elegant tongue.
“Oh, man, baby, you know how to swallow cum,” he laughed, his wife laughing with him. “You are the best fuck on the planet.”
“I love swallowing,” she giggled, letting her husband’s hot jizz slip into her bowel. “Your sperm tastes like the pop-corn over at the cinema by the river. Hot and buttery. Your cock croons me serenades of laughter and sunshine. I love having sex with you, baby.”
David and Anthea couldn’t remember ever being so happy, the vibratory buzz of their happiness visable in every pore. As he adjusted his penis and balls in his jocks and she lifted her knockers together into her wonderbra, there was a silence in the toolshed only interrupted by the slow splash of a duck family swimming in the pond outside. The blackbird sang a sweet tune of happiness and a dog barked. The clouds above had the deep blue tinge of summer and the clouds looked like flying rabbits.
The married couple had one mutual thought, one thought they did not share with each other because it was in the air of quantum vibrations, present as they stood there half naked after a glorious fuck.
That must have been how Adam and Eve had felt back in the beginning of everything. Making love under the sun just like the animals did, no reason for infidelity, no reason for shame. Fucking until sunrise with one mate and loving it, sharing, for one moment two beings becoming one, ensuring that peace on Earth prevailed and win once more. No complicated ritual was necessary for two people to know they were part of creation made by the universal creator. Making love was a way to know God. Peace on Earth was a step closer than an embrace.
And as they passed the garbage can by the door, David noticed his mother’s medical condoms, the one she always said she gave the patients that were close to divorce but tried her Kama Sutra treatment to save their bond. Anthea and David needed no words to know that those condoms had no other place in Gordon ‘s tool shed garbage can than by her mother’s hand.
“Your parents have copied our ritual,” Anthea told her husband, putting her head on her husband’s shoulder.
“It seems so,” David whispered back.
“Did you ever hear them making love at night when you were a kid?” Anthea mused in an equally soft whisper.
“Peter and Linda, the eloquent wine-connoiseurs?”
Anthea raised one eye-brow again. “Those are their names, yes. Why? Are you jealous that they have a membership card of the Virginia State Wine Foundation?”
David laughed solemnly, shaking his head, looking at the ducks again, still swimming in the lake, the ducklings still following their parents, one day soon to be parents. “No, dear, I’m just wondering when people started condemning sex as a sin.”
“That’s not the universal creator, David,” Anthea said. “Those are the bishops trying to keep their power and the people under control.”
Anthea now kissed her husband tenderly, her tongue playing with his, again the quantum vibrations sizzling.
She gave his nose a peck.
“You know we’ve met before in previous lives, David, whatever we were back then,” she crooned. “You know that you feel we are one when we make love. You know that you feel your soul move and fly when we fuck. Why should that be a sin? Heck, we made our kids that way.”
David smiled. “I know why I married you.”
And the kiss that followed seemed to last forever.
The party lasted way past midnight, their kids spending their time dancing to modern pop-hits, bachelor Gordon having joined them to give them their own key to the tool shed just like he had given his parents their own three years back.
And it seems that an angel spoke to David that night in his intoxicated dreams. It was the angel of love, the angel that had been a royal lover of his in an earlier life.
“Love comes in a thousand forms, David,” the angel spoke. “No shame is needed, for you are a glorious creation meant to enjoy life just like make sure that others enjoy it as well. Happiness and fidelity for all. Go out and reproduce and sing your homage to life.”
That next morning, David and Anthea picknicked in
the garden in front of their parents house with their kids.
His parents? Well, let’s say they had decided to take a little walk down to the lake to watch the ducks swimming in the pond. After all, Gordon’s tool shed was not far away.
And David enjoyed the second most wonderful thing he knew. Breakfast in the grass with his family.
And the kiss his wife gave him and the smiles his kids gave him, well, they seemed to last forever.
And in that other world, they did.
That, ladiies and gentlemen, was true peace on Earth.
Moonshine Ember
Erotic Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton
My luciously rich beauty. My fabulous cocksucker kitten.
I secretly wondered if the museum now worked on displaying live and moving artwork. In that case, I would probably have walked up and touched the treasure. What parts? Well, I would’ve started with the knockers and slowly fumbled myself down to her ass. The crowning glory would then be trying out her damp snatch. Ah, artistic bliss. Ah, wet pussies.
The living artwork in question? More opulent than a 9 feet by 9 feet Rubens painting, more tranquil than a Monet, more exquisite than a William Turner and more crazy than a Jackson Pollock galaxy spread. Her beauty certainly outshone most artworks that I had seen in my days. And I had seen a lot of art in my young life.
At that point, though, when I saw her first in that art museum in Vienna, she was all new, all sexy, all cockraising and all flabbergasting.
I would’ve fucked her right there on the spot.
I had done quite a bit of tit examination in my day. Having chosen to specialize on baroque art was no coincidence: my love for buxom vixens really went into the extreme. I just loved big tits and round asses.
This time, I hit the jackpot.
Damn it, I told myself. I had come here to do some research for my thesis, study the details in Rubens paintings, take notes and map out a plan for my literary work. After all, my final exam was coming up and I needed to get plenty of material for my paper. Vienna’s Art Museum provided me with all I needed, including several experienced colleagues with inside information of all those fantastic baroque painting techniques and anecdotes as to who painted what in which of Rubens’ artworks? Snyder, Jordaens, Bruegel?
Rubens’ art was like sexual intercourse: a collaboration.
Well, I put my thesis on hold that spring day. My cock only cared about making itself comfortable inside its new home: her wet pussy.
I had to have her. It was as simple as that. I saw that woman and I was lost.
I wondered why the guards didn’t ask her to stand back and watch the paintings from afar. Her inspection of Rubens’ rather voluptuous and naked second wife Helene Fourment, wearing only a fur, bordered on the obsessively meticulous. Somehow, though, something told me that the guards had hard-ons as well, every male trouser in this room bulging like crazy. I could actually see them drooling.
Okay, I drooled, too. Her tight black skirt embraced her ass in a way that had my sperm factory working overtime. I really didn’t know where to look first: her ass, her boobs or her long flowing hair? It also really did not help that her skirt ended in stockings with patterns of flowers and butterflies, elegantly positioned silvery decorations squirted on the fabric. They reminded me of cumdrops or small droplets of flowing clit juice. It made me seriously wonder if her panties were as pink as her pussy. On the other hand, pussies never had the same color, but all of them tasted good.
I really did try to go back to the studying of the painting. I worked really, really hard at it, too. I even went to the length of actually turning away from the woman and going to another part of the museum just to spite myself. I mean, I couldn’t be gawking at her like a silly sophomore, could I? I mean, I was no teenager. I was close to my Master’s Degree in Art History. An art master with a hard-on? Okay, we men all have hard-ons, but during scientific research? Sexual research, maybe. Stranger things have happened.
No matter how hard I tried, though, and I did try hard, I constantly went back to where she stood. Every time that woman bent over to look at a painting, I swooned. I could see the buttcrack and it sung an aria by Mozart to me:
“Oh, art thou sweet, thou noble derriere. My rock of ages in her cleft so fair.”
It made me want to rip that skirt apart and stick my dick inside her wobbly ass, pumping her like a fucking rabbit, watching the buttcheeks bounce like two balls in unison.
It got stranger and stranger, actually. I kept finding reasons to follow her just so I could study the size of her boobs. As I said, my reputation as a boob-man became renowned even early in high school. My best friend found a couple of copies of Penthouse in my sock drawer in my room, a magazine filled to the brim with big, lucious jugs. We ended up wanking all night, telling my mom that we were working on a school project.
Anyway, after following this incredible woman for about an hour I decided that I really had to fuck her. I didn’t know how, but my cock would definately land in her cunt eventually. Oh, how fantastic she looked when she studied those paintings, her breasts dangling down, her elegant black blouse hugging her tits like crazy. Those things had to be C-cups. D? Mmh, I dunno. Getting my hands on those lucious breasts would, in any case, be like dying and going to heaven.
So, accordingly, I had discreetly glanced over and see if the blouse had a cleavage. When I realized that it did, I tiptoed over to where she stood more than once just to sneak-peek into that wonderful oasis of mammary love and cockteasing bliss.
Long and sensually curved hair, her black locks gently falling across her gold necklace, spilling over those large round earrings. It made that precum pop out of my dick with a happy: “Hello, swallow me!”
I knew what those big earrings symbolized, as well: her love-holes. Sexy women always wore these round earrings to show men how willing they were to fuck. This girl had big round earrings, so I felt fucking lucky.
The lipstick made me feel like shoving my entire manhood onto her tongue and shooting my loud load onto her tonsils, giving her wet stomach the protein dose of its life.
While my testosterone battled with my brain about whether to leave the museum and go home or just study her buttcrack for the rest of the day, her phone rang. Everybody in the room looked up. It wasn’t as if nobody had noticed her. She was probably the most fantastic looking woman in the room, the country, the planet, the universe, whatever. Some chick in the museum, a dowdy looking things, even gave her boyfriend a dirty look for giving that fuckable lady a half-smile.
When the sexy woman’s phone rang, however, it gave that other chick a reason to think how much of a slut this girl actually was.
She didn’t care, did she?
Any man would’ve been unfaithful for Miss Perfect. She knew that.
When the girl threw her head to one side, letting that marvelous head of hers float and dangle and curve and sway, I melted. I think I came twice, actually, my sperm making little squirts in my Gucci underwear.
“Natalie Imrie here,” the woman chirped. Her accent sounded British. Hot damn, I told myself. I am in the hands of an English lass. She gave the caller a sexy laugh. “Oh, yes. Of course. Well, if you want to, sure. Where are you right now?”
This girl spoke with a posh London accent that had me want her even more.
I think I flied and went to Brazil when that woman, whom I had wanted to fuck for over an hour now, actually came and sat down on the couch next to me. Yes, I’ll admit it. I had my notepad and my pencil in my lap and I had written lots of jibberish in silly letters about the paintings I had been looking at, just so anyone wouldn’t think I was just here to study how incredible an ass that woman had.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said and smiled again, throwing me a shot of her Chopard perfume my way just by throwing one of her sexy arms onto the seat next to me. “I’ll go right ahead. No, no, that’s no problem. Well, I’ll see what happens, okay?”
Who was she talking to? Her boyfriend? An associate? Her father?
What was she going to do?
“Maybe you’ll get some good ideas. Yes, dear. I know who you mean.”
The small pause and the obviously sexy chatter by some man at the other end – and it obviously was a man – had me wondering what she was talking about. Was she going to be unfaithful? British girls, however, had the reputation of giving spectacular blowjobs. “Bye,” the woman that I now knew to be Natalie Imrie told bid her caller farewell.
As if she had just been given a signal of some sort, Natalie Imrie with the fantastic jugs turned to me and looked me straight in the eye.
I grew red in the face at first, but then I got lost inside the color of her eyes. They were brown, but with an interesting quality that had me think of ember, the glowing, hot coal made of greatly heated wood. Her eyes glowed like a campfire on the night of a full moon, the moon being the seas of white round her ember iris in each eye. Actually, her gaze made me feel like a werewolf. Natalie looked like a kitten, her long eyelashes curved outwards with more black visible toward the edges of her eyes.
I stammered a quiet: “Hi there!”
“Hi,” Natalie sing-songed, making me tremble. “You American?”
I nodded, giggling, now feeling that I rushed steadily into the welcome parade of Natalie’s cunt. “Yes, I’m from Michigan, but I am studying art here in Vienna. I’m about half a year away from my Master’s Degree. What about you?”
Natalie arched her back, obviously giving me a closer look at those absolute incredible looking breasts. She knew it, too. “I work here.” She shrugged once, glancing over at me with a knowing glance. “I am already finished with my Master’s. I came here a year ago. My mum’s German, although I grew up in London. When I was offered a position here as an Art Director, I took the job. I have the best of both worlds.”
She looked at me for what I really felt to be three hours, although it probably just amounted to three seconds.
“What brought you here?”
Well, although I looked at her boobs all the time and not into her eyes while I spoke, I told her that I had painted since childhood, that my family had taken me on a trip to Vienna when I was a boy and that I finally decided to move here in order to study art.
When I looked up at Natalie, she glanced at me with that disarming look that had me screaming for sex. She started chuckling. Out of nowhere, she put her hand to her mouth and giggled in such a knowing way that I almost felt insulted.
“What?” I asked, feeling ashamed of myself and not knowing why.
“You,” she finally said, putting her one hand with its long red fingernails on my leg, “are so easy to see through. Mr. Transparant.”
My mouth twitched a bit. I now felt insecure. Was she toying with me?
“Why?”
“Mr. Bulge-in-his-pants.”
I cleared my throat, feeling like someone just caught jerking off in a public place.
She shook her head. “What’s your name?”
“Uhm, Kevin.”
“Okay, uhm, Kevin?”
“Yeah?”
“You have been following me around this museum for over an hour!”
“You noticed?”
She laughed even harder now, her boobs jumping up and down as she did. A couple of visitors looked her way as she did, probably thinking she was just a stupid slut and not the Director of the Vienna Art Museum.
“Uhm, Kevin, the moment I walked into the Rubens Room, you made me feel like a
painting by Rubens,” she added provocatively. “I bet,” she added, leaning over to whisper in my ear, making me smell that Chopard perfume even more intensely, “that you have had lots of fantasties about me over the course of this hour. Me, naked, pouring honey over your cock and licking it off with my elegant lips ...”
I started chuckling nervously.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Come on, uhm, Kevin,” Natalie whispered again, now touching my ear with red lips, “you wanna fuck me, don’t you?”
Her sultry gaze had me cum again.
I nodded.
Natalie continued: “I don’t know why I am doing this, but I might be willing to let you inspect my pussy a bit closer.”
She now put her hand on my lap and rubbed it gently.
“It’s shaved, you know.”
I giggled quietly and frantically, if such a thing is possible.
“Where do you want to fuck, Natalie? Here?”
I kept looking behind me, above me, to all sides, just to see if anyone overheard our conversation. Everyone seemed to be busy studying art, while I was studying Natalie’s C-cups. She shrugged.
“Let that be my concern. Fancy a shag, love?”
I giggled again and nodded, feeling like a little schoolboy.
“Then cum!”
Natalie stood up, shook her tits a bit, took my hand, looking like Venus. I literally felt like a school boy being pulled by his mom to art class. Natalie escorted me through the Monet rooms, the Rubens gallery, the Bruegel chamber, past the Van Eycks and Vermeers and Velasquez paintings of the Spanish Habsburg Infantas. When we arrived in a rather posh office with a large chandalier, Natalie closed the large white door and locked it.
Surrounded by silver trays and expensive art, I held a woman’s hand who had been just a wet dream a moment ago. Natalie still had not arrived where she wanted me to be, obviously. She escorted me into an even smaller room, equipped only with a bedlike couch, a nighttime table, a few books and a lamp.
She locked that door, as well, once we came in. I think I lost my nerve, because I started shaking. My legs shook, my hands shook and my shoulders shivered.
And I got the biggest hard-on of my life.
Natalie, who up until now had been amused by me, looked down on the growing bulge in my jeans and couldn’t stop groaning.
“What’s that?”
I shrugged.
“Something for you.”
“Look promising,” she mused. “Is it already Christmas?”
She wrinkled her nose a bit, making her cheeks dimple, her tongue licking her lips.
Slowly, she took a few steps up toward me, her high heels shuffling against the carpet. As she dwindled down upon her knees, her ass swayed in a way that reminded me of a flowers swaying in the wind. Using her long nails as tools to unzip my pants, she made me feel like a lamb on the way to the slaughter. If that hadn’t been enough, she now pulled down the trousers all the way to the ground using only her mouth.
“Holy shit, uhm, Kevin,” she moaned. “It’s huge.”
“9,4 inches,” I said proudly. “24 centimetres.”
Natalie carefully opened her mouth and wrapped her elegant cocksucker lips around my shaft, making little squeaking noises and smacking her lips in the process.
That fabulous sensation made me see stars. She licked my cock, gave me deep throat, sucked on my balls. She was ready to be a submissive whore, letting that game of hide-and-seek go and just become the cock sucking hooker that I knew she could be.
The helmet of my penis was now blue, all of the blood in my body pumping into my crotch. “Oh, ah shuhsst lovvve schucking your cockh,” she mused.
I banged my cock into her mouth, my big tasty cock dripping like crazy. I felt like flying, moaning and groaning in higher and higher tones.
With a thunderous plop and really sexy splash of a sound, it sounded like she had just finished a lollipop, she took out my long dick out of my mouth and wiped off her own saliva with an exclamation: “Show me how good a pussy licker you are, baby. Lick this sexy bimbo’s cunt like a good boy.”
I didn’t have to wait long in order to follow her dominating orders, my dick bobbing in its erect position like a flagpole in the wind.
In fact, Natalie Imrie stripped faster than I have ever seen a babe strip. Her boobs made my dick laugh, sing, holler, dance, squirt, love and cha-cha-cha all at once. I think I disappeared into that cleavage for an hour before moving down to drink me some pussy. I had the feeling that I buried my face deeper and deeper into her clit by the second. So deep, in fact, that I soon only saw her shaved pussy as pink as her knickers.
The sound I made was quite similar to the sound I made when I ate me some spare ribs: sloppy. There were litres of salty clitty juice in there and I was going to drink it all. I laughed to myself, aroused by this amazing sensation.
I heaved myself out of her crotch, my face dripping wet with cunt-liquid. When I thrust my prick into her cunt hole, Natalie sang, actually sang Gilda’s “Caro Nome” from Verdi’s “Rigoletto”. She seemed to ache with excitement, her grunting telling me that every part of her clit throbbing with pain, a pain that she actually enjoyed.
I withdrew my dick and stretched it out into the open air, jerking off like crazy, her insane gaze giving me the impression that’s she was in a sexual trance. Willingly, she crawled about on the couch toward my throbbing cock, looking like a seal, swirling around from her position on her back to a position under my dick, opening her mouth wide and sticking out her tongue, making little squeaking and horny tones.
“Give me your cum,” she moaned, sticking out her tongue. “Come on, baby. Squirt on my face.”
My hand movements now accelerated, my face grimaced, my head bobbing, my dick even bigger and bluer than before. Finally, my cock erupted, a long string of cum skyrocketing into onto her tongue. The second portion shot onto her left cheek, the final dessert of this three course sperm-dinner landing on her nose. Every portion of her face was covered in cum. She licked it all off, swallowing every drop. A stunned silence now came over the room, our mutual copulation inspiring us. The office became our symbiosis, the restful oasis of a green acre that had appeared after the hot fire of lust of our burning desire.
Then, she laughed.
There she was, naked, full of sperm, shouting with laughter.
First, it felt cool. Then, I wondered what she was laughing at.
Laughing with me or at me?
“Man, uhm, Kevin, you were the best fuck of my life. Wait until my husband hears about this.”
It felt like I had been stuck with a pin, my cock almost immediately shrinking down to the size of a peanut.
“Your husband?”
Natalie sat up, rubbing her boobs as she did.
“That was the guy I talked to on my phone when I came and sat down next to you,” she began. “We go to lots of swinger clubs in our free time and keep looking for things to spice up our sex life with. He called me on my cellular and told me to try to get you to fuck me. It wasn’t hard, though. I think he got some good tips in how to fuck me well.”
“He saw me watching you.”
She caressed my cheek. “He’s a security guard here.”
Natalie raised her voice.
“Wolfgang?”
In a jiffy, a back door opened and another naked man wandered in, holding a camera.
In a thick Austrian accent, he said:
“Fantastic fuck, uhm, Kevin!”
Flabbergasted by this turn of events, I started laughing as well.
Not only was Natalie’s husband naked, his equally long cock raised, a film obviously now available on DVD for our mutual viewing pleasure. He had also brought something else with him from the back room: three naked ladies, one blonde, one brunette and one redhead, all of them with huge boobs, all of them ready to have themselves some dick.
I definately knew that if I played my cards right, I could get a job here.
After all, I would have fucking nice colleagues.
Ah, my moonshine ember and her wonderful friends.
Erotic Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton
My luciously rich beauty. My fabulous cocksucker kitten.
I secretly wondered if the museum now worked on displaying live and moving artwork. In that case, I would probably have walked up and touched the treasure. What parts? Well, I would’ve started with the knockers and slowly fumbled myself down to her ass. The crowning glory would then be trying out her damp snatch. Ah, artistic bliss. Ah, wet pussies.
The living artwork in question? More opulent than a 9 feet by 9 feet Rubens painting, more tranquil than a Monet, more exquisite than a William Turner and more crazy than a Jackson Pollock galaxy spread. Her beauty certainly outshone most artworks that I had seen in my days. And I had seen a lot of art in my young life.
At that point, though, when I saw her first in that art museum in Vienna, she was all new, all sexy, all cockraising and all flabbergasting.
I would’ve fucked her right there on the spot.
I had done quite a bit of tit examination in my day. Having chosen to specialize on baroque art was no coincidence: my love for buxom vixens really went into the extreme. I just loved big tits and round asses.
This time, I hit the jackpot.
Damn it, I told myself. I had come here to do some research for my thesis, study the details in Rubens paintings, take notes and map out a plan for my literary work. After all, my final exam was coming up and I needed to get plenty of material for my paper. Vienna’s Art Museum provided me with all I needed, including several experienced colleagues with inside information of all those fantastic baroque painting techniques and anecdotes as to who painted what in which of Rubens’ artworks? Snyder, Jordaens, Bruegel?
Rubens’ art was like sexual intercourse: a collaboration.
Well, I put my thesis on hold that spring day. My cock only cared about making itself comfortable inside its new home: her wet pussy.
I had to have her. It was as simple as that. I saw that woman and I was lost.
I wondered why the guards didn’t ask her to stand back and watch the paintings from afar. Her inspection of Rubens’ rather voluptuous and naked second wife Helene Fourment, wearing only a fur, bordered on the obsessively meticulous. Somehow, though, something told me that the guards had hard-ons as well, every male trouser in this room bulging like crazy. I could actually see them drooling.
Okay, I drooled, too. Her tight black skirt embraced her ass in a way that had my sperm factory working overtime. I really didn’t know where to look first: her ass, her boobs or her long flowing hair? It also really did not help that her skirt ended in stockings with patterns of flowers and butterflies, elegantly positioned silvery decorations squirted on the fabric. They reminded me of cumdrops or small droplets of flowing clit juice. It made me seriously wonder if her panties were as pink as her pussy. On the other hand, pussies never had the same color, but all of them tasted good.
I really did try to go back to the studying of the painting. I worked really, really hard at it, too. I even went to the length of actually turning away from the woman and going to another part of the museum just to spite myself. I mean, I couldn’t be gawking at her like a silly sophomore, could I? I mean, I was no teenager. I was close to my Master’s Degree in Art History. An art master with a hard-on? Okay, we men all have hard-ons, but during scientific research? Sexual research, maybe. Stranger things have happened.
No matter how hard I tried, though, and I did try hard, I constantly went back to where she stood. Every time that woman bent over to look at a painting, I swooned. I could see the buttcrack and it sung an aria by Mozart to me:
“Oh, art thou sweet, thou noble derriere. My rock of ages in her cleft so fair.”
It made me want to rip that skirt apart and stick my dick inside her wobbly ass, pumping her like a fucking rabbit, watching the buttcheeks bounce like two balls in unison.
It got stranger and stranger, actually. I kept finding reasons to follow her just so I could study the size of her boobs. As I said, my reputation as a boob-man became renowned even early in high school. My best friend found a couple of copies of Penthouse in my sock drawer in my room, a magazine filled to the brim with big, lucious jugs. We ended up wanking all night, telling my mom that we were working on a school project.
Anyway, after following this incredible woman for about an hour I decided that I really had to fuck her. I didn’t know how, but my cock would definately land in her cunt eventually. Oh, how fantastic she looked when she studied those paintings, her breasts dangling down, her elegant black blouse hugging her tits like crazy. Those things had to be C-cups. D? Mmh, I dunno. Getting my hands on those lucious breasts would, in any case, be like dying and going to heaven.
So, accordingly, I had discreetly glanced over and see if the blouse had a cleavage. When I realized that it did, I tiptoed over to where she stood more than once just to sneak-peek into that wonderful oasis of mammary love and cockteasing bliss.
Long and sensually curved hair, her black locks gently falling across her gold necklace, spilling over those large round earrings. It made that precum pop out of my dick with a happy: “Hello, swallow me!”
I knew what those big earrings symbolized, as well: her love-holes. Sexy women always wore these round earrings to show men how willing they were to fuck. This girl had big round earrings, so I felt fucking lucky.
The lipstick made me feel like shoving my entire manhood onto her tongue and shooting my loud load onto her tonsils, giving her wet stomach the protein dose of its life.
While my testosterone battled with my brain about whether to leave the museum and go home or just study her buttcrack for the rest of the day, her phone rang. Everybody in the room looked up. It wasn’t as if nobody had noticed her. She was probably the most fantastic looking woman in the room, the country, the planet, the universe, whatever. Some chick in the museum, a dowdy looking things, even gave her boyfriend a dirty look for giving that fuckable lady a half-smile.
When the sexy woman’s phone rang, however, it gave that other chick a reason to think how much of a slut this girl actually was.
She didn’t care, did she?
Any man would’ve been unfaithful for Miss Perfect. She knew that.
When the girl threw her head to one side, letting that marvelous head of hers float and dangle and curve and sway, I melted. I think I came twice, actually, my sperm making little squirts in my Gucci underwear.
“Natalie Imrie here,” the woman chirped. Her accent sounded British. Hot damn, I told myself. I am in the hands of an English lass. She gave the caller a sexy laugh. “Oh, yes. Of course. Well, if you want to, sure. Where are you right now?”
This girl spoke with a posh London accent that had me want her even more.
I think I flied and went to Brazil when that woman, whom I had wanted to fuck for over an hour now, actually came and sat down on the couch next to me. Yes, I’ll admit it. I had my notepad and my pencil in my lap and I had written lots of jibberish in silly letters about the paintings I had been looking at, just so anyone wouldn’t think I was just here to study how incredible an ass that woman had.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said and smiled again, throwing me a shot of her Chopard perfume my way just by throwing one of her sexy arms onto the seat next to me. “I’ll go right ahead. No, no, that’s no problem. Well, I’ll see what happens, okay?”
Who was she talking to? Her boyfriend? An associate? Her father?
What was she going to do?
“Maybe you’ll get some good ideas. Yes, dear. I know who you mean.”
The small pause and the obviously sexy chatter by some man at the other end – and it obviously was a man – had me wondering what she was talking about. Was she going to be unfaithful? British girls, however, had the reputation of giving spectacular blowjobs. “Bye,” the woman that I now knew to be Natalie Imrie told bid her caller farewell.
As if she had just been given a signal of some sort, Natalie Imrie with the fantastic jugs turned to me and looked me straight in the eye.
I grew red in the face at first, but then I got lost inside the color of her eyes. They were brown, but with an interesting quality that had me think of ember, the glowing, hot coal made of greatly heated wood. Her eyes glowed like a campfire on the night of a full moon, the moon being the seas of white round her ember iris in each eye. Actually, her gaze made me feel like a werewolf. Natalie looked like a kitten, her long eyelashes curved outwards with more black visible toward the edges of her eyes.
I stammered a quiet: “Hi there!”
“Hi,” Natalie sing-songed, making me tremble. “You American?”
I nodded, giggling, now feeling that I rushed steadily into the welcome parade of Natalie’s cunt. “Yes, I’m from Michigan, but I am studying art here in Vienna. I’m about half a year away from my Master’s Degree. What about you?”
Natalie arched her back, obviously giving me a closer look at those absolute incredible looking breasts. She knew it, too. “I work here.” She shrugged once, glancing over at me with a knowing glance. “I am already finished with my Master’s. I came here a year ago. My mum’s German, although I grew up in London. When I was offered a position here as an Art Director, I took the job. I have the best of both worlds.”
She looked at me for what I really felt to be three hours, although it probably just amounted to three seconds.
“What brought you here?”
Well, although I looked at her boobs all the time and not into her eyes while I spoke, I told her that I had painted since childhood, that my family had taken me on a trip to Vienna when I was a boy and that I finally decided to move here in order to study art.
When I looked up at Natalie, she glanced at me with that disarming look that had me screaming for sex. She started chuckling. Out of nowhere, she put her hand to her mouth and giggled in such a knowing way that I almost felt insulted.
“What?” I asked, feeling ashamed of myself and not knowing why.
“You,” she finally said, putting her one hand with its long red fingernails on my leg, “are so easy to see through. Mr. Transparant.”
My mouth twitched a bit. I now felt insecure. Was she toying with me?
“Why?”
“Mr. Bulge-in-his-pants.”
I cleared my throat, feeling like someone just caught jerking off in a public place.
She shook her head. “What’s your name?”
“Uhm, Kevin.”
“Okay, uhm, Kevin?”
“Yeah?”
“You have been following me around this museum for over an hour!”
“You noticed?”
She laughed even harder now, her boobs jumping up and down as she did. A couple of visitors looked her way as she did, probably thinking she was just a stupid slut and not the Director of the Vienna Art Museum.
“Uhm, Kevin, the moment I walked into the Rubens Room, you made me feel like a
painting by Rubens,” she added provocatively. “I bet,” she added, leaning over to whisper in my ear, making me smell that Chopard perfume even more intensely, “that you have had lots of fantasties about me over the course of this hour. Me, naked, pouring honey over your cock and licking it off with my elegant lips ...”
I started chuckling nervously.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Come on, uhm, Kevin,” Natalie whispered again, now touching my ear with red lips, “you wanna fuck me, don’t you?”
Her sultry gaze had me cum again.
I nodded.
Natalie continued: “I don’t know why I am doing this, but I might be willing to let you inspect my pussy a bit closer.”
She now put her hand on my lap and rubbed it gently.
“It’s shaved, you know.”
I giggled quietly and frantically, if such a thing is possible.
“Where do you want to fuck, Natalie? Here?”
I kept looking behind me, above me, to all sides, just to see if anyone overheard our conversation. Everyone seemed to be busy studying art, while I was studying Natalie’s C-cups. She shrugged.
“Let that be my concern. Fancy a shag, love?”
I giggled again and nodded, feeling like a little schoolboy.
“Then cum!”
Natalie stood up, shook her tits a bit, took my hand, looking like Venus. I literally felt like a school boy being pulled by his mom to art class. Natalie escorted me through the Monet rooms, the Rubens gallery, the Bruegel chamber, past the Van Eycks and Vermeers and Velasquez paintings of the Spanish Habsburg Infantas. When we arrived in a rather posh office with a large chandalier, Natalie closed the large white door and locked it.
Surrounded by silver trays and expensive art, I held a woman’s hand who had been just a wet dream a moment ago. Natalie still had not arrived where she wanted me to be, obviously. She escorted me into an even smaller room, equipped only with a bedlike couch, a nighttime table, a few books and a lamp.
She locked that door, as well, once we came in. I think I lost my nerve, because I started shaking. My legs shook, my hands shook and my shoulders shivered.
And I got the biggest hard-on of my life.
Natalie, who up until now had been amused by me, looked down on the growing bulge in my jeans and couldn’t stop groaning.
“What’s that?”
I shrugged.
“Something for you.”
“Look promising,” she mused. “Is it already Christmas?”
She wrinkled her nose a bit, making her cheeks dimple, her tongue licking her lips.
Slowly, she took a few steps up toward me, her high heels shuffling against the carpet. As she dwindled down upon her knees, her ass swayed in a way that reminded me of a flowers swaying in the wind. Using her long nails as tools to unzip my pants, she made me feel like a lamb on the way to the slaughter. If that hadn’t been enough, she now pulled down the trousers all the way to the ground using only her mouth.
“Holy shit, uhm, Kevin,” she moaned. “It’s huge.”
“9,4 inches,” I said proudly. “24 centimetres.”
Natalie carefully opened her mouth and wrapped her elegant cocksucker lips around my shaft, making little squeaking noises and smacking her lips in the process.
That fabulous sensation made me see stars. She licked my cock, gave me deep throat, sucked on my balls. She was ready to be a submissive whore, letting that game of hide-and-seek go and just become the cock sucking hooker that I knew she could be.
The helmet of my penis was now blue, all of the blood in my body pumping into my crotch. “Oh, ah shuhsst lovvve schucking your cockh,” she mused.
I banged my cock into her mouth, my big tasty cock dripping like crazy. I felt like flying, moaning and groaning in higher and higher tones.
With a thunderous plop and really sexy splash of a sound, it sounded like she had just finished a lollipop, she took out my long dick out of my mouth and wiped off her own saliva with an exclamation: “Show me how good a pussy licker you are, baby. Lick this sexy bimbo’s cunt like a good boy.”
I didn’t have to wait long in order to follow her dominating orders, my dick bobbing in its erect position like a flagpole in the wind.
In fact, Natalie Imrie stripped faster than I have ever seen a babe strip. Her boobs made my dick laugh, sing, holler, dance, squirt, love and cha-cha-cha all at once. I think I disappeared into that cleavage for an hour before moving down to drink me some pussy. I had the feeling that I buried my face deeper and deeper into her clit by the second. So deep, in fact, that I soon only saw her shaved pussy as pink as her knickers.
The sound I made was quite similar to the sound I made when I ate me some spare ribs: sloppy. There were litres of salty clitty juice in there and I was going to drink it all. I laughed to myself, aroused by this amazing sensation.
I heaved myself out of her crotch, my face dripping wet with cunt-liquid. When I thrust my prick into her cunt hole, Natalie sang, actually sang Gilda’s “Caro Nome” from Verdi’s “Rigoletto”. She seemed to ache with excitement, her grunting telling me that every part of her clit throbbing with pain, a pain that she actually enjoyed.
I withdrew my dick and stretched it out into the open air, jerking off like crazy, her insane gaze giving me the impression that’s she was in a sexual trance. Willingly, she crawled about on the couch toward my throbbing cock, looking like a seal, swirling around from her position on her back to a position under my dick, opening her mouth wide and sticking out her tongue, making little squeaking and horny tones.
“Give me your cum,” she moaned, sticking out her tongue. “Come on, baby. Squirt on my face.”
My hand movements now accelerated, my face grimaced, my head bobbing, my dick even bigger and bluer than before. Finally, my cock erupted, a long string of cum skyrocketing into onto her tongue. The second portion shot onto her left cheek, the final dessert of this three course sperm-dinner landing on her nose. Every portion of her face was covered in cum. She licked it all off, swallowing every drop. A stunned silence now came over the room, our mutual copulation inspiring us. The office became our symbiosis, the restful oasis of a green acre that had appeared after the hot fire of lust of our burning desire.
Then, she laughed.
There she was, naked, full of sperm, shouting with laughter.
First, it felt cool. Then, I wondered what she was laughing at.
Laughing with me or at me?
“Man, uhm, Kevin, you were the best fuck of my life. Wait until my husband hears about this.”
It felt like I had been stuck with a pin, my cock almost immediately shrinking down to the size of a peanut.
“Your husband?”
Natalie sat up, rubbing her boobs as she did.
“That was the guy I talked to on my phone when I came and sat down next to you,” she began. “We go to lots of swinger clubs in our free time and keep looking for things to spice up our sex life with. He called me on my cellular and told me to try to get you to fuck me. It wasn’t hard, though. I think he got some good tips in how to fuck me well.”
“He saw me watching you.”
She caressed my cheek. “He’s a security guard here.”
Natalie raised her voice.
“Wolfgang?”
In a jiffy, a back door opened and another naked man wandered in, holding a camera.
In a thick Austrian accent, he said:
“Fantastic fuck, uhm, Kevin!”
Flabbergasted by this turn of events, I started laughing as well.
Not only was Natalie’s husband naked, his equally long cock raised, a film obviously now available on DVD for our mutual viewing pleasure. He had also brought something else with him from the back room: three naked ladies, one blonde, one brunette and one redhead, all of them with huge boobs, all of them ready to have themselves some dick.
I definately knew that if I played my cards right, I could get a job here.
After all, I would have fucking nice colleagues.
Ah, my moonshine ember and her wonderful friends.
Three Wet Dreams
Erotica by Charles E.J. Moulton
I: The Housewife
Funny, how even the sight of an incredibly beautiful female body can flabbergast a man. I know I nodded, but I don’t think I did much more than that. A mumble, a careful laugh, and a gaze that could not leave her derriere for a second.
I had seen this female body a thousand times in a thousand disguises, breathing, living, loving, hoping, open, sweet and graceful. but I also knew that her beauty was only beautiful because there was a being inside it.
The fantastic way her butt looked in it didn’t hurt, though. The bright red color, did it suit her well because of her black curls? Spanish. The way it accentuated her curves in one direction simply became a fascinating pendant to the luscious breasts that curved out in the other. The grace of Mother Nature resembling flowers and trees, waterfalls and lilyponds. They were nothing in comparison with the beauty of her body and the energy of her female sexuality.
I had studied quantum physics, so I knew about electron entanglement. Well, when I looked at my wife, made love to my wife, hugged my wife, entered my wife, felt the closeness to nmy wife, skin on skin, lip on lip, hip to hip, lip on pussy, I could feel our subatomic particles mingle and morph and become one. I could literally feel our beings merge and become one even when we were not touching.
We both felt was our sexual attraction had its origins only partly in how much we were attracted to each other’s bodies. More than that, there was a subatomic connection.
Penis into pussy, vagina on my gender, morphing and blending, sperm with clitjuice, mixing and becoming one.
I loved how I felt when I was with her. I could feel the universe vibrate when I made love to her.
Rhonda, my work of art.
Rhonda, my Rubens masterpiece.
Rhonda, my Michelangelo sculpture, my Lully march, my hit song by Michael Jackson, my Tchaikovsky dance, my Bond girl, the Goddess Hera’s sunrise, fertility, a life force. In front of her Yasmin’s YouTube Yoga in phenomenal spandex. In her Victoria’s Secret sexy lingerie, looking like a million dollars. In her gala dress at receptions, filling out dresses that made her look like Angelina Jolie and Marilyn Monroe mixed together in one symbiosis. I had kissed that bottom, hugged it so many times over that I was numb.
Okay, all that was fine and well, but today this woman, my wife, not only looked gorgeous, exuding sexy vibes, she also stood by the stove, making my food while looking gorgeous. Wow, what a mixture. She practically asked for me to fuck her. Pretty please, fuck me. That’s what her body told me. I had not even entered the house before my penis reacted the way it did. And Rhonda knew that.
“You like what you see, Mister?”
Stirring the sauce, mashing the potatoes, checking my roast beef, dashing to and fro, knowing very well that I was sitting behind the kitchen bar, just gazing at her, the kitchen sizzled with quantum electricity.
I watched the curvature of her big knockers beneath her cute little apron, the slight hint of her large pointy and nippled areolas visible through her blue lacey blouse.
“I like what I see.”
“Then grab what you see while I cook what you will eat.”
Grabbing her, massaging her behind, squeezing it, I melted into a spectacular heavenly oasis of love. Rhonda moaned slowly and passionately, her hands sirring the sauce, her heart and mind elsewhere, in our mutual energetic piece of heaven. Paradise.
I set the little foot stool from under the kitchen bench under her skirt so that she could still keep cooking my food while I wrestled myself up between her legs.
At last down on the ground, I lift up that little sexy skirt and saw color coordinate panties, which I carefully shoved aside. That elegant and flower-like little vagina presented itself to me under the silk with a beauty only seen by the unsung Greek heroes. I gently unfolded her lotus petals as beautiful as water lilies.
More beautiful than a sunset, yummier than apple pie, as gorgeous as baroque oil painting.
Lovely layers of skin leading to a soft pink and wet entrance. I wanted to move in there, sleeping on her pink little lips. My head, nose and mouth dived deeper and deeper into that lovely female beauty, the taste of her vagina reminding me of olives. I was a kid at Christmas, her short pubic hair feeling like kitten’s fur on my tongue. Lucky me. Licking.
As I ate, my tongue-strokes prolonged themselves. Her G-spot, that place just at the top of the clit with the little spot that looks a meaty version of a pin needle. Well, that little button I licked with the tip of my tongue and she chuckled, catapulting my woman into sexual heaven.
Then I started at the base of her cunt and licked up to her stomach. I was completely under her skirt now, eating her with my whole tongue out of my mouth, very much like a hungry wolf. The tongue-licks felt like they encompassed a whole landscape of woman from butt to bellybutton. I had completely buried myself under her clothes by now.
When I came out of there, my mouth was dripping wet with clit wine.
“Oh, you drink well, my pussy is happy,” she sing-songed in a high voice. “Well, okay, suit yourself. You go ahead and fuck me real good while I cook you some food. Okay?”
Oh, yes. And what an arrangement it was. Her standing there preparing my meal, me lifting up her skirt, pulling down her panties to her ankles, drawing her close to my pelvis, rubbing my cock against both of her holes, first finger-fucking her, then sliding into her port, feeling every pussy lip give way for my rocket. Her steady groan with every thrust I gave her as deliciously audible as Spanish wine, I felt like a 13 year-old teenager invited to pick anything he wanted at the gorgeous female buffet: ‘Hmm, what do I pick? Butt or pussy, boobs or mouth? Asshole or clit? Tit or nipple? Legs or hair?’
No, just choose to munch on the whole buffet.
Now and then, my hand left her butt to slide up to her baroque breasts, those fabulous C-Cups that now dangled dangerously close to the sauce and peas. I squeezed those 40-C wonderbags, smiling to myself that I had married the best shag of the century.
“Am I pleasing my man?” she asked me, tossing her brown locks about and gazing over her shoulder. “Am I a good fuck, baby?”
“Yes, honey,” I growled, grabbing the cold beer that was standing there next to the stove, ready for me to drink it. I took a gulp while shagging her, set the beer down, belched and sighed happily. “You get an A plus.”
The bouncing bum had a rhythm of its own, the arse giving way up toward her back, returning to my penis and giving way again toward her back. Shove-wobble-wobble. Shove-wobble-wobble. I could actually have created a rap-rhyme to that little dance her halfmoons did. The two balls of Jell-Oh did a sweet Merengue that syncronized with the slap of my testicles against her legs. I believe the porn videos called it the Gonzo position.
The two most gorgeous sights in creation? A man fucking a woman from behind and a woman with a man’s cock in her mouth. Both an inspiration for high art.
I will admit that I could continue shagging that babe forever in that position. Just watching her enjoy my dick was gorgeous. She gave it her all, too, stretching her butt toward me, even giving me the full view of her cute little butthole. Me holding on to her hips, those wide and fertile hips, slapping her now and then. It was really something to hold on to. She had the nicest ass I had ever seen in my life. Big and bouncy. All woman. I think the dirty little girl liked when I slapped her, too.
“The closest thing to heaven,” I said, “is your arse.”
She laughed happily.
“I’m glad you like it, babe, but may I check if your roast beef is ready?”
“Of course you may,” I said and as she moved over to the oven while I followed her step by step, never stopping, I kept fucking her cunny as she walked. I felt like we were limbo-dancing. I would’ve called it ‘The Fuck-Walk’, inspired by Chuck Berry. Rhonda was my Fender Stratocaster.
“The food is ready for my hubbie,” she said, her butt wobbling. “I’ll turn the oven off, my chieftain, and then I’ll suck your penis while you eat, okay?”
“Good idea, pookums,” I replied. “But before that I want to stick my dick in your asshole. Okay?”
“You do that. I washed my ass for you, my sultan.”
Now she really bent over, way over, spreading her legs, showing me every hole in full splendor, handing me a tube of sexy oil standing next to the coffee machine. I took it willingly, rubbing my cock in with strawberry flavor. Then I separated her buttcheeks and gently added a few strains of red strawberry oil on her little dainty and tight asshole.
Her initial reaction when my hard helmet touched her hole was a very high and slightly shocked: “Ooh!”
Then, as I got further inside her butthole, her voice slid down into her middle range, serenading sweet surprise: “Oh, baby, you are good!”
My cock very gently, bit by bit, inch by inch, entered her second cave. She groaned a bit that it was turning a bit strenuous, so I suggested she distract herself with stirring and mashing. That was less successful, I guess, first because of the awkwardness of her position and then because of the grand sensation my hard penis was beginning to have on her.
Once my hard helmet totally in her butthole, she uttered short little high squeeks again. Little sexy high octave ‘Oh’s’ and ‘Ah’s’. I felt like I was shagging Britney Spears, so, while bouncing her butt, I grabbed her hairdo with both hands, forming little pigtails, imagining myself being the horny stud of ‘Big Butts and Ponytails’ shafting a bimbo. If my cock hadn’t been hard enough already, it certainly became harder now. Especially my helmet. Rock hard or hard as a rocker, whatever you choose to choose.
“Oh, Frank,” she squeaked. “My Wonder-Dick!”
The most amazing sensation was when my cock had slid in as deep as it got. Her voice quickly slid down to the lower octave to produce a very loud, contra-alto and satisfied growl.
“You really know how to please a female ass...”
“My cock-hungry housewife,” I crooned, staring hungrily at my wife’s bouncing buns and her red little rose.
We quickly got into the rhythm there, as well. Tighter than her pussy, it really felt like her body embraced my dick so tight it sent shivers up my spine.
When I felt my balls tingle, I knew I had to withdraw. My wife adored cum, she felt it to be a privilage to swallow every drop of my sperm, and I wanted to grant her that wish. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, right?
So I pulled out of her body, my dick literally dripping with oestrogen and clit juice and hormones. For one moment, I gazed at my large dick and her fantastic looking ass. It was a sight for the Gods. Ripe, fertile, sweet, round, worth a fuck any day of the year.
My cock still dripping wet and pointing directly at her, she had me screaming with tension as she walked away to the dining room, deliberately wagging her arse to and fro, just to make sure my cock stayed erect. As she carried my plate, my beer, my cutlery, my napkin, my roast beef, my mashed potatoes and my sauce over to the table, I stood there wanking my cock like crazy. Every time she returned to the kitchen, one item of clothing was gone. When she returned to the kitchen for the last time, she was completely naked.
What a sight she was. Succulently voluptuous tanned ass, long flowing curly hair, pouting red lips, swollen nipples, throbbing pussy, cock-raising titties.
The game we played was as old as time. We had done this again and again and I knew how much she enjoyed it. Hand in hand, we walked into the dining room. Me with my clothes on, cock erect, setting myself down by the table, eating my food, drinking my beer, her on her hands and knees under the table, first washing my cock real well with the wash-cloth she had brought with her from the bathroom, then taking my cock in her mouth, licking my balls, deep-throating me, licking the tip of my penis with her tongue, taking my penis in all the way down to her larynx.
I sat there, eating my food, drinking my beer, having my wonderful wife suck my dick harder and harder while I munched. The beer tickled my tongue, the mashed potatoes tickled my stomach and my wife tickled my dick with her tongue. Soon enough, I munched on the last slab of roast beef, eating my last loving spoonful of mashed potatoes, enjoying my Budweiser, my wife still enjoying sucking on my large dong. I saw that she even had served me a small chocolate mint as dessert. Oh, what joy.
As I put the mint in my mouth, I felt my cock tingle. I did what any gentleman does when he wants to please his lady. Rhonda, that sexy dream fuck I called my wife, took my cock out of her mouth as she sat there under the table, asking me to wank on her face. The little slut stuck out her tongue so far that it nearly reached her titties, I could see that from where I was sitting. The dirty little slut now longed for cum and she was going to get lots of it while I muched on my roast beef.
I felt the orgasm coming from deep in the root of my cock above my balls. It felt like the ignition of a rocket, sending me to the moon. And I gave my wife what she needed: long strains of delicious manly cum squirting on her lovely and delicious face. She licked off every drop, giggling at how wonderful it was to get such a highly potent dose of proteines.
I sighed happily, for I knew that we would play another game tomorrow when she came home from her job as a physiotherapist. Tomorrow, I would be her servant and she would be the Queen of Russia. And I better lick her pussy really well, or she would bring out her whip.
It’s gorgeous having such a sex-hungry woman as a wife, one that is not only the greatest fuck a housewife ever could be, but, in our fantasies, an incredibly sexy Russian Empress and me her willing butler.
And she is definately addicted to my cum.
II: The Virgin
I’d taken singing lessons for Tim for about four years before having him fuck me. Ever since discovering my love of music, I knew that Tim with his amazing experience had to be my choice of teacher. That was the first thing that just led to him wetting my pussy.
Tim is not only a really great teacher. His knowledge of swing, rock, jazz, musical and even classical music gives me so much musical satisfaction. My parents are willing to pay the expensive monthly fee and I keep going there filled with great enthusiasm. Tim is also a dish. And, from what I had heard, fantastically endowed.
What I really hadn’t told anyone, not even my best friend, was that I was overcome with this enormous arousal every time I went there. I still come there and ... hrr-hmm ... cum there. He not only excercises me up to a high F, he also makes my pussy extremely moist ... and when I say extremely moist I mean clit juice running down my legs as I sing my high notes. I am never going to tell my folks that. I just knew that if I lost my virginity, it had to be to him.
I won’t fool you. I look good. For my 19 years, I have a really buxom figure. Tight waist, great butt, long flowing blonde hair. My greatest feature are my jugs, though. For a 19 year-old to have a 42-D bust is extraordinary, so my girlfriends were all amazed that I hadn’t fucked a dude yet.
Okay, maybe it’s the fact that I am a bit of a workaholic. I’m a grade A student. I work weekends selling tickets in a concert hall and I’m learning Japanese on the side. Mostly because I want to visit Japan one day.
Choosing Tim as my first fuck was worth the wait, though.
Anyway, I’ve had a few boyfriends, but since I know Tim, I’ve been postive that he has to be the first one to stick his dick into my pussy. I’ve blown my boyfriends, both of them. I’ve let them squirt on my titties. But I’ve told them up front what his ex-wife told me in confidence when she was stoned. “Darling, my ex has a gigantic dick,” she said, breahing whiskey on my lipstick. “He’s married to his work, that’s why I left him, but if you ever want to have a real cock in your pussy, choose Tim.”
I had to have him. I knew that. So I’ve masturbated my pussy now with a giant dildo for four years just so that I could fuck him when I’d cum-of-age, pardon the pun.
Let me tell you, for a 15 year-old chick that is just beginning to masturbate with an eight inch plastic schlong, that was a surefire sign of someone destined to want cock.
“Darling, my ex has a gigantic dick.”
What? Eight inches? Nine? I was hoping for nine.
I will have to admit. My Aunt Rhonda is a real slut when it comes to sex. Her husband Frank and her, they play sex-games all the time. My mother claims to be really shocked about that, but I know for a fact that she has been trying to convince my father to try anal for a long time.
I kept putting on these sexy clothes when coming to a singing lesson, showing cleavage and what not. On my 18th birthday, I even had this blouse that was so see-through that I thought he would even be able to see the color of my nipples.
He probably did.
He always eyed me, I knew that. I had a hunch that he had sexual fantasies about me all the time, probably pretending that porn-internet-blowjob-videos were me sucking him POV. I had deliberately walked away from him on many occasions while singing so he could take a long look at my ass. Maybe another image for him to wank over when I’d left.
I’ve seen that guy study my boobs while vocalizing me, I’m wondering that he hasn’t squirted into his underpants yet. My clit juice certainly ran down my legs during ‘Queen of the Night’ because I saw him sliding back and forth on his piano bench. Holy Guacamole, I was horny.
Last Saturday was the day I lost my virginity. I finally fucked. It was truly amazing. I’d prepared it so well, too. Putting on the tightest and shortest jeans I have in my closet and the sexiest blouse I have, making myself up to look, as the Brits say, splendiferously slutty.
I was a knock-out. My conservative parents know that I like dressing well, so they didn’t say anything, but you should’ve seen my father’s look when I left the house. Shocking. I was happy that they had an appointment to eat dinner with friends that night. Otherwise, they might’ve smelled the light whiff of male cum on my breath when I returned to the house.
I came to Tim’s flat just like every Saturday at 4 p.m. He was especially happy to see me, looking at me from blonde hair to red nailpolished toe, up and down, complimenting me on my blouse, actually looking at my boobs, telling me how nice my shorts looked, probably wanting to fuck my ass.
I am sure I saw a bulge in his pants.
I was nervous, but I knew that it had to be today.
I know Tim. He would never have taken advantage of a minor. So, me being 19, I had to take the first step. After all, I was not a minor anymore.
Anyway, we did our thing.
Breathing excercises, support excercises, speech excercises, the works. I even asked him to touch my support. He grew all red in the face, the poor guy, when I asked him to check my support a bit higher than just to the belly-button.
“When my support helps me slide up to the highest note in the coloratura,” I pretended, “I need for you to check high to see if I am doing it right. You see, my big boovbs sometimes get in the way.”
He touched my jugs and I almost seduced him right then and there. That was the time I saw the bulge really grow and he noticed that I looked at his dick outside his jeans. His jeans literally grew to twice the size in his crotch. I was so longing to see how big he was. He also had 20 years more experience than me. Man, I was really yearning to have him lick my pussy. We were both nervous. I knew that.
Then, after the vocal excercises, “Memory” from “Cats” became “Mammary”, “Queen of the Night” became “Cum in the Night”, all of that went well.
At five, we’d finished, and I told him I had some extra time on my hands, given the fact that my folks were away. Judging by the way I was dressed, he even said I could stay long, inviting me for an eventual pizza and wine. Well, in our case, it became pussy and cum.
We sat there, chit-chatting, in his pateo overlooking the city. I did drink wine and he did tell me lay a take-out-menue on the table to have me choose a pizza.
We didn’t order just yet. I needed him as an appetizer.
I can’t even remember what we spoke of, I just know that if I didn’t make my move soon, I would rip off my clothes and sit on him.
When a break in the conversation came, between discussing philosphy, him studying my jugs, and talking show-business, him eyeing my ass, I then made my move.
“Tim?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve seen how you look at me,” I added, clearing my throat.
“Yeah?” he smiled. “Well, you look great. I look forward to seeing what you put on every Saturday. This outfit is really nice. It brings out the best in you.”
Now I saw him really focusing on my cleavage. He wasn’t even looking at my face.
“I can even see your nipples.”
“You like my breasts, Tim?”
He raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“You have the most fantastic set of knockers I have ever seen. In fact,” he added, “when you sing, I spend more time looking at your tits than listening to how you are singing.”
“How big do you think my jugs are, Tim?”
He took a look at them, pursing his lips. “D-Cup?”
I nodded. “42-D. You’ve obviously did your homework.”
“Well, if someone wanks to big boob blowjob videos as much as I do, you are likely to be able to judge a jug size.”
I smiled, insecurely. “Well, judging my how your bulge is growing, I bet my boobs are turning you on right now.”
“Leena,” he said with a knowing smile, “you can hardly imagine how many times I’ve watched blowjob videos, imagining that it was you sucking my cock.”
I grew red in the face, giggling to myself as I looked down. “Really? You imagine us together?”
He nodded. “I even printed out a picture of you and squirted on it. I’ve seen your knockers grow the last four years. You are a great singer, but, really, I just enjoy watching your ass waggle as you walk around the room.”
I smiled, taking a deep breath, deciding to go for it.
“Tim?”
“Yes, Leena?”
“Can I see your cock?”
Tim took a long look at me, charming as always, his eyes never leaving my breasts, tingling and twinkling with arousal. I thought for a moment there that I had lost him, but then he looked into my eyes with a loving gaze, almost innocent in his honesty. I don’t think I could ever have anticipated what happened next. I think I had expected to walk up to him, kneel down, open his fly, take his cock out and start sucking. In my dreams, he had also walked up to me, pointing to his zipper, asking me to open it and take out his cock to suck.
He did none of that. This guy, whom I’d had a crush on now for four years, he stood up out of his comfy chair, simply opening up his fly as he strolled up, unbuckling, unzipping, reaching in to his undies and all that. Then, closer to me than ever before, he plucked out his growing dick. It not only grew to a terrific size by the time he had reached me, his helmet hovering in front of my face like one of Harry Potter’s famous wands, it also seemed to grow bigger and harder by the minute.
I was completely stunned. I had never ever seen a cock that big before. I mean, I had masturbated to plenty of cocks, my secret dildo beneath my undies his dick of my dreams. But this thing was thick and larger. It was an incredible moment, slowly raising my hands and carefully touching it.
I laughed. “Holy crap, that’s a huge thing.”
He started wanking his cock in front of my face. I prayed that he didn’t cum already. I mean, he could cum on my face and all, but first I wanted to have that thing in my cunt. Most guys wank really lame-like, sort of likes wussies. Tim’s wanking style was macho, strong. His cock so long and all, it really looked like someone rubbing a long wine-bottle.
“Debbie was right.”
I looked up, wide-eyed, afraid that I had said something wrong. Apparantly, I had not. He just smiled. “I know my ex-wife gets loose-lipped when she is drunk.”
“We met at my Aunt Rhonda’s wedding anniversary. He said that you were a workaholic with this biggest dick in history.”
Tim took one step closer toward me. Now his penis was literally touching my lips.
“Eight inches?”
“Ten,” Tim crooned.
I opened my mouth, looking up at him with the most innocent gaze I could fathom. I think it turned him on, because he started to breath heavily.
He simply took another step toward me. With my mouth open in awe, the guy took advantage of it and wandered a half stroll closer, his dick now literally hovering over my tongue. All I had to do was close my lips.
“Suck my dick, Leena!”
I nodded happily, looking back at it, chuckling with my mouth open. As I closed my lips around that thing, I realized that size definately did matter. The dongs I had sucked before were like thin bananas. Tim’s was the size of a super-zucchini. I bobbed my head back and forth, my big golden circle-earrings making clanging noises. I closed my eyes, simply enjoying the taste of that thing, about as thick as a Dodge hosepipe or, indeed a wine bottle. Holy macaroni, my jaw almost locked itself out from jaw-gaping around that schlong. This was the most incredible moment of my life, my left hand grabbing his butt and my right hand massaging his balls. His helmet felt like one of those big hard walnuts and his big tasty cock had the hardness of a wooden pole. My cunny dripped like crazy.
I looked up at him from my POV-blowjobbing, seeing him close his eyes pleasure. Wow, now sucking his huge penis, I reviewed the last four years, all this time of wet dreams leading to a climax. I was sucking the prick of my vocal coach. And what a prick it was. I bobbed, I stuck out my tongue, I whimpered, I rumbled, I drooled, I massaged his balls, I squeeked, doing all the things I had seen those porn-sluts do in the videos. Man, I was well prepared.
“Leena, you are the best cocksucker I hav ever had.”
“Have you had many?” I asked him, looking up at him very innocently.
“Many,” he smiled, putting his hand on my head and shoving his dick deeper onto my tongue. “You are the champion dickmuncher, though.”
With a thunderous plop and really sexy splash of a sound that sounded like I had just finished a cocktail, pardon the pun, I took out his long dick out of my mouth and wiped off my own saliva off my chin. When I lift his cock off my tongue, it was a mouth with smeared lipstick like one of those marathon-cocksuckers. I leaned down and took his testicles into my mouth, shaved, tight and filled with lovely and salty sperm. I put both his testicles in my mouth and sucked on them like candy while he masturbated over my face. I sucked on them so hard and so deep that I felt like one of those crazy squirrels in the park devouring nuts real quick.
I didn’t get to suck on his balls very long. Soon enough, Tim’s macho style took over and he became the chauvanist. He gestured for me to stand up and strip. Oh, and I did, ordering him to sit down. And how I stripped, every piece of clothing coming off with a slow and solemn style. I wagged my butt in his face, taking off my panties with my bum waving in his panting face. I took off my bra, literally throwing my boobs in his face. He massaged them, he licked them, he fondled them, squeezed them, juggled them, titfucked them while I sat on his lap.
“Okay, baby,” I snapped. “Your little whore is naked and all you have out is your cock. I want you naked, licking my clit. Now!”
I think Tim was taken aback, struck in awe like I had been just a moment before, but I did my own part by getting off his lap and crossing my arms in front of my rack. He followed my commands, stripping naked down to every last piece of clothing. Soon enough, we were both there, stark naked. I think it then both struck us at that moment that we were two naked people both yearning for tenderness. The need to be touched so obvious, so carefree, so honest, it had us sinking into each other’s arms, simply enjoying each other’s caresses, him kissing my neck, me stroking his back, him squeezing my buttocks, his hands running through my hair.
I had never seen the bed he had in the back room before, but it’s king size softness really got me going, silk sheets and all. Tim threw me on the silver bed sheets, wanking his cock as he watched me rub my pussy.
I think we both enjoyed that moment, masturbating in each other’s presence.
As he climbed up between my legs, I stuttered a few words that I think surprised him more than anything.
Touching his breast hair, I shrugged: “I’m a virgin, Tim.”
“What? You’re kidding me. A looker like you?”
“The two boyfriends I’ve had ... well, I’ve only given them head.”
“Why?” he said, still wanking his dick.
“I’ve had a crush on you for four years,” I sang, “I knew that I wanted to lose my virginity to you.”
“You waited for my cock.”
I nodded. “I waited for your cock.”
He smiled, tenderly. “I will be careful, okay?”
He caressed me very tenderly.
“Don’t be,” I smiled. “Fuck me hard.”
He glanced at my clit for quite some time, enjoying what must have been a very healthy pink color. His mouth very gently kissed my snatch, licking it ever so sweetly and getting more intense as he went on, making it wet enough for his big sausage to enter.
Oh, I had never ever known that pussy-licking could be that lovely. His entire head disappeared into my clit. He found so many G-spots I had never known I had, it was fantastic. I think he licked and sucked so deep, his head must’ve found my heart. I literally saw stars dance. It was a sensation I had never felt before. I had the feeling that he buried his face deeper and deeper into my clit by the second. So deep, in fact, that I soon only saw his hair looking like an extension of my pubic hair. His clit licking sent shivers up my spine, his long tongue literally starting slow, sucking on my G-spot, sort of like a kid sucking on candy. He then extended that licking to the entire pussy until finally he licked my cunny from butthole to navel. He came out soaked, his face dripping with my female clitjuice.
“You ready for my cock, baby?”
I nodded with my right index finger inside my mouth, probably looking like one of those freckled lollipop-girls with pigtails. I felt like a school bimbo, giggling, getting her braces off, or the youngest actress ever getting her Porn-Oscar. “I’ve been ready for four years, Tim. Please, fuck my pussy,” I demanded.
Tim saluted, grinning, gently pushing his huge clitsplitter between my pussy lips, sliding into my body ever so slowly.
As he finally lay down on me, thrust his rod inside me and fucked the crap out of me, I saw stars, whimpering in impossibly high tones, my Yin to his Yang, my moon to his sun, my sea to his land. His balls slapped against my butt, my huge jugs bounced and my legs lay wrapped around his hips.
His rod was definately much bigger than my dildo and I must admit that having him thrust and slide the length up to his testicles into my body, up to my throat almost, it made me squeal like a high coloratura soprano.
It felt like having a redwood tree entering a storage tunnel. His dick never wanted to end. It hurt a bit, sure, but it was delicious pain, all of that man inside me. Tim must’ve practiced on quite a few women, because he managed to massage my breasts, sliding in and out of my vagina at a very steady pace and still find the erogenous spot behind my left earlobe to lick at the same time. His cock literally must’ve slid up past my larynx, that was how long it was. It stretched my pussylips so wide and was so long, I grew dizzy. Panting like crazy with my mouth gaping wide open, I think I must’ve looked like a complete fool. But it was impossible for me to act otherwise. He fucked me, my titties bouncing faster and faster up and down, so fast he probably couldn’t even see them, his tight balls slapping against my buttcheeks.
I felt like the ultimate slut, but it was the feeling of being the object of attraction and arousal beyond anything I had ever experienced. I was a little whore, shagged by my voice teacher, but, boy, when I thought about being slammed by a man with such a gigantic cock, I had to grin to myself. My jugs really were at it, now, my head and back arching, me moaning and groaning and laughing, while Tim seemed to enjoy taking my cherry, my huge knockers doing the cha-cha-cha in front of his happy face.
“Fucked for the first time,” I moaned.
That really seemed to do it for me. I had heard about how boring the missionary position was, older girls swearing doggie style was better. I cannot disagree more. Man, having Tim slide his dick in and out of my vagina and being able to caress him and look into his face, it was heaven on Earth.
“You like being fucked?” he smiled.
“Oh, yeah,” I giggled. “Is it better fucking me live than just fucking me on paper?”
Tim chuckled, waving his eyebrows. “It’s a wet dream.”
Tim screwed me harder now, my lewd little self blinking into space with a gaping orifice. His nuts spanked against my randy hot rump, my furburger truly drenched with effeminate seminal fluid. Tim frigged me so severely that my teaters waggled like basketballs at an NFA training camp.
“Oh, you just keep on nailing my kitten with your steamy rod, you filthy little beefcake,” I growled. “Screw me, baby!”
Oh, Tim increased the speed of his nookying now, he grimaced like an angry cat during his fuck. I virtually had the sensation of looking at my bazookas wiggle like Jello-Oh-balls during an earthquake.
I think that Tim actually had shtupped enough bimbos in his day to control his own orgasm to benefit mine. To him, granting a lady a climax was his way of being a gentleman. He kept fucking my pussy like a Superman, licking my nipples, massaging my buttocks and sucking on my earlobe, his giant plonker shooting up my body until I really came in high tones. The orgasm started in my crotch and electrified itself into my abdomen, kicking up to my hooters, then up my throat and onto my tongue, having my squeal like an arctic seal. When my clitjuices flowed, dripping white glory out of my twat, this electricity shot into my toes, granting me a vision of a hallelujah rocket flight.
Tim was a machine. He kept bonking my beaver on and on. It felt so fantastic losing my virginity like this that I began singing “Glory Hallelujah, his truth is marching on!” at full voice. That had us both laughing out loud.
In the middle of this loud laughter, my stud frig veered of my hairy 19-year-old cuckoo, straddling my face, gaping my lips open, pleading for me to push out my vernacular. I ended up with my vocal coach sitting on my funbags wanking his willy over my mouth, his hairy family jewels beating my jaw. I had my tongue out so wide, I felt like one of those web tarts pleading for milt.
Oh, and when Tim came on my face, what a grace that was. Shots of semen racing into my mouth, onto my tonsils, on my cheeks, on my nose, on my forehead.
We slumped into each other’s arms, sighing happily, little oversexed me licking off this prime prick’s male milk off my female happiness.
After we showered, we shared a pizza.
I asked him to squirt on my pepperoni for extra proteines, but that’s a different story.
Every singing lesson is going to be a reason for us to fuck now. In the week that has passed since, I’ve had four singing lessons. My parents are so proud. If they only knew. He sometimes even shags me while I sing my arias, but that’s a completely different story.
What a way to lose my virginity.
I think my career is beginning to take off.
Next week, Tim has invited his agent to hear me sing, and apparantly he has an even bigger dick.
What a lucky girl I am.
Once a virgin, now on my way to a gang-bang.
III: Mothers and Daughters
I will admit it. It’s always been a dream of mine to be in bed with many women. There have always been possibilities for me to fulfill that dream, but never have I gotten so far as to say as much. Sometimes, I sabotaged it. Sometimes, other people sabotaged it for me.
I never had expected it to happen the way it did, though.
I’ve been lucky enough to open my own successful physiotherapy practice at an early age. Not many guys at 30 can say as much. So when my business expanded and my patients doubled one year, I could afford to hire an extra physiotherapist.
I interviewed twenty. There was a resonably great one and one really awful one, one gay physiotherapist and a very straight and macho guy, whose only hope was to get laid. One was enormously rude and one guy seemed to be scared to break every bone in the patient’s body.
When Rhonda walked in the door, I don’t know what it was, I knew instinctively that she would fit.
Okay, I know that Rhonda had the cutest ass I’ve ever seen on a woman. Man, her wiggle underneath that red skirt made my jaw drop. And as for that woman’s knockers, it simply would raise any guy’s dick.
Now, that was not the reason why I hired Rhonda.
A friend of mine, a gay friend, I must add, acted as a client. Rhonda was cordial throughout, enormously eloquent and educated, made a terrific diagnosis of my friend’s real back problem and ended up getting him as a client.
I hired her on the spot.
I was single when I hired her, that helped me to make my decision, of course. She stated that she was happily married to a guy named Frank. What I saw, though, was that Rhonda constantly made sure to bend over and display her cleavage while she massaged my friend. Not one moment occurred when she tried to conceal the fact that I saw her pink bra or even got a glimpse of her right nipple. She even smiled up at me when she caught me gazing into her blouse.
As she left, immediately after accepting my offer for the job, I caught myself very bewildered about a 33 year-old and obviously happily married woman that was so openly sexual.
I thought nothing of it, of course, and went on about my business. One Saturday morning, though, I checked the web for information about Rhonda Richards. It turned out that Rhonda, this dishy girl from Rhode Island with a degree from the Physio Academy in Chelmsford, was a sexy underwear model. She even had a sexy website with her in racy underwear. Her entire family was displayed there. Not in racy underwear, although a couple of them would not have looked bad in that gear. Yes, her husband Frank was a sexual therapist, mostly couples councelling, and he wrote erotic stories as a side gig.
I nearly dropped my daily glass of Jim Beam on the stereo playing Miles Davis when I saw how sexual Rhonda was. One page on Rhonda’s homepage also displayed her niece Leena with her mother Pauline and Leena’s vocal coach Tim at a recent gig in Manhattan. Tim and Leena looked quite comfortable with each other, to put it mildly.
I’ll say this very subtly: that was one sexy family. The entire website was filled to the brim with big boobs. Leena was a D-Cup, Rhonda a C-Cup and Pauline, Rhonda’s mother, was certainly as big as Leena. Judging by Tim and Frank’s physical statures, I would suppose they had equally well endowed genders. Judging by the picture of Rhonda’s father, he seemed to bet he conservative guy of the bunch.
Now, Rhonda was 33? Her big sister had this 20 year-old daughter and Pauline looked to be no older than 40. Either, I felt, I was looking at at a Las Vegas family of porn stars or I was looking at a gang of relatives that all belonged to Scientology. Maybe they were both.
Well, needless to say, I did wank to Rhonda’s picture, printing out a picture where her boobs looked especially luscious so I could squirt on them. Getting to work on Monday morning with a slightly excited frame of mind, I wondered what would happen if I made my move.
I am a professional, so I never let Rhonda notice that I had the hots for her. Okay, she had seen me gaze at her boobs, maybe she was used to that. I was a polite boss, though, and whenever she asked me a professional question, I answered professionally. Our conversations were very polite and it seemed she was popular with the patients. The male patients came out smiling especially widely, but I even caught a few of the elderly women giving her compliments on her wonderful massaging techniques.
‘Old lesbians,’ I caught myself thinking.
When we were closing up for the evening, adding up expenses and earnings, Rhonda surprised me by telling me about a gathering she was having over at her house. Her father, unfortunately, couldn’t be there. He was on a business trip to Burbank. But the rest of the family would be. She mentioned her sister Pauline, her niece Leena and her vocal coach Tim and, of course, Frank, Rhonda’s husband.
They were cooking a festive meal and would be happy if I joined them next Saturday at 6 p.m. The official story was that Rhonda wanted to show me off, her new handsome boss.
I pretended never to have heard of these people, but accepted happily, knowing that I would be wining and dining with three gorgeous women with huge hooters.
I spent all week choosing my outfit, but neglected to bring condoms. My Gosh, why should I? I was invited to an elegant family dinner. Yes ... and no.
The house was gorgeous, the drinks were exquisite, the music was tasteful, the meal was incredible. Greeted with Dom Perignon, her big sister Pauline had chosen Frank Sinatra as what she called entrée music. Paté feuillitée aux épinards, spinach croissants to the laymen, with vegetarian sushi as a first course, served with Martini. We listened to Bond music to that. Chili sin carne with basmati rice and baguette aux herbes as a main course. To that, they had Vivaldi playing on the stereo and Rioja in our glasses. The mousse aux chocolate was served with Irish Coffee and cognac.
I wondered where all this money came from until I heard that Mr. Richards, Pauline’s absent husband, was the heir to a fortune. I did feel good among these people. They asked me a thousand questions. Mostly professional stuff, what music I liked or if I liked paté more than sushi. Frank had me growing red in the face, asking me what kind of sex I preferred, missionary or doggie-style. I stuttered that I liked both equally much, laughing somewhat bashfully.
At ten to ten, on the dot, Frank and Tim claimed to have to dash away to a nearby reception. Tim, a singer, was appeaaring at a late night show at the local bar and Frank had volunteered to act as his assistant, pressing the buttons of the CD-player for the playbacks.
So, there I sat alone with three gorgeous big breasted ladies, two of them married and one of them in a relationship with that singer-guy. I do believe that I made the impression of being overwhelmed by all this beauty. I could see that in their expressions, especially since I constantly kept glancing down at the knockers.
I wondered why I couldn’t help feeling that they had somehow choreographed this whole evening for me. But why?
At almost exactly ten o’clock, uncanny, Leena, the dishy 20 year-old, started complaining about back problems. I, ever the physiotherapist, gave her the tip of letting her aunt take care of the massage. No, she claimed, a man’s hands could take care of that better. This seemed so staged, because as soon as she said that, Rhonda said that she had the same problem. I think Rhonda’s sister, Leena’s mother, pretty much had been convinced, prior to the evening, to say the same thing. They all, so they claimed, had back problems.
“You know what the problem is?” Rhonda chirped, play-acting casual articulation. “We all have very big boobs. These things are a huge load to carry.”
The two other women agreed with her, looking down at their wossnames, squeezing them and then gazing over at me.
“The only person that can help us is sitting there,” Leena, the youngest, said pointing at me. “Right, Mom?”
Pauline, the one I felt was the most apprehensive of the three, nodded. “Come with us, Josh,” she told me, standing up. “You can give us three your special treatment in the bedroom.”
I smiled, enjoying the sight of these three ladies standing up and not so gently wagging their butts at me. Three butts so fantastic looking, that the sight of them must have made me look like a drooling Saint Bernard in front of a bowl of hot dogs. Leena, who obviously was riding that Tim guy, she looked over her shoulder, grinning at me. I know she knew that I was gazing at her crack. Rhonda, that girl I had hired to help me out at work, she threw an equally amazing look at me over her shoulder. When she notice the bulge in my pants, she waved her eyebrows and threw me a kiss.
“I do believe,” Rhonda groaned, “we have a horny little stud on our hands.”
If male heaven is a real place, it opened up to me that day. Pauline, the oldest of the women, turned around full front, walking backward into what must’ve been the bedroom, her long eyelashes batting at me. The three women sat down on what seemed to be a huge waterbed, asking me in whispers to close the door.
“Wank for us!”
Leena’s comment had me shaking with anticipation.
“Yes, boss,” Rhonda mused, “take out your cock and masturbate a bit.”
“We all have big dicked hubbies,” Pauline said, giggling. “Let’s see if your penis can match theirs.”
A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. When a woman asks you to wank for them, that’s what you got to do. When I unzipped my pants and with ceremonial splendor reached into my trousers, the three huge breasted ladies leaned over, watching the action as if they were watching an acrobat riding a bicycle on a tight rope. I heaved out my penis and immediately, the girl gasped.
I did wank my prick a bit and they seemed to gasp louder and louder until it reached its full size. The women not only gasped now, they grinned. It was obvious that there was no way they would let me stand so far away. All I had to do was take three steps toward them. Actually, I just walked toward the MILF, Pauline, and stretched my penis in her face. I got the impression that she had not sucked a whole lot of cock before. Her husband was obviously a bit conservative. But she did open up her mouth and I lay my big schlong on her tongue and she managed to embrace it with such precision, literally hugging my banana with total love. It felt fabulous.
I guess it really inspired me like crazy, because I started fucking the ladies face, my balls literally slapping against her chin. She did get the hang of it, too, licking the helmet, taking it in sideways, really whoring it.
What a woman. That forty-something had obviously not given a man a blow-job for a long time. She was making up for years of abstinence, that much was sure. Leena and Rhonda started whooping and cheering her.
“Go, go, go!”
Well, that is always an invitation for a man. I ejected my dick out of Pauline’s chatterhole and quickly stepped to my left, literally ramming my dick into Rhonda’s blabberbox. There was a mixture of total surprise of being surprise—mouth-fucked by her boss, but the initially shocked and wide-eyed reaction had the little slut really getting into action. She really deep throated me, taking all of my length right into the back of her mouth, rising and falling and heaving and sinking and bobbing and cocking her head, wrapping her tongue around my penis. I grabbed her by the head, forming her hair into a ponytail, standing wide legged and feeling like a rodeo cowboy riding a horny stag.
The chick really worked my dick. Me? I watched Pauline and Leena take their clothes off while Rhonda sucked my penis. It was an incredible sight seeing these three ladies soon stark naked, sharing my penis. Yes, soon enough, they were all stark naked, sitting on the edge of the bed, sucking my dick. I really did not know which one of them sucked the best. Pauline had a very tight suck. She seemed to really wrap her lips around my shaft. Rhonda was the active and fast sucker. She did not really suck hard, but fast. Bobbing, slurping, slapping, groaning. Leena? Slow, sweet, high whining, sensuous, saucy, deep.
If I were to describe these cock suckers in vintage porno terms, I would say it was like being sucked off by Teresa Orlowski, Sarah Young and Nina Hartley simultaneously.
These women had obviously decided to fuck me that night, that much was clear. While standing there, my bratwurst slammed into three female breadrolls, I realized that the men actually had left as a service to them. They had wanted me and now they had me.
Women call the shots. Yes, no, too, they called the shots. For the three gals, they ordered my dick out of their mouths, literally turning around in unison, bending over the bed. At once, I had a trio of the most amazing looking female asses right in my face. All I had to do was to ram my penis from one pussy to the other. I went from left to right, Rhonda’s wobbly butt, Pauline’s tight thing and Leena’s round arse. Then I went back again, Leena-fuck, Pauline-shag and Rhonda-frig. Then I took turns, fucking Leena and then Rhonda and last Pauline. All the time, these sexy little whores moaned and whined and remained obediently bending over all the time. I think I must’ve took turns frigging these pussies from behind for a full ten minutes. What I loved about all of that was to see how all of their buttocks wobbled so beautifully, even Pauline’s. The least of the wobbly arse of the three, even her butt wobbled nicely.
I love a wobbly arse.
Women call the shots. Did I say that? Well, this time, almost in unison, they scrambled up the bed and lay down next to each other, really in a row, side by side, All I had to do was climb on them and fucking them from left to right and right to left. Rhonda’s hairy pussy, Pauline’s even hairier pussy and Leena’s shaved pussy. Okay, I must admit that I spent the first ten minutes, them on their backs, me licking their pussies. I just had to lick pussy. I mean, how often does one man have three ladies to lick? So I licked happily, as happy as a dog bathing in dirt.
Anyway, they kept lying there happily as I took turns ramming my dick into them. There was so much moaning and groaning and whining and laughing and whooping and boob-shaking, it drove me nuts. The greatest thing of all were the looks they exchanged. While I fucked one of them, the others exchanged looks, smiling gladly at the woman being fucked. I felt like a superstar. It was incredible.
The whole extravaganza ended with these three ladies on their hands and knees, literally POVing me, stretching out their tongues, waiting for my long strains of cum to squirt on their faces. Three gorgeous whores that I could squirt on.
Wow. The subsequent shower, me with three ladies, had me gasping with joy.
Well, I must say the timing was glorious. We managed to shower and put bour clothes back on and go back to the table, sit down and have a few drinks, before Frank and Tim returned. I am almost positive they knew that I had fucked the three ladies, mostly because of the strange questions that came my way. That and the weird descriptions of the supposed event that Tim had been attending and singing at.
I left the house about midnight, Frank and Tim busy with a discussion about whiskey brands. That left me with three ladies. Believe you me, all three of them ended up tongue kissing me, pleading for us to have a foursome again soon.
I told them that we could have some group sex as soon as they wanted. And, oh, yes, on my way back home in the cab, my dick grew hard again. So I wrote Rhonda that I was getting horny again. She answered me right away that Frank and Tim had been notified I had fucked all three in their bedroom. My initial shock dwindled down quickly when I discovered that they were swingers and wanted to come over to my place the following day for group sex. With the two big boobed blondes they had picked up the other night, we would be eight people in my flat, all of us licking and fucking and sucking and blowing and huffing and puffing.
That actually happened, and yes, it was glorious.
That, however, is a completely different story.
The Original Flower of Creation
A Romantic Short Story
- Dedicated to the Beauty of All Women
By Charles E.J. Moulton
***
"The grand ambition of women is to inspire love."
- Moliere
***
"All you need is love."
- John Lennon
***
It was a simple feeling, really.
It was so simple that Jean-Philippe had to take a step back, tilting his head to the side at the prospect. It was a slow tilt, contemplative, retrospective, introvert. A realisation.
Chivalry. Like Don Quijote and his Dulcinea. Robin Hood and his Marian. Axel and his Marie. Jane Eyre and her Mr. Rochester.
Simply admiring her was enough.
There she was. A painting by Boucher. A quintet by Mozart. A poem by Lord Byron. A ballet by Delius. An opera by Puccini. A four star menu at Foquet's at the Champs Elysée. And yet, she probably thought nothing of herself or of the fact that she was breathtakingly beautiful, every one of her curves a work of art.
"Do you know how gorgeous you are?" he thought to himself.
To Jean-Philippe, it was like discovering an unexpected sunflower in a blooming garden, tucked away in an unexpected place. Eden opening up in a secret alleyway no one had yet heard of. How could it be that a jewel like that remained yet unveiled in the doctor's office of a small town?
It wasn't just the fact that she was fantastic looking. It was her soul. The righteousness. The conscience. The willingness to help. The compassion. Those qualities rolled up into the air of femininity hit Jean-Philippe like a tidal wave. An angel, a sweet feminine voice from way deep within his heart, spoke to him in soft tones of Jean Baptiste Lully, Edith Piaf and songs by Toto.
"What you are seeing, my dear boy, is Mother Earth, Lady Moon, the Countess Milky-Way, Queen Andromeda and the Empress of the Universe rolled into one. The spiritual beauty of women is married to the fact that there is no matter, just energy. And so an elevated soul will always be reborn as a woman in order to inspire the art of a thousand poets. Her kiss is the fertile earth of humankind. Her bosom the nourishment of every newborn babe. The ground upon which we walk. The centre of your own galaxy. Respect her feelings. Respect her soul. And the deeds she does. For she will be your salvation. The worst thing you can do is joke about her. The best thing you can do is raise her to the skies, for when you do, you raise the womb from which you sprung and glorify the bosom from which you drank. When you make love to your love, you can feel the beating heart of divine eternity. She is life. If you respect her, you respect your own life that sprung from a woman's womb. If anything, my dear boy, tell every woman you can that she can be proud of herself that she was born a woman. Because she, my dear, is the original flower of creation."
So there he was, the last of the conquistadors of chivalrous behavior, admiring sweet Yvette, how lovely and tender she was.
And, yes, he had admired Yvette for quite some time. Every time he came for his monthly visit, she had been there, smiling sweetly, her blue eyes twinkling, seriously noting down all his medical requests.
Yvette had a grace, a poise, a blossom. But it wasn't her blue eyes that enticed him, but the diligent way she gazed on the screen, and on him, as if the assignment mattered the world to her, as well. It wasn't the blonde lock that hung into her elegant forehead. It was the air of femininity inside her spirit. How her simple white shirt curved out around her breasts, making him think of Vigee-Lebrun's painting of Marie Antoinette. It wasn't the physical form of her derriere. It was her Velasquez-resembling ethereal, incorporeal body.
As always, he smiled cordially at the woman and got a smile back. There was a warmth in his heart now. One that filled him up with pride in being alive.
"She smiled at me," he thought to himself, a passionate flamenco raging in his soul.
He waved and so did she.
"If the spirit of women are at the centre of creation," he contemplated, "no wonder that we are so happy when she loves us. For then we are being loved by the universe."
Walking out into the brilliant French sunshine that day, Jean-Philippe stood still in Sete's harbor watching the seagulls criss-cross the Mediterranean shore, cooing a song of new-found bliss. France seemed to be singing a chanson of perfection. There was no café au lait to drink, no long walk to take, no chat to send. Just one sentence in Jean-Philippes mind, one grand-père Pepe had blurted out one Sunday years ago that came to mind, sitting over a saumon à l'oseille and a glass of Domaine du Paternel 2002, his voice raspy and rugged, his skin a road-map of brown lines, his soul as gentle as a yielding willow, the Provence sunset casting its shadows on the sycamore garden.
"Dans la belle conscience d'une femme se trouve la grâce salvatrice de l'univers."
"Within the beautiful conscience of a woman lies the saving grace of the universe."
He was talking about his wife, Eternelle Raymonde, who was still as beautiful to him at 80 as she had been at 20. After 60 years, his passion still knew no bounds.
Jean-Philippe was ten at the time, so the quote was a rather prepubertal one in reaction. Once hormones and wisdom kicked in, though, he understood what his grand-père had told him. Walking through the Louvre as a college student at the Sorbonne years later, enjoying Boucher and Da Vinci, hearing music by Scarlatti in the foyer while reading Shakespeare poems, Jean-Philippe understood. God, the beauty of all women really were at the heart of creation, were they not? Every woman he had met had been fair to him. Men, they had attacked him. Women had nourished him with love. Not always open love, sometimes concealed love, but always love. But all of the time, care, even during cataclysm.
Sitting on a park bench by the sea as the gentle lovely Mediterranean wind made love to his skin, he watched the sleepwalking men go by. Angry men smoking Gauloises paces away from their wives, laughing with their mutual children. Young punks drinking beer just feet away from their girlfriends, adjusting their men's jacket sleeves. Young mothers reprimanding their husbands to at least try to take part in the raising of their two year-olds. A girl sinking into the lips of her boyfriend, hoping earnestly to make him a better man.
"Et feminae osculum dissolvit glacies."
His Sorbonne Latin professor Monsieur Lancomme had caused quite a stir among the twenty-somethings with his words of female kisses melting ice, but looking at the women passing his way and the men walking along them like sour ghosts sent him back years to truth. All the "jeunes hommes stupides" laughing at the quote meant to inspire made Jean-Philippe severely wrathful. They stood at the corner store telling dirty jokes about women while their mothers were home baking, cooking, cleaning up, washing, driving, waking up, putting babes to bed, helping young ones with homework, doing their best to make their partners better men.
"Mothers Rock" had been sung by that local Glasgow band "The Vikings" during Jean-Philippe's Erasmus year in Scotland. Although the concert had been 98 % filled with intoxicated, obnoxious students, that song had stuck in his mind. His mother, his grandmother, his great-grandmother, every other mother he knew, every woman he knew, rocked. How dare any man tell a dirty joke about any woman? And that pretty Scottish brunette he had made love to that night, Kirsten Stewart, she had made him feel the warmth and compassion of eternity. Two beings becoming one being, uniting to remember how heaven felt like.
Jean-Philippe wandered past the Mediterranean sea that day, years later, enjoying the sight of a sunset just as gorgeous as Yvette. He tried to catch it on his canvas, the reds and yellows and blues a mere shadow of the real thing.
His little balcony was sunlit, the aubergines and bourgogne and crisps in the table succulent like a kiss. Jean-Philippe plucked out a small note from his wallet, dialling a number he had been memorizing for a long time.
The woman answering the phone giggled, knowingly, now returned from the doctor's office. "Yvette Anhouil."
"Ma chère fleur de la création, veux-tu prendre un café avec moi?"
That promising giggle again, exhuberant, shot through his heart. "Oui."
Within that one "Oui" lay the blooming promise of many kisses and hugs, houses and parties and laughs and wine-tasting and the little feet of toddlers and the eternal experience of diving headlong into the chivalrous original flower of creation.
Many years later, Jean-Philippe Raymonde an aging retiree, he quoted his own grandfather of a woman's conscience being at the centre of the universe. Grandchildren at his side, Jean-Philippe did his best to catch the beauty of the 80 year-old Yvette he had spent his life with.
"My acrylic paint cannot catch your beauty, my dear," he whispered.
Yvette waved away the remark with her right hand and Jean-Philippe saw the grace in her movements that he had fallen in love with for the first time so many years ago.
"I think it's good, grand-père," his granddaughter Ninette crooned, sitting on Jean-Philippe's knee. And the grandson Pierre, looked into his grandmother's eyes. Inside them, he saw the rose garden, the vineyard, the sunset, the house and the garden, all of it, in a flourish of female wisdom. It was then that Pierre looked at his grand-père's face, the road-map-lines of years gone by, realizing how much he must have loved this woman to spend his entire life with her. Yvette always spoke of Terre Mère, Mother Earth. And that inspired the seven year-old to speak his heart, like seven year-olds do.
It was a simple thought, really.
It was so simple that Pierre had to take a step back, tilting his head to the side at the prospect. It was a slow tilt, contemplative, retrospective, introvert.
A realisation.
"Grand-père?" Pierre spoke, softly, leaning against the old man's shoulder.
"Oui, Pierre?"
Pierre winced at the French sunshine, his feet firmly on the Provence ground, his thoughts far away into the distance of the universe. "Is God a woman?"
One tear rolled down Yvette's cheek. One tear she did not dry off because of her French pride. Jean-Philippe half-smiled, pecking his grandchild's nose with his old finger.
At that moment, Pierre's and Ninette's mother came strolling up the hill, playing a flamenco tune on grandfather's old guitar, her husband walking behind her. It was a sweet old tune she was playing, one Jean-Philippe had heard as a jeune garçon.
And the grandfather, rose up from his unfinished painting, grabbed his glass of Bourgogne and started dancing with his family, spilling his wine, his wife shrieking with grace.
"She most certainly is, Pierre," Jean-Philippe said while cuddling Yvette, "she most certainly is."
And, after that, the sun just kept on shining.
Clutching the Cybersword
Erotica by Charles E.J. Moulton
I had seen them come and go, the other fighters. Me? I was adamant in leaving my current stature, embarking onto new horizons. I knew that if I was killed, I was done for, gone for good. So, all I could do was keep fighting until my cult status catapulted me to a better place. I had become somewhat of a legend. With my almost seven feet height, strong muscles and excellent killing techniques, a neptorod was yet to vanquish me. Wofaria had never seen a fighter as stubborn and hard as myself. Most nepto-killers were crushed at the most a year after entering the arena. So here I am, here to tell you how my world changed.
My preparation for the fight, the day everything changed, had almost come to a close, my muscles flexing, my body ready and my mind concentrated on its task. Of course I enjoyed my work, but killing a neptorod for the 472nd time would have seemed too dull a task, had it not been for the size of the thing.
Well, of course they had told me that I was about to fight a bigger beast this time. With its 25 feet in height and 13 feet in length, it gave even me the shivers. I believe, on your planet they call them dinosaurs. The difference, over here, is that they still exist alongside us. If no one else could, I would beat it, right? After all, I had killed bigger and yet bigger neptorods. Hell, I told myself, why not this one?
“Eventually a Neptorod gets everyone,” the people had told me four years earlier, back when I had been a so-called rookie-killer. That was, at least, until I proved my stamina. I think you knew my kind as gladiators, at least back in what you called the Roman Empire. After that first year of my time as a killer, every fight turned into a guessing game. Was I going to make it again? Then, after two years, I had to come up with more amazing stunts to entertain the people. Otherwise, they would become bored. They knew I was going to win. By now, on my way toward the fifth year as a beast-crusher, it was merely a question of how I would be killing the beast. By strangulation? By shoving two knives into its eyes? By numbing it with a head-punch and then shoving a spear into its belly? There were regular bets going on amongst the people about what technique I would use this time. People were betting gold, money, their pets and even their wives on my daily chosen methods of beastly execution.
Some of the time, I even got to fuck some guy’s wife because he had lost his chance on a bet. I’d say that half of the time there was some bimbo waiting there, naked, her legs spread eagle after a fight. I even had five girls waiting there once in my dressing room, all waiting on their knees, mouths open, their eyes expectantly wide, eager to see if I was as big as the other girls had told them. Was my nickname “Mr. Squirt” justified? Was my erect hard penis really ten inches long? Did I have as much cockjuice in my balls as the experienced girls had told their girlfriends? All they wanted, those cockteasing chickies told me, was five portions of my cum. I granted them all my squirts of my sperm, of course. How could it be otherwise? I am a gentleman. I aim to please.
Life had become predictable, I will admit that. In fact, it consisted of life in two places: my elegant but confined flat and the arena. I had all the privilages of a superstar – cyber-cinema, food, waterbed - but I was not allowed to leave. Ever. All the willing girls came in through by way of the spectator-tunnel, which was of no access to me. Right at the moment of the fight, my guard waited for me by the Neptorian Entrance, the one that was saved for my kind. Anyway, the day of my 472nd neptorod-combat, someone had assigned a weaponbearer and a costume-girl for me. I don’t know who it was that had sent them at first.
When I strode in to my arena dressing room, they were waiting for me. One guy and one girl. I humbly asked them what they wanted and they responded that they were fans. I chatted with them for a few minutes about neptorods and the live bait I used in my fights, hamsters and rats and the like, before the admitted to being fans of my sexual prowess.
Both rather handsome, I must say. No, I am not bi, but sharing chick with another guy has always been fun. At least when the babe gets down on her knees and points her butt at me, it just helps when I can fuck her forward into another hot dick.
That’s what we did. The boy, Nagat, was a fine fellow with a penis half the size of mine, but rather sturdy and very thick, just my width. The girl, Inia, had the nicest size ass I have ever seen. It wobbled so beautifully when I stuck my cock inside it. When we both finished on her, granting her swell portion of our pistol-proteine, she spent ten minutes licking off the juice off her boobs.
I knew the truth, though. I had been a ghetto-boy from the slums of Wofaria’s suburbs. I only fought to stay alive. They were no different. So I told them I had been chosen to fight after having been falsely accused of murder. The beast-crushing business had become my life, but if someone offered me a way out, I would hang my weapons on the hook forever and leave this fighting business to its destiny. Nagat and Inia told me very little about their fate. They inserted the weapons into my leather back-belt, adjusted my cape, put on my spike-gloves and tied my shoes. I kept asking them if life was diffiult for them, but all they did was answer me how damn lucky they were to meet me.
There I was, knowing fully well how Inia’s pussy tasted and felt, seeing how soulfully Nagat had fucked her, knowing that their spirits wanted what I wanted: freedom. You see, in our world sex is a part of spiritual freedom. Fucking is one of many ways we use to express who we are, what we want or if we have found our fate in our incarnations. Not until much later did I understand that there are planets where that is not the case.
When I walked out into the arena that day, my electronic ankle-brace squeezed my skin especially harshly. I had experienced hardships with my leg after falling from a neptorod one week before. The brace had detected that and was set to increase any pain. I remained steadfast and stoic, trying to concentrate on my task. One hundred thousand spectators greeted me with cheers, screaming my name: “Igure, Igure, Igure!”
I responded my usual armraising greeting, stretching my hands way up into the air and screaming my customary chant, a chant my audience knew about and joined into, I must add. I said: “Death to the neptorods!”
It was my revenge on the government, just like all the girls I kept fucking before and after my shows always was a way of finding myself. King Lurtuish had offered me this position almost five years back in order to serve my sentence well. I had agreed, not really knowing what I was facing. Now I had become a huge megastar, but with no freedom. The public demanded that the king let me go. Nobody had responded to my claim as of yet.
Just as my ankle twisted my skin even more, the monster arrived, drooling, spitting, its red eyes half as menacing as its glowing green skin, its spiked head half as menacing as the slow bobbing tail that sought to crush me. My hands clutched my cybersword, the beast’s eyes flashed, its nostrils flaring with smoke oozing out of every pore. We were two creatures, destined to duel, one victor, one bevictored.
Then, all at once, we both rushed toward one another, like beasts destined to embrace in combat, mortals lovers caught in a death-dance. It flew toward me, I grabbed my spikes, jumped onto its throat, crawling up while screaming, shoving them into his nostrils, climbing up on its head, clawing its eyes, producing hell-holes of purple bleeding. It screamed. Oh, how it yelled. Then, when it died, the audience broke out into fits of cheers. And I? I stood up, alone again, addicted to victory, depressed when victory had passed me with flying colors.
Back in my dressing room, melancholic again, she was there. No Inia, no Nagat, just a very, very elegant woman. Black long dress with beads hanging down from both shoulders. I twisted and turned, trying to find my previously fucking guests.
“Where are my new friends?”
The woman took some elegant steps up toward me, swaying her cute derriere and wagging her boobies at me. “They were escorted out through the tunnel.”
I cocked my head, critical as to who I had before me. There had been many women offering themselves to me. This one seemed more in control, more superior. I don’t know why, but she scared me. “And who are you?”
I put my sharp sword in my holster and stretched my muscles, pretending not to care, probably looking like I did and not knowing the fuck why.
“Princess Lidea,” the woman said. “I am here to set you free.”
I looked up, stunned. For one singular moment, time seemed to stop. Free? I had only known this life for ... well, too long now. I was a star, sure, but one that never saw anything but the confines of singular spaces. “You’re kidding?” I waited, trying to detect the cheat. “Why are you setting me free? Who are you?”
Princess Lidea walked up to me and knelt down, helping herself to me groin. “King Lurtuish’s daughter. He spoke of you as ‘Wofaria’s most famous man’ and added,” she said, dropping my trousers and giving me a hand-job, “that something had to be done. So he’s setting you free.”
I smiled, enjoying her treatment. “Does he know you are giving me a handjob?”
Lidea giggled, wrinkling her nose. “No.”
By this time, my huge schlong had been pumped up to a singularly humongous size. Lidea, the dirty princess, didn’t fail to insert my cock into her cherry red lips, embracing it, hugging it hard, making it look like vanilla cone travelling into a strawberry salad. She closed her eyes, grabbing ahold of my butt, making me wonder if she had alterior motives.
“What do you want from me,” I chuckled while moaning, “except my huge dick in your mouth?”
Lidea took out my cock, rubbed it back and forth. “My dad wants to see you, so you’re coming to the palace to speak to him.”
“The palace?” I inquired, for the first time realizing that this crumpet actually meant business. Up until now, she had only been a possible escape route from my guard.
“Why?”
“You’ve become a legend,” she answered with a wink.
She reached into her cleavage, fumbled a bit, my cock bobbing like crazy and waiting for some more female mouth. After fumbling for a minute, she began unbuttoning her dress. “Ah, what the fuck, you’re gonna fuck me, anyway!”
“What are you getting out?”
There were three glories revealed. Lidea’s fantastic D-cup gazongas and the key to my ankle-brace. After she released me from a lock that would’ve exploded had I broke it, I licked her sexy and fleshy titties, fucked her like a maniac and squirted on her butt.
We left for her personal carriage out the royal way and I had never seen that entrance. What was more surprising was the disappearance of my guard. Flabbergasting, it felt like dancing on clouds. I had not seen these sights, the city itself, in five years. The Gaoshs High Street with the fifty statues of the Ingfas kings, the Ahgso Waterfall next to the Üpja-palms, the Temple of Opidgd and the Theater of Zuafsfsa. The crowds, well, what can I say, they noticed that their hero was free. So, the shouts grew louder than I had ever heard them. A few of my fucklovers were there, too, and they were smiling, hoping for more of my cock. My dick glued to my leather pants by way of dried sperm, though, and I couldn’t leave the princess.
As soon as we entered the royal grounds, my heart nearly stopped, my breath grew shallow, my eyes teared. That’s when it dawned on me that I might really be free, after all. But what were they planning for me? Working as a government official? Becoming their military leader? Had I been freed of the charges? Had they realized I was not guilty?
Anyway, eventually I wandered into that pink palace with its 165 towers and 40 entrances, greeted by welcoming, blue-clad courtiers, taking me to the biggest and most impressive dining hall I had seen. When I sat there with King Lurtuish, I couldn’t help but feel bribed. The food simply overwhelmed me, meat of every kind, stews and soups, the alcohol soothed my senses, and underneath place at my table, two blonde girls knelt below me under the table, taking turns giving me blowjobs. The king offered me a position as a military leader. This had to be fake.
So, it was a weary and intoxicated head that I wandered to my suite, pondering over this incredible change in my life. I had been pampered, caressed, fed, complimented and fucked. I don’t know what it was, but I was sure King Lurtuish was jealous. So I sat there on my marble terrace overlooking the red, white and blue plains of Ikugas, wondering if I should let this conspiracy come to a close or if I should do something.
I tried to sleep, I tossed and turned, I called for food, I ate it, I drank some more wine, I called for three girls and fucked them, squirted on their faces, but whatever I did, this feeling of restlessness only grew more intense.
At three thirty at night, my cock again glueing to my leather pants by way of cum, I decided to take a stroll in the vast palace garden. The roses smelled fresh, the full moon reflected its white light on my large frame. I couldn’t help now owning what I thought was the last piece of my puzzle: freedom. They hadn’t even mentioned my alleged crime. It was completely gone. I vowed to ask Lidea or Lurtuish that tomorrow.
Just as I wondered what to do, I heard screams echoing through the night. I turned around, witnessing two people running through the night, followed by guards. I don’t know what they were screaming. I do know that I recognized them. It was Nagat and Inia, the couple I had fucked with before the fight with the Neptorod this morning. Panic in their voices, speed in their joints, mortal fear in their bellies, they obviously attempted escape from ... yes, from what? The guard caught up with Inia, ripped off her dress and dragged her back to ... wait a minute, that was a dungeon down there. A prison cell. In the midst of this gorgeous garden, sorrow in the midst of wealth. That seemed cheap, vile, evil, even.
I watched the guards drag down my carnal shagmates down into a deep hole, closing the door, shutting it and dawdling away laughing. One moment of silence protruded, prevailed, and I was left in the midst beauty, listening to screams. And my feet, almost on their own, approached darker areas. Soon enough, I walked down mossy steps, finding myself by their sides, crying, naked, desperate.
“King Lurtuish has called you here to fool you,” Nagat began, drying his eyes of tears.
“Tomorrow,” Inia continued. “You will be presented in front of the court and the public, and tested.”
“Tested?” I inquired, bewildered as to the meaning of these words.
“We,” Nagat said, “will be thrown at your feet and you will be ordered to kill us. If you don’t, you will die. King Lurtuish has lured you here to get rid of you.”
“He is envious,” Inia concluded.
I bade farewell to my lustful companions, seeing the sun rise before my eyes, not having slept one wink. With tears in my eyes, the huge corpus that had killed 472 neptorods was unable to rebel against the crown. Why? Fear of authority.
So, there I stood, shortly after the royal breakfast, in front of large crowd of revellers. The king had spoken well of me as the new military leader. For the first time, though, he said openly that my crimes of late were pardoned and forgotten. The condition being if I could, myself and completely, mortally wound two criminals. Enter, Nagat and Inia.
So, there I was, actually wishing to be back in my arena, being escorted to my elegant prison. Nagat and Inia lay there at my feet, I was given a sword with which I was expected to execute the people I had fucked not yet 24 hours ago.
“Stop this nonsense!”
The voice that reverberated from beyond the king’s throne possessed way more authority than the king’s. Accordingly, my sword raised, my huge hand trembling, my mind wondering why I couldn’t kill a fuckbuddy when I had killed 472 beasts, I turned around, the sword tumbling down on the ground. I turned around again, fearing that the sword had wounded my friends. Not so. They lay at my feet, crying.
“You have taken this far enough!”
The woman that strode up toward me was dressed in red, a bloody antidote to the king’s bland grey. She reached forward her hand: “I am Gertrude, the queen!”
She turned around and faced her husband.
“The real queen!”
She strode back toward the king’s golden throne and pointed at him.
“You know as well as I that my father was the king, that I am the real monarch and that this man,” Gertrude said, pointing at me, “is innocent of killing Nagat’s father.”
Nagat looked up at me. I looked at Nagat, Inia shrugged and I think the king cringed.
“Who are you, Nagat?” I asked.
“My father was murdered by the king,” he answered. “You were blamed, because you were close by the crime-scene.”
Suddenly I remembered being in the Wofarian capital on the day of the royal parade, five years ago. I remember witnessing a fight between the king and his assistant, five years ago. I remember being the witness to someone getting a knife shoved in a belly and realizing that the man had been a royal assistant. I had not seen the face of the murderer. I had just known that they had disappeared into a side street to fight. I was dragged away, given the position of nepto-killer. I had been told to keep my mouth shut, fighting beasts and living like a king, never getting out of my misery, but trying.
I looked at the king, saw him being dragged away, and wondered why fate twisted and turned the way it did. Queen Gertrude pardoned me, Inia, Nagat and Lidea joined me in the back room. We needed love, so we gave each other exactly that. Although Lidea and Gertrude seemed melancholy about the king’s recent abdication, Gertrude eagerly wondered to see if I was as big as her daughter had claimed.
Soon enough, there was that one moment when I stood in the palace, so close to the throne, hearing the groans of happiness from three girls being fucked in turn by Nagat. While Gertrude worked on my large dick, Lidea came over and kneeled below Nagat’s gender, licking on his balls. I now soared in seventh heaven, two girls on their knees, giving me blowjob point-of-views. Inia, that raunchy little crumpet with deep dimples and twinkling little eyes, rubbed her big titties while walking up to me, the old beast-crusher.
Without even opening my eyes, I found Lidea’s willing mouth, my own cockjuice spreading across my gums, her tongue wrapping around mine, her saliva travelling back and forth between my cheeks. Lidea’s lipstick tasted of cherries, her tongue tasted of woman, her cheek tasted of perfume and her hair smelled of mandarine scented perfume.
The helmet of my cock, blue and hard, smiled at Inia with its happy one eye. She took the length in her mouth, closing her eyes, sucking deeper for every blow, enjoying the salty taste of my throbbing manhood. She caressed my ass as she gave me a hot blowjob, I grabbed her head hard, pushing my hot cock into a red and willingly harlotlike facehole.
I moaned, groaned, sighed, sang, laughed and cried, all at once, while giving my sexy mistress her well-earned blow job. Man, it felt good to get a good blowjob.
Time stood still as I, almost in slow motion, reached down and got ready to fuck the chickies in turn. Gertrude threw her head backward as I entered her from behind, smiling, groaning, moaning, grabbing her tits and caressing her nipples. Inch by inch, centimetre by centimetre, I worked myself down toward the temple of her innermost glory, while Nagat fucked Inia. With the gorgeously lustful sounds of the birds in the garden, I pulled myself toward Lidea’s sweetly tasting vagina. Digging deeper and deeper into her body, I found myself actually filling my entire face with her juices before humping her, while Nagat now shagged Gertrude.
We took turns fucking all of those three lovely pussies, switching holes, sharing glory, laughing, those genders making wet noises. With a fantastic smacking sound, I slid out my cock out of Inia’s pussy and injected it into Gertrude’s asshole, only to finger Lidea’s cunt. It was tighter than I expected, but Gertrude seemed to enjoy the feeling of having me fuck her butt in the backside of the throne-room to the sounds of Nagat squirting on Inia.
The girls ended up lying on the floor, licking cum off their tits and chatting.
Nagat and I, we discussed what possible things we could do with the kingdom, how we could improve the lives of the people, how we could eliminate poverty and what we should do with King Lurtuish. We agreed that all we had to do was follow what our hearts told us to do. So, King Lurtuish received a position tending to the garden, but living in a confined area at night.
I went back to the arena today. As a king. Yes, I am king of Wofaria now. The crowd cheered. I had been one of them. We are freeing the country as we speak. And feeling fucking lucky every bit of the way.
The neptorods still exist, but we have confined them to a seperate place away from the dangers of the arena. Nobody enjoys fighting anymore. We do two things instead. We make love and we make music. After all, sex not only creates babies, it’s also a lot of fun. In fact, it’s sheer heaven. We travel the galaxies, trying to find out more about you humans on Earth. So I am sending you this letter, sending you a message by way of one of rockets. Another species tried to inspire you to believe in this truth back during one of your wars. I believe you called the era your power of flowers, or something of that sort.
Didn’t you want to make love and not war?
What’s happened to that?
It’s time to remember love.
Castagnette, November Issue, 2021:
Dear Lovers of Things Sensual,
The world constantly makes love to itself. And we search for love in all its forms. And because everything is energy - matter is an illusion, our need to feel touch and tenderness is eternal. We need to hug each other. We need to kiss and touch. We need to cuddle. We need for someone to simply caress us and tell us they are there for us. Making love is simply an expression for our yearning to feel the aura and the vibrations of another beautiful human being.
The spiritually evolved say that women vibrate on a higher frequency. In fact, it is said a person is reborn as a women simply because they are further spiritually, In the new book "The Truth about Eve" by Carel von Schalik and Kai Michel (Rowohlt, 2021), the authors say that evolution, or "Evelution" as the case may be, has seen to that women test us men to make us strong: their demands insure our survival. In fact, the lack of equality between the species is an unnatural creation of the modern time. In the ealiest days of humankind, men and women were equal. Very much so. In fact, matriarchy was more common. it actually makes sense, knowing that anima (Carl Gustav Jung's principle of the feminine) can be seen as the foundation of everything that makes sense: love, tenderness, caring and artistry.
Reading Genesis thoroughly, we see that man's downfall came from the discovery of shame. The original was unity and love. Making love to be one like in heaven. Experiencing unity through love, a child the product of that love.
So, our society has got it wrong. Sex is not a sin. It is a portal to finding each other's souls. When we see the beauty in each other, physically, sensually and spiritually, we respect each other as counterparts. As mirrors.
People like Frank Sinatra, Nelson Riddle, Jimmy Van Heusen and Sammy Cahn (true lovers of the feminine) said that the inspiration for all art is the female sexuality. Mozart's love songs, Rubens paintings, Jane Austen's novels, Shakespeare's romantic plays, Gershwin and Porter and Rodgers and even Lloyd-Webber. All of it is about the need for touch.
So be proud that you are a sexual being. It is a part of who you are.
Enjoy this month's issue!
Best regards,
Charles E.J. Moulton
Editor-in-Chief
Castagnette
The human touch expresses affection and creates life.
"Castagnette" is named after the percussive flamenco instrument
that imitates the quickly beating heart. In fact, we here at "Castagnette" believe that the whole universe makes love to itself. Electrons with each other, humans with each other, the bees with the flowers, the moon with the Earth, the planets with the sun, the sun with the galaxy, the galaxies with each other. We are energy and matter is an illusion. Adam and Eve fell because of their own shame. The love we make and the attraction in which we partake defines us. Beauty is a part of life and sex is an integral part of that. Trees, flowers, sunsets, ocean or human beings.
Erotic stories are there to celebrate that, celebrate the beauty of sex.
We publish erotic stories, erotic poetry, erotic articles and erotic art.
Submission Guidelines:
We thrive in promoting sex as a passionately respectful way for two (or more) human beings to express their love and lust for each other and as a way to grow spiritually, tenderly and romantically. Stories that express these characteristics are more than welcome. We also welcome stories that mix erotic with other genres (sci-fi, western, fantasy or other literary styles). We also welcome the female view (and the male perspective, as well - or both connected). We also welcome sex and spirituality connected. Got any astral sex stories? Send them over!
Send us one erotic story per submission (maximum 5000 words)
with humane and heterosexual content as an attachment (.doc or .pdf, please - no .docx) or in the body of the email. It can be explicit and passionate, but it has to be respectful and non-violent, based on mutual attraction, romance, tenderness and excitement. Three poems per submission, one article or three photos of your erotic art.
Send your submission to
Charles E.J. Moulton
Editor in Chief
[email protected]
The Editor in chief
Charles E.J. Moulton
Charles E.J. Moulton
Born on September 8th, 1969. His mother was the renowned operatic mezzosoprano and Vienna Music Academy vocal professor Gun Kronzell (1930 – 2011) and his father was the author, actor and baritone Herbert Eyre Moulton (1927 – 2005). Charles is the Editor-in-Chief of “The Creativity Webzine.” 148 of his literary pieces have been published in international magazines, including short stories, articles and academic research papers. He is the author of “Aphrodite’s Curse: 21 Tales of Love and Terror” (published by Meizius Publishing on September 21st, 2015, available through Amazon and in selected bookstores). His stories are spread throughout the web and he is currently working on a novel. He has been a regular contributor for The Screech Owl and Idea Gems, has written for The Horror Zine, Asylum Ink, Cheap Jack Pulp, Contemporary Literary Review India, SNM, TWJ, Paradigm Shift, Shadows Express, Aphelion, Skirmish, Idea Gems, Shadows Express, Redhead, The Woven Tale Press, Socrates, Blood Moon Rising and Indiana Voice Journal and the Swedish magazine Barometern. Among the genres he has covered are academic research papers, opinions, reviews, literary fiction, spirituality, mystery, crime, fantasy, romance, erotica, sci-fi, horror and drama. Charles has also been a stage performer since age eleven. His has sung and acted in 115 stage productions to date, countless cross-over concerts, work as a drama- and a vocal-coach, as the big band vocalist of The J.R. Swing Connection and concert work with The Charming Boys, The Charles Moulton Band, The NPW Philharmonic Orchestra, Mother’s Darling and The 4-Men Trio. He spent a day in June of 2015 filming a soccer film for the Schalke Arena, he appeared on the cable channel SAT 1-afternoon show “Auf Streife”, has recorded voice-overs for Swedish films, collaborated with people like Luciano Pavarotti and played a performance of “Dance of the Vampires” in Vienna for Johnny Depp. He worked as a trilingual tourguide at the Renaissance palace in Kalmar, Sweden and is a filmmaker, translator, director, conductor, drama-coach, singing-teacher who teaches Italian in his free time. He has worked as a radio-speaker and is also a painter with sold and exhibited work. Among his stage roles, you will find Scar in The Lion King, Masetto in Don Giovanni and Young Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. Mr. Moulton is married and has a daughter.
Published Books by Charles E. J. Moulton
The Haunted Kingdom 1: Shadows of the Realm
The Haunted Kingdom 2: The Wasteland of Lost Majesties
The Haunted Kingdom 3: The Imperfect Angels
Aphrodite’s Curse – 21 Stories of Love and Terror
Heroes and Villains – What Makes Them Tick?
Be the Ocean – Poetry in Three Languages
The Trolls
Making Music (written with Herbert Eyre Moulton and Gun Kronzell-Moulton)
All the World’s a Stage – 24 Essays
The Singing Couple
When Your Sprits Climb – Four Decades of Short Stories
Painting the Complete Picture
Thoughts from the Other Side
The Andalusian Phoenix – 34 Erotic Short Stories
Cosmic Waffles
The Mood of Midnight
Heaven Is a Feeling
Performed Plays:
2009: Mamma Mia! (director, actor, singer)
2016: Long Live the Trolls! (playwright, director, actor, singer)
2017: Seid wie ihr seid! (playwright, director, choreographer, actor, singer)
2020: Time in the Twilight (musical in progress: composer, director, actor, singer, producer)
Included in these collections:
Another Wild West
Cheapjack Pulp: Issue 615
Cheapjack Pulp: Issue 915
The Horror Zine Magazine Spring 2016
New York, My New York: A Bite of the Big Apple
Divine Choir
Works in Progress:
Guardian of the Voyagers – A Novel about Interstellar Pirates
Angel of Mine – Spiritual Awakening in Hollywood
Article by Charles E.J. Moulton
The Spirituality of Sex
Watch out. You’re sitting in the hotseat.
What we’re about to deal with here probably contradicts what you have learned or have been taught, but let’s face it: this is a new age.
Sex is a sacred, procreative and divine act and it is not a sin.
Celibacy really is redundant, even for Catholic priests.
If they were allowed to marry, we could put an end to a lot of pain.
A new age? Well, I mean that both in the sense of the religious movement in question as well as in the sense that this actually really is a new age. No, not a new world order. We are not talking about the Illuminati here. This is the evolution of humanity at work.
We have to look reality straight in the eye, using our souls and not necessarily our brains. Our emotions lead the way and, in that sense, the truth really shall set us free.
It’s in our DNA.
If we didn’t like it, babies would not be born.
As a matter of fact, we have to like it.
It is instrumental to our survival as a species.
Sex is a part of us.
The question, then, is why sex has received the reputation of being down and dirty, when in fact it is a beautiful morphing of souls. We feel at one with creation when we have sex. The shot of the two protagonists at the end of the film “The Lawnmower Man” – two beings becoming one being during sex in the virtual world – that is what sex is to me at its best: a miracle of monogamy. Unity.
The result of this creational act is a baby.
We are creators, aiming to be like our Father in Heaven: giving life to a new human being, caring for it like He cares for us.
Animals don’t feel shame for sex, why should we?
Dolphins are highly intelligent, elephants practice telepathy, cows are family creatures and so we are all sacred.
Adam and Eve’s downfall was shame, nothing else.
Read and learn.
Why then feel guilt for something we are programmed to love?
Sex requires responsibility. I still believe that sex and monogamy are the perfect couple, just like dear George Michael stated at the end of his video “I Want Your Sex”: explore monogamy.
I believe he is just as alive in the next world as he was here incarnate. He just left his body. And that is the proof of the spirit, isn’t it? We speak of our bodies in third person.
We have bodies, we are not bodies.
Likewise, being sexy is an attitude, it is spiritual, mental, of the soul and mind. If we are ashamed of the sexual part of ourselves, we are ashamed of ourselves. We just have to learn to deal with that power, not let it own us. Be faithful, respectful, sensible, sensitive. Good sex is listening to the other one what that being wants or needs.
Moreover, sexual energy is artistic beyond any physical traits. Rubens paintings of naked women, Mozart’s dainty chamber pieces, Lord Byron’s exquisite poetry, every love song ever written, they’re all redirected sexual energy and thereby non-physical.
The endless abandonment of everlasting lust and love, we find it in the tales of couples throughout history: Marie Antoinette and Axel von Fersen (portrayed in the film by Norma Shearer and Tyrone Power) or Romeo and Juliet.
The joys of sexual monogamy walk side by side with lust. We all know how wonderful sex can be after we “repair our differences”. Furthermore, sex is stronger than anything. Accordingly, fidelity should rule. Having tolerance to differences pays off and creates the miracle of a nuptial bond beyond description.
Sex is artistic and a part of the good life. That is also the reason why I have included art and music in many of my erotic stories. I have also tried to dive into many genres and styles. You will find erotic sci-fi, erotic fantasy, erotic drama, erotic music, erotic sword and sorcery, erotic romance, erotic wit and, okay, sex for the sake of it. I’ll admit it: the occasional orgy, as well.
Pour yourself a brandy, light a cigar, insert a soothing classical CD into your player, sit down into your favourite armchair under the Boucher painting and prepare to be aroused.
Sex is spirit in motion.
I have the highest respect for women.
You wanna know why?
One reason: they are the givers of life.
Prospeity is their middle name.
When you make love to a person you love, your subatomic particles mingle and two beings become one. Since everything in the universe is 99,9 % empty space and the rest is in vibration, we can safely say that faithful monogamous sex might be a doorway to heaven. Enjoy these stories and remember: respect each other, especially while having sex!
We might think that a discussion like that is outdated, but look at what we believe, what our society tells us. We think sex is dirty. We are taught that we can only be holy if we are chaste, but if that were true why are so many good people parents of so many children? If that were true, why are there hypocrite virgins or people who have no sex but commit crimes?
The result is that young people battle between liking sex and finding God. God actually lives within their souls. There is a great tragedy in such an act, because they can have both sex and find God. In fact, they should have both. They are fertile souls put here in bodies upon the Earth to procreate and love each other. I have good news for you: God wants you to have fun during sex with someone you honestly love. That’s what it was meant to be: fun.
When we make love to the partners we love, we should treat it as a sacred act between equal partners and an act of utmost tenderness, but we cheapen it and treat it as a sin.
Disrespect, hatred, arrogance, theft, murder, bigotry, ignorance, injustice, those are sins. Forcing celibacy upon clerics has created wars and famine and hung, drawn and quartered thousands of innocent people. Do you know how many lives have been ruined because of that kind of behaviour?
I am about to scratch the surface of a very old wall nourished by a very old muse. One that defends a tradition that we have accepted as true – but isn’t.
The fact that nobody actually has checked the facts is a sign that people accept what is preached to them by anyone in power. People don’t want to make their own decisions for fear of making the wrong decisions. So, most people will let other people make the wrong decisions for them. That way, if something goes wrong they can blame him for the catastrophy.
God exists, God is inside you, God is everything there is, God loves you.
He gave you your emotions. Use them to improve the future of humanity.
I stress that I, too, am a bible reader and a religious man. I am also, however, a soul, a husband, a believer and a man that loves sex. I know also what problems have been created through the anti-biblical and quite misunderstood and misinterpreted requirement for celibacy.
Fidelity, certainly. Respect, of course. Gender equality, naturally. Celibacy, not really.
Having lots of respectful, equal levelled, faithful sex is a part of who we are.
You heard it, I said: “faithful.”
Faithful is real.
So, does the bible actually say that sex is a sin?
No.
I’ll give you some quotes here before we go to the facts:
St. Paul, in the bible, in 1 Timothy 3: 1 – 13, assumes, to begin with, that many deacons and bishops will be married. In Timothy 3: 2, 12 and in Titus 1:6, he even states that a cleric must manage his family well and that his children must obey him with proper respect (1 Timothy 3:4, Titus 1:6). So, we see that the bible only loosely recommended celibacy and sometimes even recommended priestly marriage. The Catholic Church, however, has turned celibacy into a real problem that began only as a power-tool.
If that is true, how come that celibacy has been given the stamp of being so diabolical an act? If it was never a clerical requirement stated in the bible to begin with, when did that begin? The initial requirements concerning the celibate life of priests appeared at the Councils of Elvira in 306 A.D. and Carthage in 390 A.D. That it was a discussed necessity prior to these meetings is not the issue. The real reason for the inclusion of celibacy in the clerical profession was to omit any nepotism.
Anyone who has studied Renaissance history will know that Alexander VI, the Borgia-Pope, frequently passed professional torches of sorts to his children and was even reputed telling his son Cesare that he would see that he would become pope one day – by his father’s own hand.
Celibacy was a way to avoid that.
The hypocrite political agenda of Alexander VI shows us that clerics found ways to promote nepotism and overcome celibacy anyway. I am willing to bet Alexander VI would never have become so bigot a pope, if celibacy had been banned.
Also, the patriarch-oriented and masculine bureaucracy of the church was simply a power-tool to keep the power where the power was stationed. Men were stationed on the battlefields. It didn’t take long for the regal leaders and the clerics to cooperate to keep their kind in power. The crusades were examples of this kind of cooperation. It was a bigot attempt to crush any other way of obeying God by forcing everyone to be as masculine and as westernized as them.
Let’s be honest here: no woman would ever have gone on a religious crucade in order to kill muslims just to get back land, holy or not. Jesus knew that his kingdom was not of this world. Jesus chose a woman named Mary Magdalene to spread the message that he had been resurrected and he sure wouldn’t have killed anyone to make a point. So why should we do the same? Shame on the inquisitors, crusaders and the clerics for forgetting what Jesus taught to begin with. Jesus only told his followers to be faithful. Did Jesus ever kill anyone, avoid prostitutes, call sex a sin? No. He told us to be honest, faithful, kind, loving, sincere.
Female priests would’ve used their brains and their vocabulary, not weapons. The male population knew that and they were afraid of it. Many clerics are still afraid of female sincerity. The male dominance factor within the priestly profession was and is only a power-tool. In a way, we all are and can be or could be priests of God.
The presence of fear for female honesty included Paul, who in the Corinthians spoke of women required to be silent in church.
It should be noted that I believe that if women would have been used as the main religious leaders of clerical tradition, not one drop of blood would have been shed.
Women are creators to end all creators.
We know that, don’t we, guys?
If the body is the beautiful house of the soul, why can’t we enjoy that house? Tizian, Rubens, Caravaggio, Boucher and Michelangelo painted naked bodies. Their art is considered divine. So why should real nudity portrayed in a respectful way be any less?
We can even go back to the very beginning of the Old Testament to find another real truth. Adam and Eve’s downfall was never that they were seduced to have sex by any old snake. It was never even once stated that sexual practice was a reason for any destruction. What is stated, however, was that Adam and Eve were ashamed of being naked.
Accordingly, their own shame was their downfall.
Are the animals ashamed of themselves for being naked? To them, there is no such thing as “naked”: they are what they are. It would be highly impractical for us to strip naked and wander about town with nothing but our birthday-suit on. But the fact remains: if we had the honesty animals possess, we would be better off. Look into the eyes of a faithful dog or a friendly horse and tell me that they have no souls.
I heard a friend of mine say that animals have no eternal souls. That, fortunately, is a lie. They do, indeed, have souls. And are we not more or less worthy than they?
If we look at the Renaissance alone, we have countless examples of sexual perversions inspired only by celibate supression. Clement VII and Alexander VI were two of the many popes that had illegitimate children. Nay, they had entire dynasties of offspring and mistresses, conducted orgies and perversions without end going on within the walls of the Vatican.
Behaviour like that scared people away from the church. We would never have created atheists, though, if we had realized that God and the church only remotely played the same ballgame. When we see what Alexander VI did in God’s name and how the religous wars ravaged Europe, we witness the tragic logic of a missed oppurtunity that created today’s secularized world. Accordingly, also because of the abnormal celibate dictatorship, the church did more harm than good by being so concentrated on celibacy.
The prude era of Victorian England was compulsive in its strictly gender-based society (not unlike some other countries today where educated women with degrees are expected to stay home and cook). The woman was a mere decoration and the man was the workhorse that came home to take her for walks and show her around. The dark dungeon-like catacomb of that infrastructure, however, was a capital that created 200 000 prostitutes and a killer nicknamed Jack the Ripper. Can you imagine a world that did not label sex as a sin creating such perversity? If sex and nudity would have been a natural thing people accepted and talked about the husband would certainly have gone home, respected and made love to his equal wife and not gone out and shagged someone else.
That conflict between the natural feeling of lust and the abnormal requirement for celibacy persists to this day. How many witch hunts, inquisitions, trials, executions, acts of torture, illegitimate children, homosexual affairs and perverse acts of sexual conduct could have been avoided within the clerical community if this unnatural act of celibacy had been lifted? After all, man is a rebel and he wants to be free. Forbid him to do something and it becomes interesting. Sex is interesting to begin with. Give him the freedom to have it and he will act responsibly.
If you still disagree with me, ask yourself why God would create something that we need to do in order to survive and then ask us not to do it?
So, that being said, I wanted to say that I believe in the eternal soul and I believe in God. I also believe that God created sex. Of course he created it. If we didn’t like sex, we wouldn’t have a species to begin with at all. Liking sex is a part of who we are.
That doesn’t mean we have to sleep around to begin with. In fact, we shouldn’t sleep around. Fidelity is a necessity, but supressing sex only makes matters worse.
History should show us that. If it doesn’t, boy, are we in trouble.
We are procreators. God is a creator and like he created us we, as individuals, are put here in this world to create something of our own. We create art, music, dance, literature, inventions, machines, new worlds, just to praise him/ her/ it/ the divine spirit – and yes: we create babies to praise him/ her/ it/ the divine spirit. If we didn’t like sex so much, we wouldn’t feel drawn to having it – just for the fun of it or for creating beautiful new babies that can keep praising him/ her/ it/ the divine spirit in any way we choose.
We have to like it.
In a lot of ways, sex actually saves us. As I said, that doesn’t mean we should go and have sex with everyone. In fact, being faithful is a sign of necessary respect for any partner. You sign a contract of sorts and you are expected to follow it.
Sex, though, is not just a procreative thing. It is also a symbiosis of souls, a union of emotions, a wonderful moment between two people. It is not a power tool. Never ever.
Again, I am a deep believer. I am first and foremost a soul living in a body. God lives inside me, outside me, within me, without me, before me, in front of me.
Respect each other, love each other.
Lust and sex in its most beautiful form is a triumph of emotions between two loving, consenting adults who just enjoy expressing a faithful sexual unison.
It is time we stopped pretending it is not part of our lives or that God doesn’t want it. What he doesn’t want, though, is for us to cheapen it. Guys, there is a whole lot of cheap sex out there. We have to stop that. Enjoy each other and by all means: use your dignity.
I am willing to bet that if the church had not brandmarked and devilproofed sexual lust with such adamancy we would not have such a clerical history of secret lust. This is an ongoing story that lasts to this day.
Of course we must point out that most priests are deepthinking, trustworthy and actually celibate people. The fact remains, however, that celibacy was implemented to avoid nepotism and was based on a biblical misunderstanding.
I firmly believe that even the atheists believe in God.
In my mind’s eye, I see one thousand people raising their eyebrows now. We must remember, though, that God lives within us and that God is everywhere. We can reach God in many ways. Going to a church, a temple, a mosque or a synagogue are ways to find God, but by no means the only ways.
How do I figure? Even the most adamant atheist has emotions. Maybe he falls in love, even though he will blame it on endorphines. He will wonder why he is angry at a friend who betrayed him once, even if he blames it on neurons. He will feel these emotions inside and deep down he knows that he believes in justice or equality or truth or faith or hope. He might even believe that good will can move mountains.
All of these things are spiritual characteristics that have nothing to do with the human body. In that sense, even the atheist believes in God. If he didn’t, why does injustice upset him? If God did not exist, nothing like that would matter. We all relate to beings in a non-corporeal way. Friendship has nothing to do with the body. The key is emotion.
You even hear agnostics say:
“Funny that you should call me right now, I just thought about you!”
or
“What a coincidence! I was just speaking about you with a friend!”
In my mind, there is no such thing as luck or coincidence.
The atheist might say that he does not believe in God, but maybe he believes in love, hope, justice, friendship, hope and faith. These things, my dears, belong to the spirit and the spirit is God.
Have you ever heard the expression: “God is love”?
Exactly.
And what is sex but an expression of love?
Now for the biggie: God expects us to act responsibly. He has given us assignments. Everyone has a mission. It is our job to find out what that mission is. God has one address: he is inside your emotions, inside what you feel, inside your most tender love, your hopes and dreams and faith.
If you find God while making love to your wife: well, hey, that’s great.
Where two people meet and pray in his name, God is with them. That is true for prayer, so why shouldn’t it be true for faithful sex. Sex, after all, is a form of amorous prayer.
As long as you don’t sneak out in the middle of the night and copulate with another woman, you are okay. In that case, you would actually be working against God.
If you feel attracted towards another person besides your spouse, keep it platonic, write a poem about love and lust in general, paint a painting, write a song, do a dance. Be creative. There are a thousand other ways to get rid of your lust. Don’t do what some men have done, creating havoc: exploding out of their frustrated marriages, leaving their families for some younger bimbo, leaving an unemployed wife and two children who wonder what hit them. In more cases than we know, we can make it work. In fact, we should definately try.
Having now held my sermon about fidelity, I will add that God gave us these feelings of sexual lust because it binds us together and explores who we are.
If Catholic priests were allowed to marry, can you imagine how many young lives that would have saved? It would put many therapists out of work. Express your love. Enjoy your love, just be faithful about it.
Make a decision that benefits everyone.
If you let your soul be your guide, you can never go wrong.
God is real. The seemingly endless universe, the intricate system born into every single individual, the telepathic reality of chance meetings, out of body experiences and correct recollections of proved past lives: those are all parts of a puzzle that we can use as evidence in actually proving God.
God really has nothing to do with the church. Not really. You can find him there. Most certainly. I know you can, I grew up going to churches, temples, synagogues, mosques. After all, I found him there, too. Remember that my parents were singers who sang loads of church concerts a year. They were deep believers, deep thinking people who prayed with me at least once a day. But they didn’t care what church they went to or in what church they actually sang. My mom Gun Kronzell, besides being a successful opera-singer, spent half her career singing oratories in churches. Churches, to me, were free for all, because faith and belief was, as well. Churches were potential employers for singers who wanted to get jobs. My dad Herbert Eyre Moulton was a cantor in a synagogue during his army days in Georgia, for crying out loud, and he wasn’t even Jewish. He studied to become a priest for four years before returning to his regular profession as an actor, but that didn’t stop him from going to the evangelic or even the orthodox church afterwards.
I, for my part, discovered that there was such a thing as church taxes at all when I had my first official theater gig. Paying someone money for believing in God? Excuse me?
My divine belief is my personal issue. It is not of this world, guys.
I will conclude my sermon of sorts here by mentioning the film “Basic Instinct”. The public reaction to the film back in 1992 showed me that we still have a long road to walk down before we can be as truthful, as respectful and as gentlemanly as we should be. People were more concerned back then that Sharon Stone showed the audience her vagina than the fact that she was a brutal murderer.
Think about that for a second.
What is worse? Sex or murder?
It is my hope that we one day will live in a society with people that know that we are souls, living in bodies, that are allowed to enjoy embracing one another, loving each other a bit before we move on to the next world.
Maybe we can then just stop the sexual excess of modern media and be just what were: faithful and emotional human beings that just love to love each other. After all, aren’t we all clerical advocates of our loving God?