The seething passions that lurk within many individuals are often hidden beneath a veneer of normalcy, exposed only under extremely tempting conditions.
The woman who, after a few drinks at a party, takes on all comers, male and female alike. The man who, during a strip show at a stag party, climbs up on the stage with the girl and performs with her in front of his friends. The couple who, while appearing to be staid members of the Establishment, are secret members of the neighborhood mate-swapping group.
Sharon Duncan is one of these outwardly proper and quite normal people. But within her lies a perversity that even she at first refuses to recognize, a perversity that haunts her dreams and eventually forces her to act.
EAGER BEAVER WIFE-the story of one woman haunted by the perversity of the passion seething within her. Hers is a serious tale, and a reflection on the many problems facing our society.
-The Publisher
CHAPTER ONE
The wet, pink lips spilled to each side and seemed to drool. Around them, a riot of crinkly hair curled, flourishing in a tawny bush at the top. Beads of moisture glistened on the hair and the flesh.
I looked away, but immediately returned my gaze. There was something magnetic about it. Something almost hypnotic about the girl's spread thighs.
Something that fascinated me about her wide-open cunt.
"Look at this," I said to my husband. "In this magazine you brought home there are pictures that women have sent in of themselves naked."
George was always bringing home these so-called men's magazines, but this was the first time I'd ever actually picked one up and looked inside.
"Hey," he said, coming over and trying to snatch the magazine from my hands. "You shouldn't be looking at that."
"Why not?" I said, retaining my grip. "It's just full of pictures of women. After all, I'm one too."
"But that's different."
"You're kidding."
"No, I'm not kidding," he said indignantly. "You're a wife and mother. The women in this magazine are ... are...."
"It says here that this one here with her legs spread is a housewife from Jonesboro, Georgia," I pointed out. "Her husband took the picture with the family Polaroid."
"Which one?" George said disbelievingly. "Show me."
"You mean you haven't memorized them all yet?" I laughed.
He didn't think it was funny. "How could I?" he said. "You grabbed the goddamn magazine before I ever had a chance to look at it."
He was right about that. I'd inadvertently found the magazine on the dining room table before he'd had a chance to hide it, as he usually did, and once I'd begun leafing through it I had been unable to put it down.
"Come on," George said impatiently. "Show me this housewife and then give me back my magazine. Which one is she?"
"This one," I said.
"Where ... on which page?"
"The one with her legs spread," I said. "Everybody in this magazine has their legs spread."
"So I've noticed," I acknowledged. "She's the one on the left. The one with the blonde ... the blonde...."
I could only be referring to one part of the anatomy. There was no head in the picture.
"I see her," George saved me from having to complete the sentence.
"What do you think of her?" I asked.
"Oh, well," he tried to be nonchalant, "if you've seen one, you've seen them all."
He was attempting to play it cool, but the quiver in his voice caused me to be suspicious. Obviously George wasn't laying down two bucks for magazines like this unless he liked what was in them. I looked away from the magazine and checked him out.
"Nothing special, huh, George?" I led him on. "Yeah ... yeah ... sure...." he stammered. "No big deal."
"Then how do you explain the bugle in your pants?" I said, looking straight at his taut crotch.
"What ... what are you talking about?" he replied defensively. "That's nothing. Nothing."
"Why, George," I said coyly, arching an eyebrow. "How can you downgrade yourself like that? It looks like at least nine inches to me."
He was so embarrassed that he was rendered speechless. However, as far as I was concerned, the swelling under his pants was doing more than enough talking for him.
At last I had something of sufficient interest to make me put aside the magazine. Throwing it on the coffee table, I slid across the couch toward George and his provocative bulge.
"Georgie," I cooed, "I think you're hiding something from me."
He just gulped.
I closed the distance between us. Before he could move, I threw my hands to his crotch and clutched him. The hard swelling abruptly engorging my fingers was hot and throbbing.
While he squirmed like a little boy caught doing something wrong, I seized the tab of his zipper and pulled his fly down. Before he could react, I had his long, stiff cock out of his pants. It was as erect as I'd ever seen it.
"So the girls in this magazine don't turn you on, huh?" I teased. "I suppose a glandular condition accounts for your, uh, condition."
He was so flustered that the only response he was capable of making was to sit there with his mouth hanging open. Meanwhile, I ran my fingers up and down his rigid prick, enjoying the way it twitched against my hand.
"Gee, it must be very inconvenient to have something like this and not want it," I said. "Do you want me to make it go away, Georgie?"
Blushing, he nodded his head. He was acting like a little boy who had come to his mother with a splinter in a very sensitive place.
He was so cute I couldn't resist. Lowering my head, I replaced my fingers around his cock with my lips.
The minute I tasted his prick I wanted more. I swallowed inch after inch until my lips were nibbling against his balls. His cock-head surged past my mouth and lodged in my throat.
A moan came from his gaping mouth as I sucked. I sucked even harder and it became a groan.
"Oh, God," he finally rasped, his inhibitions crumbling, "suck me. Suck me, Sharon, suck me hard."
As if I hadn't gotten past the point where I had anything else on my mind. Working my lips up and down his shaft, I doubled my suction, and began seriously fucking him with my mouth.
"Oooooh," he gasped with ball-churning pleasure, "that's it, Sharon. That's it. Suck me until I come. Make me come in your mouth."
Happily, I did everything I could to comply with his feverish request. Clutching his foreskin with my teeth, I drew it all the way up to the head of his dick and then abruptly tugged it down to his nuts. The heat radiating from his loins singed my face.
George was going crazy from the maddening oral .friction I was applying to his tool. He was so excited by now that it was all I could do to contain him and keep him from wiggling off the couch. His hips were bouncing and his cock was jumping in my mouth.
When he was about to come, I slipped my hand into his pants and found his asshole. Pushing a finger inside the tight pit, I bent my knuckle and reamed him out. His balls tightened and his prick lurched an extra inch down my throat.
"Oh, Jesus, I'm coming!" he announced. "I'm coming!"
Forewarned, I opened my throat muscles as wide as I could and prepared for the delivery of his sweet-tasting love-juice. Before I could blink an eye the head of his dick erupted and cum came pouring down my gullet.
I moaned with guttural pleasure as the hot jizz cascaded into my tummy. Before I knew it there was a puddle of spunk at least two inches deep gurgling in the pit of my stomach.
As he spurted, I pulled my finger out of his asshole with a loud pop and began rubbing the underside of his nuts. They were working hard, belching up glob after glob of steaming cum.
The taste of his cum intoxicated me. Like an alcoholic, the more I got to drink, the more I wanted. Whenever my supply of juice seemed about ready to give out, I increased the pressure of my suction and started it flowing again.
His body became increasingly tensed as my mouth forced him to produce more and more cream. Then, finally, when he could take no more of my suction, he collapsed like an inflatable doll that someone had just let the air out of. The dick that had been so hard and spurting in my mouth, suddenly became soft and sticky.
"Wow," he said after we had both caught our breath, "I'd better be more careful about leaving those magazines around the house."
"Why?" I teased, wiping away a gob of cum from my chin. "Are you afraid the kids will find them and think their father is a dirty old man?"
"After what just happened," he said, "I'm afraid they'll find out something a lot dirtier than anything in that magazine."
"Such as?" I beamed, licking some more excess jizz from my lips.
"Such as their mother giving their father a blow job at ten-thirty on a Sunday morning on the living room couch."
"When we should be in church," I giggled. "Or at the very least reading the funnies."
"Right, right," he laughed, finally seeing the humor in the situation.
"Well, then, you'd better put your equipment back in your pants," I eluded him. "In its present condition it doesn't leave too much to the imagination."
While he was stuffing his glistening prick back into his fly, I reached forward and picked up the magazine again. It was open to the same place, and after what had just happened, I was more fascinated by the picture of the spread-legged housewife from Jonesboro than ever before.
"Are you still looking at that thing?" George said as he pulled his zipper up. "You must really be horny this morning if a mouthful of cum can't even settle you down."
I was transfixed by the sight of the open pussy. Her legs were so far apart that the lips were pulled completely open. The mouth of her snatch yawned in a moist, red yawn. At the top of the damp opening I could definitely make out the turgid nub of her clitoris peeking through hooded folds of pink skin.
"George," I said after a long staring pause, "do you think she's attractive?"
He shrugged his shoulders and then said, "How should I know? You can't even see her face in that picture."
"You know what I mean."
He hemmed and hawed. He was embarrassed again by my interest in the magazine. We were right back where we'd started before I'd sucked him off.
"Well, George?" I insisted.
"Yeah ... I guess so...." he finally admitted. "I guess you could say that she's okay."
Suddenly I was seized by a bold impulse. "Do you think she's more attractive than I am ... down there?" I blurted.
George's eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead. He wasn't used to me being so frank about sex.
Right now he looked like he wished he were anyplace else but with me. However, I wasn't inclined to let him off the hook.
"Well, what do you think?" I pressed him. "Do you think her pussy is better-looking than mine?"
Now his eyebrows were all the way up to his scalp. "Sharon!" he gasped. "Do you think you should be talking like that?"
"Why not?" I stood my ground. "After all, aren't 'pussies' what men call that part of a woman's body among themselves? 'Pussies' and 'cunts'?"
Like a child confronted by a parent with a wrongdoing, he looked down and slowly nodded his head.
"Okay, then," I said, "there's no point in being hypocritical about it. Right, George?"
"I ... I guess not," he muttered.
"Then stop beating around the bush and answer my question," I said. "Whose pussy do you think is the more attractive ... mine or this woman's in the magazine?"
He stretched his head as though he were presented with an imponderable choice. This whole thing had started off as a kind of a joke, but now I increasingly felt as if I had something to prove.
"Maybe I can help you make up your mind," I said calmly and opened up my bathrobe. All I was wearing underneath was a sheer nightie. George's eyes bugged out like he had never seen me in it.
Instinctively, I looked down at his crotch again. It was bulging again. He had another boner.
I let the bathrobe fall from my shoulders and then lay back on the couch. With my head resting on a pillow, I reached in front of me and pulled up the hem of my nightie. Placing one leg all the way out to the coffee table, and hooking the other over the back of the couch, I spread my thighs as far apart as any in the magazine. My wide-open cunt was within inches of George's astonished face.
I handed him the magazine. "Now, George," I said, "take a look at her, and then take a look at me, and tell me which one you like best."
He stammered and sputtered, but when I kept insisting and flexing my cunt at him, he finally gave in. After staring at the girl in the magazine for several seconds, he returned his gaze to me.
"Well," I wanted to know, "which one , would you like to fuck the most?"
He had gotten over being shocked by my candid language. "The one that's available," he rasped excitedly, and then fell on me with a passionate embrace.
Within seconds I had his prick out of his pants for the second time in mere minutes and was guiding it toward my spasming cunt. A little hitch of my hips accomplished just the right angle for instant penetration, and before either of us knew exactly what was happening he was fucking me.
"Harder," I moaned as I felt his muscle fill my cunt. "Fuck me harder. Stick it in all the way."
My graphic phraseology and writhing body really had George hot now. By the way he was snorting and ramming into me, I could tell that he had forgotten all about the picture of the Jonesboro housewife. Mine was the only pussy in the world for him as its wet walls squeezed tightly around his pumping prick.
To accentuate my control over him, I wound my legs around his waist and irrevocably locked him into the well of my crotch. Now, with his every downward thrust, I reciprocated with an upward pelvic lurch of my own. Our fucking strokes complemented each other perfectly. His stiff dick buried itself deeper and deeper within my broiling cunt.
George had a big dick, so the further it went into my pussy, the better it felt. When he was finally inside me to the hilt, and his balls rubbed against the bottom of my snatch, the sensation was total and perfect. My cunt had every inch of his raging hard-on.
I loved it as the head of his tool pressed joy-buttons within me that only the deepest phallic penetration could reach. My senses lit up like the lights on a pin-ball machine as his surging cock practically split me in two.
Knowing after many years of marriage that George liked to be played with while we were fucking, I slid my hands between our sex-locked bodies and began rubbing his balls. They were so hot they almost burned my fingers.
Then, with his nuts firmly in my grip, I snaked a finger up the sweaty crack of his ass. His anus was a throbbing knot when I found it and pressed it with the tip of my finger.
Writhing under my fuck-flailing husband, I took a small moment to lick my lips while I envisioned his asshole as it puckered wetly against my fingertip. In my mind, there was nothing so sexy as how a man's anus caught fire while he was screwing you.
This time when I shot my finger into George's shit-pit, the insertion was wet and sticky. His asshole was a tunnel of moisture. Immediately I began frigging it all the way to my third knuckle. And when that didn't seem to be enough, I added a second finger to the hilt.
George loved a good digital ass-reaming while he was fucking me, and showed it by accelerating the movement of his cock until it resembled a piston inside my pussy. The rat-a-tat-tat of his jack-hammering prick shattered whatever control I had left over my body. Reduced to sensual rubble by his drilling tool, I felt as though my entire body had been transformed into a giant, sucking cunt.
I was so far out in sexual outer-space that I didn't know anything in the universe but fucking. If our two kids had walked in on George and me, I wouldn't even have noticed them. Billy and Betsy could have turned on the television full blast, turned the refrigerator over on its side while they were looting it, and set the house on fire, and I would have neither known nor cared.
All I cared about right now was the big, hard cock cramming my pussy.
All I cared about right now was coming.
And being come in.
"Cream in me!" I cried. "Fill my cunt until it runs down my legs!"
To hasten the moment when my pussy would be swamped with jizz, I knotted my fingers in George's asshole and ground them downward against his prostate glad. When he grunted in a combination of agony and ecstasy, I knew things were right on schedule.
Just as his cock expanded an extra inch within my fucking-canal to signal it was on the verge of erupting, I yanked my curled fingers out of George's ass. As they pulled out with a whoosh, his coming mechanism was triggered and his prick exploded in my cunt. Suddenly my pussy was swamped with scalding sperm.
"Oh, George," I moaned appreciatively, "you're so wet. I never knew you could be so wet two times in a row."
He liked the compliment, and did his best to live up to my praise. It seemed that spunk would ejaculate from his stabbing cock forever as he came and came and came.
However, George's cum wasn't the only thing burning away inside me. My own orgasmic forces had built steadily until I was now in the grip of a staggering climax. My wildly beating heart seemed to be lodged between my legs while I was consumed by desire. At the core of me, my soul stirred.
The jizz coated my insides, but still George kept squirting more and more. Soon there was too much for my cunt to hold, especially with nine inches of hard-on already filling it. The excess worked its way out of my fuck-hole and spilled from the comers of my pussy lips. Pretty soon, there was as much cum outside my twat as inside it.
When at last George stopped coming, we were both exhausted. My cunt ached from the bruising love-making that had just been thrown into it. while his cock wilted like a dying wildflower. It was the end of a perfect fuck.
But even though we had both succeeded in getting our rocks off supremely, several minutes later I still had my mind on sex. Picking up the magazine that had started it all, I studied the picture of the Jonesboro housewife's wide-open pussy for perhaps the dozenth time.
"What are you looking at that for?" George asked. "Aren't you convinced yet that I prefer you?"
"Oh, yeah ... sure, sure," I muttered, studying the photograph of the cunt more intensely than ever.
"Then if you've already won the cunt sweepstakes," he said bluntly, "why are you still looking at the stupid magazine?"
It was a good question. Why was I still so fascinated by the picture of another woman's pussy?
Finally I lifted my gaze from the magazine, and turned toward my husband. "George," I said, at last realizing the answer to his question, "what do you think would happen if I sent a picture of myself to this magazine?"
He looked like he had just heard his best friend was dead. Only after I repeated the question and paused for several seconds was he able to collect himself enough to respond.
"You're kidding?" he gulped. "You can't be serious."
"Why not?" I said evenly. "It's not like the women in this magazine are all tramps and whores. This girl from Jonesboro is a simple housewife just like me. If she got a hundred dollars, like it says here, for a picture of herself, I ought to be able to get a picture of myself published easily. After all, you said my pussy was even better than hers."
"But you're my wife!" he wailed.
"And you're also the kind of guy that buys this magazine every month," I pointed out. "If you're turned on by what I have between my legs, it's a cinch a lot of other men will be, too. Besides, I could use an extra hundred bucks out of nowhere. I could get new curtains for the house."
He shook his head as though he were terribly dizzy. Obviously, he was incredulous.
"You should hear yourself, Sharon," he said. "Talking about getting new curtains by showing your body to millions of strange men. If that doesn't beat all."
"Not my whole body," I teased him, somehow enjoying his discomfort. "Just mostly my cunt."
"That's just it!" he screamed. "Do you think I want every Tom, Dick and Harry looking at my wife's cunt? That's ... that's ... unnatural!"
"They don't seem to think so down in Jonesboro, Georgia," I calmly replied. I flipped the pages and glanced down at the captions for a few of the other pictures that had been sent in. "Or in Emporia, Kansas. Minneapolis. Dayton. And here's one from Provo, Utah. Remember, George, we went through Provo on a trip once and the car broke down. We had to spend a couple of days there and we both decided that it was the squarest place on record. But look at this."
I shoved a photo of a glossy Provo split beaver under his nose.
"Read the text aloud," I challenged him.
"Janet ... Janet Summers," he started hesitantly, "a twenty-four-year-old housewife from Provo, Utah, keeps herself busy with gourmet cooking, raising two kids, and the Mormon church. She gets wet thinking about making it with three men at the same time and having all three of her holes filled at once."
"If it's good enough for the Mormons," I declared triumphantly, feeling my point had been proven, "it's good enough for me. I'm going to send in my picture."
"But everybody'll know who you are," George protested. "They print your name and hometown with those pictures. Once a picture of you comes out in that magazine, every freak in the city will be running to his phone book so he can give you a call.
"Who know," I said buoyantly, "maybe I'll meet some interesting people. This town is dull enough as it is."
CHAPTER TWO
Needless to say, George wanted no part of taking my picture with my legs spread for any magazine. I opened my thighs and tried a few shots on my own, but the final results looked painfully amateurish. Finally, I went back to George and begged him to shoot my pussy.
He was adamant in his refusal, however. He said he was going to have no role in his wife's private parts becoming a sleazy pin-up for millions of horny men. When I reminded him that when he'd purchased the magazine in the first place he'd become one of them, he abruptly ended the conversation and walked out of the room.
However, I had become so fascinated by the idea of having my cunt in the magazine that I was more determined than ever to go through with it in the face of George's resistance. In my mind, it increasingly seemed to me that by refusing to cooperate he was sentencing me to a life of boredom as a frumpy housewife.
If I was going to be a housewife, I had decided that at least I was going to be a glamorous one. In all my years of raising kids and homemaking, this was the first opportunity I'd ever had to really feel like a desirable woman.
For the first time since I could remember I was glad I was a woman, and proud of my body. Giving birth to two children hadn't ruined my shape, and, thank God, my pussy was as moist and pink and hairy as ever. Just thinking about it made me feel incredibly sexy.
If George wouldn't do what I wanted on his own, I felt it was fair to trick him with a few feminine wiles. What good is it being a woman, I thought, unless I use it to my own best advantage? Left to his own devices, George would turn me into nothing but a live-in maid.
Going for broke, one evening I sent the kids off to a sitter, and prepared myself for George to come home from work. The way I had it figured, by the time I was through with him he'd take as many pictures of me as I wanted. He'd shove the lens up my snatch if I asked him to.
When I heard him coming into the driveway, I ran to the front door. When he finally walked through it, there I was, blocking his way with an unusual greeting. I was completely naked.
"Fuck me," I said instead of "Hello, dear."
Instead of pecking him on the cheek, I grabbed for his crotch.
By now I would have normally been asking him how his day at the office went. Tonight I told him that if I didn't have his cock in thirty seconds I'd explode.
He acted like a Martian had met him at the front door instead of his wife, but that didn't stop me.
Kneeling down, I opened his fly before he could move and began fumbling for his prick. By the time he had recovered his wits enough to try and react, he couldn't. I held him securely in my mouth by the handle of his cock.
His dick tasted exceptionally sweet to me after a long, dull day of keeping house. While I sucked it I thought that if I had cock to savor during the daytime, I'd never get anything done.
He wasn't hard at first because he was so stunned. However, I took care of that in short order. While George stammered above me, I took the entirety of his cock and balls in my mouth and turned on the suction. The blood involuntarily rushed to his loins, and within seconds his meat was stiffening between my lips.
When he had a hard-on, George's balls popped out of my mouth as I began orally fucking him in earnest. His stuttering confusion changed to moaning when I wouldn't let him go. Then to whimpering. And finally to uncontrollable groaning as I moved my lips up and down his erect shaft in a perfect jack-off action.
I wrapped my fingers around his balls and gave them a long, hard squeeze. They were churning. I could feel the sperm ducts working overtime inside.
He was so excited in spite of himself that already his prick was leaking. I could feel a few drops of anticipatory cum slide down my throat and splash into my stomach as his tool hardened to the consistency of steel.
Then, when I knew he was on the brink of orgasm, I abruptly pulled my mouth away. I looked with satisfaction at my handiwork. George's cock was twitching like a pole in front of him. The shaft was crimson from my suction, and throbbing with heavy veins. The head was purple. His whole prick was wet from my spit.
"Wha ... what the hell is going on here?" he finally managed to say. He looked down with perplexity at his looming organ, obviously wondering why it was out of his pants in the first place and, now, why it was suddenly out of my mouth.
I didn't answer with words. Instead, I crooked my index finger and wiggled it, beckoning him to follow me. I was confident that his straining cock would lead him straight in the path I wanted him to take.
In the bedroom, I left him standing with his mouth agape and his big red cock twitching as I threw myself on the bed. Positioning myself on all fours, I turned my ass toward him and parted my cheeks.
I could hear George gasp when he saw what I wanted him to see. The light must have been glistening off my asshole, making it unmistakable that I had lubricated it with about a pound of petroleum jelly. A dick would slide in there so easily that it would be a sin not to try it.
"What are you waiting for?" I called over my shoulder. "Let me feel you in my ass."
I knew the invitation was irresistible. Like all husbands, George had been pestering me on and off for years to let him fuck me in the ass. I'd always said no up until now, feeling it was something a respectable woman shouldn't submit to.
However, I no longer felt so respectable. Seeing those pictures of spread-legged housewives in that magazine had altered my whole point of view. They were women just like me-from the same walk of life and everything. Why should they have all the fun? I'd decided.
What was wrong with a cock shoved up my ass? If it felt good in my pussy, it would feel twice as good in my ass. My tight shit-pit could exert double the pressure on a penetrating prick. I couldn't wait to have George's inside me, buggering me to the hilt.
"I ... I'm afraid I'll hurt you," George finally said. "We've never ... you've always said no when I wanted to...."
"But my ass has never been so ready for your prick," I pointed out. "Can't you see how greasy it is? How easily your big, strong cock would slide inside? How good it would feel? Your big, strong cock in my ass? Your balls against my cheeks?"
I was really getting excited now, pointing out to George what he could do to me. My description became more and more graphic as I lured him toward my exposed and pouting bunghole with my lewd words.
"Stick it in me, George," I crooned lasciviously. "Put your great big cock inside my tight, wet asshole. Fuck me in the ass until I scream. Make me scream, George, make me scream with your huge prick in my butt."
"Are ... are ... you really sure you want me to do this, Sharon?" he stammered like a teenage boy being given the unexpected opportunity of his first fuck by the girl next door.
"My ass is tight for your prick," I sighed huskily. "So tight ... and wet ... and greasy ... I've been dreaming about your hard-on inside my ass all day."
Moving tentatively with apprehension, my husband closed the distance between himself and my open treasure-chest of puckering asshole and drooling pussy. When he placed his hands against my backside, I could actually feel his fingers trembling against the soft flesh of my open cheeks.
"I'll bet your prick is like iron, isn't it, Georgie?" I said to him, irresistibly goading him toward my anal fuck-hole. "When you stick it in me it will feel like you've stabbed me in the ass with a dagger. Stab me, George ... wound me with your big, long cock."
His hands were shaking even more noticeably, even though he gouged his fingers into the sponginess of my buns to steady himself. But, as badly as his hands were trembling, they seemed paralyzed in comparison with his twitching prick. With a mind of its own, George's hard-on was making its way toward my anus, flailing against it the cheeks of my ass like an angry policeman's nightstick.
"Get it in me, George," I wheezed, excited to the point of breathlessness by the pulsing nearness of his cock-head to my prick-starved asshole. "Get your big, fat dick into my ass. It's all greased and ready for you. Make me scream with your ass-fucking."
At last the face of his cock kissed the tender petals of my anal rosebud. The gooey dew from my blossoming rectal love-hole smeared itself all over his probing meat like fresh honey.
The sensation from phallic-anal contact was electric. It felt as though George had pressed an erogenous button on my anatomy that activated a million volts of desire. There hadn't even been any penetration so far, and yet I was starting to experience orgasm already.
His cock-head was starting to burrow inside, now. The tip slipped between the pulpy flange of my shit-pit and snuggled its way almost an inch within the spasming dankness of my hungry ass.
"Give me more," I begged. "Give me more of your cock."
It was easy for George to comply with all the petroleum jelly I had prepared myself with. A simple shove on his part from an instinctive fucking motion of his hips sent his prick halfway up the shaft in my slippery anal tunnel.
"That's it," I congratulated him. "Now you've got the idea. Wiggle your cock in my ass and see how good it feels, and then give me the rest."
His prick shimmied inside the tight but elastic tube of my shitter. I could feel the vibrations in every nook and cranny of my body.
Orgasm was raging full-blast within me by now. What would it be like when George was in my ass to the hilt?
Jerking my hips from side to side like a pro instead of a first-time ass-fucker, I whipsawed his prick so that it had no alternative but to lurch forward. A surge of three new inches of cock-meat seared my Bunghole.
The sensation was excruciatingly divine. It felt like someone was pouring hot lead up my ass.
I wanted his cock-head in. my bowels. "Let me feel your prick in my shit," I told him. "Let me bathe the end of your prick with my hot shit." Lord, I could feel the crap gurgling in hot anticipation.
At this point George had seven inches of dork up my ass, apparently the exact length of my shitting-canal. Any further thrust would place his cock-head inside my bowels. One more shove, and then the fun would really begin.
"Let me feel you all the way," I pleaded. "Really fuck my ass, George. Fuck my ass until you're fucking my shit. Fuck my shit, George. Do it, please!"
His dick plunged into the gooey morass of my crap. A ball of molten shit immediately oozed around the knot at the end of his tool. His cock-head was swollen to twice its normal size with a thick coat of intestinal gruel.
At last I could really feel it the way I wanted to. George's prick was like a red-hot poker as its searing tip gouged into the tender wall of my colon. My first cornholing was the most brutal and sensational fuck I had ever experienced.
"Move inside me, George," I directed my panting husband. "Wiggle your cock in my ass. Keep pumping until I scream."
Following my orders to the letter, George added an extra feature of his own. While his hard-on squirmed in my constricting shit-pit to the hilt, his hand dropped to my open pussy and began massaging it. Within seconds his fingertips had engaged the ultra-sensitive terminal of my clit and my cunt was sparking.
Now we were really getting it on. While George's cock engorged my asshole to the hilt, his fingers serviced my cunt until it glowed. Two stiff digits slid inside my twat past the last knuckle and began finger-fucking me until my crotch was a swamp of female cream.
It was hard to believe we were just plain old husband and wife, we were fucking so furiously. A hundred-dollar call-girl couldn't have given George the thrills I was putting out.
And a whole gang of tireless teenage boys couldn't have satisfied my two fuck-holes the way George was doing His hard-on was as rigid as iron in my ass. His fingers were touching all the right places in my cunt.
I was coming so intensely that it was hard for me to concentrate on anything but the powerful urge to get my rocks off. However, when I glanced over to my left and saw the camera resting on the nightstand, I remembered why I had provoked all of this in the first place.
"Come in me, George," I called over my shoulder to him. "Shoot it inside me. Come as hard and wet as you can."
My filthy language was the perfect tonic for his straining dick. He grew an extra incredible inch inside me, obviously on the brink of shooting his wad.
My bowels ached to be splattered with cum. My massed shit bubbled in anticipation of being joined into a sticky emulsion with sperm.
I had to call on every shred of my will power to resist. As much as I intuitively craved his jizz splashing within my shit-pit, I knew my original objective might be stalled unless I fought my native inclination. And seeing the camera on the nightstand reminded me how much I wanted George to take a picture of my spread legs so I could send it in to the magazine.
The idea of seeing my open thighs in a skin magazine had become an obsession with me. Over the years, being a housewife had become less and less of a satisfying proposition.
When I had married George at eighteen, I'd been sure all I'd ever want out of life was my own home and family. However, over the years I'd discovered that security isn't everything.
A person has to have some excitement in their life. Especially if that person is a woman in the prime of life.
At thirty-two I found myself more sexually excitable than at any other time in my life. I was proud of my body and the way I had kept it so smooth and curvy and firm.
My tits were as firm as they had been on my wedding night. My cunt was tighter and wetter.
In my fantasies I imagined myself not as a simple housewife at all, but as a glamorous sex symbol. Men lusted after me. When they saw me come into a room they automatically undressed me with their eyes and drooled at the mental image of my hairy pussy and hard breasts.
Obviously, a mere husband didn't provide enough stimulus for the sex-bomb I imagined myself to be in my dream-life. No matter how big his cock was and how much he wanted to fuck me, it still wouldn't be enough.
What good was one prick, when there was an infinity of them waiting to be aroused just outside the door of my suburban existence? I wanted to think of a whole army of cocks standing at rigid attention in a throbbing salute to my feminine charms.
Any wife could get her husband to fuck her. It was expected. It was dull and commonplace.
But a lot of men with their dicks hard over a single cunt ... that's what I craved!
Their dicks hard over me!
Strange men. Faceless men. Men with no identities except their pulsing cocks.
Men who cared nothing about whether I was a good cook ... or mother ... or housekeeper. Men who had no interest in how far I could stretch a budget.
Men who were only interested in one thing.
My naked body.
Men who just looked at me and wanted to fuck the shit out of me.
My picture in a skin magazine would draw that audience of men. If I could-get George to snap the camera between my legs and the magazine published the result, I would achieve the incredible result of having my dreams come true.
That was why, with great physical reluctance, I shot forward on my hands and knees and pulled away from George's ass-stabbing dick. The gasp of his surprise combined with the whooshing of his shaft as it drew from my wet anus. Then, the whole process of expulsion ended with the loud pop of his cock-head involuntarily bursting free of my tightly closing shit-hole.
Rolling over on my back, I looked between the frame of my widely parted knees straight at George's prick. As I had anticipated, it was pulsating with the desire to come. Choked up jizz was turning his balls blue.
I was confident he would do anything I asked, just so long as I promised to end his agony and get him off. The vulnerability between his legs pleased me immensely.
With all of George's concentration centered on what he was going to do about the bloated condition of his aching cock and balls, I reached behind me for the camera.
"Take my picture," I said, handing the black box to him. "Take my picture while I made you come."
He was too seized by the need to release his fountain of jizz to resist my bargain. Ensnared by the need to come in the presence of the naked body of a woman, George was oblivious to his previous refusal to snap the camera between my open thighs.
Now, while he pointed the lens right at the split of my drooling pussy and pink pouting asshole, I grabbed the long prong of his cock. Working the foreskin over the head with my fingertips, I produced a friction that guaranteed instant cream.
As his cum exploded from the tip of his prick and splashed against my crotch, I yelled at him to snap the camera. By the time he did so, he had a glorious shot of my pussy and anus covered with the fresh whiteness of his spunk.
While I writhed before him with my legs spread practically to my ears, I saw George's dick finally stop squirting and began to grow limp. However, it was replaced by a new protrusion that was even more erotic to me at this moment than a stiff cock. .
From a slot at the bottom of the camera, the Polaroid picture emerged. It excited me more than another hard-on would have.
While George moaned with pleasure in the aftermath of his balls being drained, I took the camera from him and removed the picture. As he clutched his crotch and rubbed his aching nuts, I gleefully watched the photograph develop before my eyes.
Slowly the image came into view. It was like magic watching the vision of the sweetest part of my body appear before my eyes.
The dark part developed first. That was my pussy hair, forming in a dark triangle in the center of the picture.
Then, to the sides of my curls, my thighs took form. They were spread so widely that my crotch seemed to jump out from the picture. I could even see the stretch marks pulling across the skin from the taut parting.
At last the details of my actual cunt began to become clear. The lips were pink and heavy. The mouth was red and wet. My stiff clit glowed at the top.
Looking at my own cunt develop before me like this was a turn-on like no other I had ever experienced. With the final detail etched with knife-blade sharpness, I experienced a new orgasm on top of all the old ones that left me breathless.
But the best was still to emerge before my bugging eyes. With my pussy fully delineated, the self-developing chemicals of the instant photograph began their work on the alabaster of George's cum.
Licking my lips like a hungry cat, I watched the 3x5 glossy image of my twat gradually become coated with the white slickness of splattered jizz. My crotch was bathed with a full load of a male juice. Every drop was outside.
Big globs of it hung from my pussy curls. A fleck of it glazed my clit.
It drooled down into my crack and filled the indentation of my asshole.
My thighs were glistening.
And I had every shimmering drop of it on film.
My fucking region was covered with spunk. I couldn't wait to open up a magazine several weeks later and see a photograph of it immortalized forever like this.
Soon my orgasmic high would be over. My clothes would be back on and I'd be fixing dinner or something. George would be in the living room reading the sports page.
But the picture I held in my trembling fingers would still be as hot and wet as ever. And by then it would be in an envelope ... inside a mailbox ... on its way to the publisher back East. And, hopefully, toward a new chapter in my life.
Thinking about that picture would get me through a lot of dreary days of cooking, sewing and cleaning.
CHAPTER THREE
When I'd dropped the letter with my picture enclosed into the mailbox, I'd been as excited as I could be. Although, intellectually, I knew that if anything happened it would be after a long wait, I couldn't keep my emotions from anticipating instant gratification. Subsequently, when the days, and then the weeks, dragged by with no word from the magazine, I couldn't help but feeling disappointed.
The central problem was that disillusionment took root in my everyday life. When I had gotten the idea of sending the picture of myself to the magazine, the inspiration had caused me to reflect on my role as a housewife. The result of my analysis was inevitably negative.
The sudden yearning to expose my naked body before an audience of millions had made me see in retrospect just how empty my life had become. Then, when the bold gamble of sending in my spread-legged picture failed to reap immediate results, I became intensely frustrated. Increasingly, I found myself more and more dissatisfied with the way I had been living my life ever since the day George and I had walked down the aisle.
I started breaking down my life, and soon came to the conclusion that the sum of its parts came to nothing. A great big zero.
How many tens of millions of us dowdy housewives were there?
All of us up to our necks with children, cooking and dirty laundry.
Dish-pan hands. Waxy build-up on the kitchen floor. Broken appliances. Soap operas and game shows. Yes, there was no doubt about it, the role of a typical housewife was a sad one. Because, even disregarding all the rest of it, at the bottom of our existence was a fact so depressing that to think about it immediately produced a whole new batch of gray hairs under our Clairol.
There were over a hundred million men in the country. Yet each housewife was only noticed by one of them. She was attractive to less than one hundred-millionth of the entire male population.
Each housewife had a body. With tits. And a cunt.
And only one single man out of the hundred million either knew about her body, or cared about it.
What a waste, I thought over and over again. Just because a woman is a housewife doesn't mean she isn't attractive. That her body isn't desirable.
I was proud of my body. Over the years I had put a lot of work into keeping it in shape. Now George was the only guy with getting into my pants on his mind, and even his interest seemed to be lagging.
It just didn't seem fair.
With no word from the magazine about my picture, I started to become increasingly depressed. More than once I decided that the photograph had been rejected. I could imagine some editorial director dismissing the picture with scorn by saying, "Sure, she's not bad-looking, but who wants to look at another boring housewife. If you've seen one, you've seen 'em all."
If that was true, what good was my slim, firm body? I might as well let myself go. There were plenty of fat and ugly wives whose husbands probably made love to them just as much as George did to me. With only one man in the game, what difference did the way a woman looked make, anyway?
Despite all my misgivings, I tried to shove all of my doubts about my life out of my mind. Believe me, I tried.
Never had I done so much laundry. Made such wonderful dinners. Even my lunches for the kids were brilliant.
But it was no use. The more I threw myself into housewifery, the more I wished I were a million miles away from my home and family. I wanted to love, and no matter how active I made myself, right now I felt dead.
The discontent was always lurking. It could strike me at any time, or build like a shroud around me, finally covering me like a wet blanket.
Sometimes it would grow all day, leaving me so tired and depressed by evening that I had to go to bed before nine.
Then, at other times, it hit me with a sharp twinge. I would be leaning over the washer-dryer and I would feel something strike at the crux of my being. When I straightened up to get my bearings, my whole body would tingle.
I would suddenly feel intensely alive. But I was like a caged animal because I had no place to go.
The adrenaline pumping uncontrollably through my body was like nitroglycerine. At any minute it could explode.
One Tuesday morning, I literally reeled away from a load of dirty socks and underwear as something abruptly ignited within me. Bracing myself against a wall, I impulsively ran my hands down the front of me and felt my tits throbbing and my belly heaving. Between my legs, my pussy was pulsating even more wildly than my rapidly beating heart.
I'd had enough experience with this phenomenon by now to know that there was only one sure way of handling it. Forgetting about the laundry, I dashed across the house toward my bedroom. By the time I got there, I had stripped every shred of clothing from my body.
Naked, I threw myself down on the bed and sent my hand to my cunt. It was already as wet as it could be. My pussy lips sucked at my fingers, pulling them inside my gooey box. Within seconds, I was damply finger-fucking myself.
My image in the mirror was a welcome sight because it made me feel like I wasn't completely alone. I was so lonely that I even welcomed the company of my own reflection.
Gouging my fingers to the hilt in the hairy maw between my legs, I pantingly watched the whole procedure. If my cunt didn't turn anybody else on, at least it made me hot.
I loved the way my pubic curls filled the space in the center of my thighs.-The way my rubbery pussy lips wrapped themselves around my probing fingers.
The thick juice running out of the red mouth of my snatch. The way it dribbled down my legs so the light could glint off of it.
My clit standing proudly from the top of my twat, insisting to be stimulated.
Only the sight of my cunt could blot out the disappointments inherent in the rest of the world. My pussy became everything. The only reason for my existence.
And the rest of my body provided the cast of supporting characters. My high, firm tits seemed to accentuate the glory below my waist. My stiff, crimson nipples were the perfect complement to my similarly erect clit.
My legs and thighs existed solely for the purpose of spreading to reveal my honey-pot.
My belly was like a river that flowed into the gushing lake of my crotch. An oozing swamp of endless moisture that seeped from the cunt I adored.
"Cunt cunt ... cunt...." I found myself breathlessly chanting as I squishingly frigged myself.
God, how I wanted to see that cunt in living color in a magazine read by millions of men. Jesus, how I wanted somebody to notice my cunt besides me.
But right now, "me" was all I had. I'd just have to temporarily satisfy my raging desire by watching my fingers ream me out.
There were buttons between my legs to be pressed. An orgasm to be had.
Because, eventually, there was laundry to be done. Floors to be vacuumed.
Beds to be made. Dinner to be cooked.
And if I didn't hurry up and get my rocks off, none of it would ever get done. George would come home to a domestic shambles and never stop yelling until we went to bed.
There was no doubt about it, playing with myself had become an integral part of my role as a housewife. If I didn't get it done, just like the rest of my chores, I would wind up paying and paying.
. Fortunately, there was something about finger-fucking my spread-legged pussy in front of the mirror that was a lot more satisfying than dusting the drapes or sorting underwear. With keen pleasure, I watched my hand disappear into the mouth of my cunt and felt my chimes immediately begin to ring.
The cream was flowing so thickly from my box that it was lathering all the way up my forearm. The rich stickiness twinkled in the mirror. It looked as though a jar of honey had been spilled between my legs.
"Cunt ... cunt ... cunt...." I chantingly worshipped the hairy slit bisecting my loins. My beautiful wet cunt.
No matter how deeply I probed, there was always more of my pussy aching to be stimulated. I felt like I could take two cocks at once.
While I finger-fucked myself, I used the palm of my hand to take care of my clit. Rubbing it one way, and then another, and then swirling it in a circular motion, I kept it as hard and as sensitive as a miniature prick. If only it were bigger so I could screw myself with it.
On this day, as I rubbed my clit, it seemed to be growing bigger and bigger. Stiffer and straighten It felt like it would draw blood from my hand it was so hard and sharp.
I imagined myself actually growing a cock. Not just an inch of clit, but a genuine peter. Hard and long. Throbbing.
I closed my eyes and imagined myself stroking a dick that was under sole control of my body. I would fondle it. Put the foreskin over the pulsing knob at the end.
Make it stiffer and harder by the second.
God, what it would feel like inside my pussy. Fucking me to the hilt. Slamming into the mouth of my womb.
Coming like a fire hose.
My cum inside me. My own jizz coating the inner recesses of my spasming cunt.
"What a beautiful idea. What a beautiful fantasy to fuck myself.
And then the phone rang.
I lurched up in bed like I had just heard a gunshot. When I realized the source of the noise I suddenly felt as though my last shred of privacy had been violated. I couldn't have been more humiliated if the children had come in and caught George and me fucking.
I wished the phone would just go away. But, of course, the damn thing wouldn't stop ringing. They never do.
As the ringing continued, it seemed more and more to me that the phone represented the outside world. Somehow the word had gotten out what I was doing to myself. Now the world was calling me up to take me to task.
Feeling like a little girl about to be punished, I dutifully and wearily got up to go face the music.
"H ... h ... hello," I timidly ventured.
There was no answer. Just loud breathing.
"Hello," I tried again. "W ... who is this?"
More panting.
A crank, I decided, coming back down to earth. Maybe an obscene caller. One of those "breathers" they were always making jokes about on TV situation comedies.
I slammed the receiver down and walked away, trying to convince myself that it was time to forget about the last quarter-hour and go back to the socks and underwear.
But the phone wouldn't let me off the hook that easily. The damn thing started ringing all over again, wailing in the otherwise silent house like a crying infant demanding attention.
It was no use to decide that I wouldn't answer this time. The thing was never going to stop ringing.
"Hello," I started all over again. "Who is this?"
Pant ... pant. The breather again.
Suddenly I was mad. I couldn't play these stupid games with a little plastic box all day.
"Listen, you kinky motherfucker." I astonished myself by coming on like a truckdriver, "either tell me what the hell you want or get off the damn line."
Someone gulped on the other end.
"Come on, come on," I snapped impatiently. I haven't got all day. I'll count to three and if you haven't told me who you want, I'll slam the phone in your ear so loud you'll be half-deaf for a week."
The gulp became an asthmatic-sounding wheeze.
"One...." I started counting.
More wheezing.
"Two...."
I laid a heavy pause on my caller, warning him with my silence of the imminence of the sharp crack of my receiver in his ear.
Then, just as I slipped my tongue between my teeth to form the initial sound of the final number, the caller gasped like he was drinking air and spoke.
"Are you Sharon?" he blurted. "Sharon ... Sharon Duncan?"
"Who is this? How do you know my name? What do you want?"
"I'm an admirer," he said in a choked voice.
"What?" I bleated incredulously.
"You ... you turn me on," he stammered, the level of excitement building in his voice. "You make me horny."
Suddenly, for the first time I realized that I was still naked. Immediately I felt peculiar carrying on a conversation like this in the nude. It was as though the caller could see me.
My caller was talking again. His words were coming faster and faster. His silent breathing had become a torrent of verbiage.
All of it obscene.
"You know what I'm doing while I'm talking to you?" he said. "I'm playing with my dick, it's big and hard. I'm imagining what it would feel like inside your tight, wet cunt."
I felt a sharp twinge between my legs. Nothing I could do would make it go away.
"I'd fuck you until my balls were squashed against your ass," he told me. "You'd feel my cock all the way to your spine and beg me to split you in two."
With every word my crotch tightened. It was so hot down there my thighs felt like they were going to blister.
"I have a big prick," he said, "and you'd feel every inch of it. It's like steel."
Reflexively, I dropped my hand between my legs and touched my groin. Incredibly, my pussy was soaking wet.
"Would you like me to describe my cock?" he asked.
I felt my sopping twat again.
"Y ... yes," I answered uncontrollably. It was as though my cunt were in charge of my vocal cords.
"It's ten inches," he said proudly. "It stands straight up when it's hard. The head is purple. When I have a hard-on like this, my balls turn blue."
When he was momentarily finished talking, I became fully aware of my hand between my legs. My thighs were tightly compressed, ensnaring my fingers at my steaming crotch. Cunt juice was running down my forearm.
I realized I had been stroking my pussy throughout the graphic description by the obscene caller of his ten-inch hard-on.
My snatch was hotter than a two-dollar pistol. And wetter than a spilled glass of buttermilk.
On the other end of the line, the caller was getting even bolder. It seemed as though he knew exactly what my reaction had been to the recitation of his cock dimensions.
"Tell me about your pussy," he said. "You know all about my prick, so now it's your turn to give me a long, detailed description of your snatch. I'll bet it's wet, isn't it?"
"Y ... yes," I stammered.
"And hairy."
"Y ... yes."
"And tight. You can feel the walls wrapped around your fingers," he said. "How many fingers are you fucking yourself with?"
Impossibly, he'd known about the fingers inserted in my cunt before I'd even realized they were there.
"How many fingers?" he insisted.
"T ... two," I stuttered. Then I felt a digital prong slide between my labia and quickly amended my accounting. "Three," I corrected myself, this time in a much stronger voice.
"Good," My caller replied soothingly. "Now tell me all about what's going on between your legs. If you start to get shy from talking to a stranger about your cunt, just remember I'll be stroking my big, long cock the whole time."
How can this be happening, I thought. My first obscene phone call and I'm not doing one thing the telephone company recommends in such cases.
What kind of woman am I? I wondered in a panic. Decent women are supposed to be horrified by this kind of sordid experience.
"Your cunt," the caller yanked me from the recesses of my mind, back to the reality of the hot receiver and my even hotter pussy. "Tell me about how you're fingering your juicy, hairy cunt."
Reflexively, I looked down at the curling triangle below my belly. I saw that despite my guilt-laden self-recrimination of a moment ago, I had never removed my hand from my box.
The wetness seemed to lap against my pussy-probing fingers. Suddenly all I was aware of was that moist warmth secreting from my cunt walls and inundating my hand and wrist.
All restraint and inhibition abruptly melted.
Guilt had vanished. Shame had been drowned in the torrid flow of my cunt.
"My pussy is sucking my fingers," I said in a monotone, as if I were in a trance. "It's sucking them in deeper and deeper. I can feel them against the mouth of my womb."
"But you want more, don't you?" he said as though he knew my mind better than I did myself. "Three fingers isn't enough-not when you've got others left."
How right he was.
My thumb came down from my clit and burrowed its way inside my soggy fuck-hole. Then my pinkie slid into the bottom.
I was more excited than ever with my whole hand inside my incredibly stretched cunt.
"Close your fingers," he ordered. "Close your hand into a fist."
I was powerless to do anything but obey. Slowly, painfully, I closed my knuckles within the tight confines of my straining box. It ached more than anything I'd ever experienced between my legs, but I welcomed the torture. The agony was exquisite.
"It feels like a cock, doesn't it?" the caller said gleefully. "The biggest cock you've ever felt."
"Yes, yes," I responded eagerly. "The biggest cock in the world."
"Pretend it's my cock," he said. "My enormous cock all the way up your pussy. My huge prick fucked the hell out of your twat."
"Yes, yes, yes!" I gushed, pushing my fist to the furthest reaches of my fuck-canal. "It's so big. Your cock is so big. It's bruising my pussy. It's about to make me scream."
"Go ahead," he said. "Let it out. Go ahead and scream. I like to make women scream when I fuck them."
"Yeeeeeaaaahhh!" I cried as the penetration went deeper and deeper. "Oh, Jesus, it hurts so good!"
"I know it," he said, "and it's going to hurt even better."
"I hope so," I panted.
"You can bet your life on it," he said. "Wiggle your ass and drive more of it inside of you. Your pussy can take as much as you want it to."
As he ordered, I twitched my hips. The monstrous knot filling my box slid forward an extra inch. I had never had so much in my cunt. The pain was delicious.
"Now I'm moving, too," the caller crooned. "My cock is sliding back and forth in your pussy. It feels like an iron bar between your legs. You love it."
"Oh, God, do I!" I cried. "I'm coming already."
"I know," he said smugly. "But not as much as you're going to come."
"I'm coming ... I'm coming...." I moaned. "Just keep saying it. The more you tell yourself you're going to come, the more you'll come."
"I'm coming ... coming ... coming...." I crooned as though I were singing a love-son. "Coming ... coming ... coming...."
"And I'll be coming, too," he hissed, obviously getting more excited by the second.
With the mere suggestion of jizz exploding from his cock, I licked my lips. Now my chant became, "Cum ... cum ... cum ... cum...."
"Hot, steaming cum," he said.
"Cum ... cum ... cum...."
"Cum that will boil your guts," he promised. "Shoot it in me!" I abruptly screeched. "Fill my cunt with your cum!"
"Press your ear tightly to the phone," he said urgently.
When the receiver was plastered so strenuously to the side of my head that my ear burned, I heard sharp bursts of panting that sounded like a locomotive chugging up the steepest of hills. I knew my telephone lover was on the breathless brink of the hot male wetness I desperately hoped and prayed for.
"Come, you bastard, come!" I screamed. "I can't wait any longer!"
All of a sudden a muffled crackling engorged my eardrum. Strangely, the receiver began to feel wet in my hand.
Then I figured it out. My lover was actually coming over the phone.
While I listened joyously to the electronic reproduction of the spurting of his sperm, I slammed the knuckled replica of his spewing cock to the rear of my cunt. My womb shuddered as orgasm coursed through my body on a rampage.
I was so far gone that I swore I could feel the cum I heard splashing into the receiver squirting up my pussy. The feel and sound of erupting male juice surrounded me.
"Oooooh, my cunt is so wet!" I announced impulsively. "It's never been so wet!"
"Is my cum running down your legs?" he asked anxiously.
"Yes, yes!" I declared. I was sure I could feel it.
"All the way down to your knees?"
"Yes, yes! Of course!"
"You love it, don't you?" he asked insistently.
"My cunt has never had so much cum in it," I assured him. "So much hot, thick cum. There will be a pool at my feet before we're through fucking."
I could tell by the way he snorted that my response excited him even more than he had anticipated. There was an enormous splat at the other end of the line, followed by the continuous low moaning of its originator.
He had heroically summoned one last thunderbolt of spunk to send my way, and now he was desperately trying to catch his breath. Going along with the charade, I slowly slid my fist out of my snatch, imagining that it was a hard-on gone limp. As I completed the withdrawal, fresh cum seemed to be dripping and sticking everywhere.
"Oh, what a fuck," I sighed after a long, steamy pause. "How can I ever thank you?"
"You don't have to," he said to my surprise. "I ought to thank you."
"I don't understand."
"The magazine," he said. "Your picture in the magazine ... That's what gave me the idea in the first place. You don't think I'm one of those freaks that just picks women's numbers at random out of the phonebook, do you?"
I couldn't believe it. They'd gone ahead and published the picture I'd sent in of myself without even telling me. Half the country knew my pussy was on display before I did.
"I figured," the caller went on, "that any broad who'd go that far to get herself noticed, wouldn't mind a little action over the phone."
Suddenly I couldn't talk to him any more. The only thing on my mind was getting ahold of that magazine.
I slammed the receiver into the cradle and ran for my coat and purse.
CHAPTER FOUR
There it was, right before my eyes. I could hardly believe it.
My own cunt.
It leered out at me from the glossy page as life-like and provocatively as the housewife's from Jonesboro, Georgia. The photograph glistened from implied wetness. The pussy hair was an erotic tangle. The clit was a pink spike. The red mouth drooled.
My mouth watered as I read the caption.
There it all was. My name. My hometown. My age. The credit to my husband for taking the picture.
Had I really said that? I wondered feverishly. Had I really told the magazine, "I get wet just thinking about tight pussies and hard cocks?"
I was so excited that I couldn't recall whether I had actually written it, or the magazine had made it up. In any case, it was 100% true.
Jealous of my spread-legged charms, I flipped the pages to check out my competition. About a dozen other women had sent in the pictures for this issue, and everyone of them had her thighs apart as far as they could go.
My eyes expertly evaluated one wide-open pussy after another. There was a nineteen-year-old cashier's with fat, pouting lips ... A school-teacher's that was shaved ... A twenty-five-year-old housewife's with so much gunk coming out that it made me lick my lips.
Pussy after beautiful pussy. Each of them gorgeous.
But none of them so gorgeous as my own, I had' to admit.
None of the other women who had submitted their snatch had been quite so original as me. Mine was the only cunt dripping with spunk. That's what really set it apart from the others.
My pussy was beautiful with the slime of male cum.
I was so horny from looking at my box stacked up favorably against a dozen others, I was just about to pass out from excitement. The only way I could keep from embarrassing myself was to slam the magazine closed and start walking.
Then, just as I reached the door, I realized that I had made a dreadful mistake.
"Hey, lady, what're you trying to pull?" a man's voice yelled angrily at me. "You owe me two bucks for that magazine!"
Stunned by the rude intrusion of reality, I looked around and became aware for the first time of my surroundings. Instead of a bevy of split beavers, I found myself staring at shelves of booze bottles. In the middle of them was one madder-than-hell liquor store owner.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," he said disgustedly. "Give me the money and get the fuck out of here before I call the cops and have them bust you for shoplifting."
"You wouldn't...." I gasped.
"Try me," he leered.
Reaching into my purse, I groped for my wallet as I walked reluctantly toward him. By the time I was at the counter, I realized to my horror that I had dashed out of the house so quickly that I hadn't checked my purse. The wallet wasn't in it.
I didn't have a cent on me. There was no way I could pay for the magazine!
"What's the matter?" he growled.
"My ... my wallet," I stuttered with fright. "I left it at home."
"Just an accident, I suppose," he said sarcastically.
"Of course. I assure you...."
"And I'm the Queen of Rumania."
"But, really," I wailed, "I had no intention of shoplifting! Please, believe me!"
"Just after hell freezes over," he snorted contemptuously. "Now, in the meantime, just keep standing there and don't move a muscle while I call the cops."
"Do you have to?" I cried.
"Read the sign, lady," he hissed, while reaching for the phone. "Read the sign."
It was to the left of me, plastered to the counter. Big, bold letters unmistakably spelled out the ominous message:
"Shoplifting is a crime. It is the policy of this store to prosecute to the full extent of the law anyone caught stealing merchandise."
I was so humiliated. How could I ever explain winding up in jail for trying to shoplift a girlie magazine. The prospect was excruciating.
"Please, please," I begged. "Can't you make an exception in my case? I didn't mean to do anything wrong."
"Shove it up your ass, lady," he laughed, starting to dial the phone.
"But I have a family!" I wailed. "What will I tell them?"
"A crook's a crook, lady," he said. "I start looking the other way when crooks come into my store, and pretty soon I won't be in business."
"But I'm no crook," I protested. "I'm a housewife."
"Sure, lady, sure," he sneered.
He'd finished his dialing and the receiver was to his ear. I could hear the buzzing vibrating through the holes in the plastic ear-piece all the way across the counter. It provided a nerve-jangling accompaniment for the thumping of my wildly beating heart.
"Goddamn cops!" the liquor store owner cursed after he'd crashed the receiver back onto the phone. "Can you believe it, I actually got a busy signal. On their so-called, goddamn emergency number, yet. What if I was lying here bleeding?"
It may have not seemed much by ordinary standards, but I couldn't believe my incredible luck. The line was busy! That meant that I had at least a few moments to try and change the man's mind.
"Listen," I said to him, having arrived at the decision I was about ready to do anything to avoid going to jail. "What if we agreed on some other way for me to pay you for your magazine besides money. You know, when I ran out of the house in such a hurry, my wallet wasn't all I forgot."
"What in the hell are you talking about, lady?"
"Like, I said, when I left the house I was in a hurry," I explained. At the same time, I brought my hands to my chest and started fiddling with the top button of my coat.
"So?" he grumped, unimpressed so far.
"My wallet was just the beginning of what I forgot."
My top button was undone, and now I was working with the one beneath it.
"Lady," the liquor store man said, "why are you wasting my time like this? I caught you with your hand in the cookie jar, and now you've got to take the fall for it. That's life."
"Are you sure?" I smiled seductively as my fingers undid the second button and made their way to the third.
"That you're gonna be busted?"
"No," I cooed, "that I'm wasting your time."
I pulled so hard at the third button that it tore loose and popped out of my fingers. As my adversary watched it roll across the floor it must have slowly been dawning on him what I was up to. To make sure he got my message, I quickly undid the rest of the buttons and pulled open my coat.
By the time the rolling button had fallen on its side and he was looking back at me, his eyeballs were suddenly bugging out of his head.
"Like I said," I reiterated, "when I left the house, my wallet wasn't all I forgot."
He gulped.
"I also forgot to put on any clothes."
It was true. When I had found out about my picture in the magazine, it had blotted out everything else in my mind, and just grabbed my purse and coat and forgotten everything else. I didn't have a stitch on underneath.
The liquor store owner had picked up the receiver a few moments before so he could try and get the police again. Now it just dangled from its cord, the hum of the dial-tone filling the air.
I didn't have to be Mata Hari to see what I had this joker wrapped around my little finger. Feeling suddenly imbued with super confidence, I walked around the counter and took charge.
"On your knees," I said tersely to him.
His eyes roved up and down my naked front while his mouth watered. All the old arrogance was gone. He would do anything I said, now that he had seen my bare body.
He dropped like his legs had been cut out from under him into a kneeling position.
"Now eat my pussy," I ordered in a no nonsense tone.
While he tentatively moved his face toward my hairy groin, I drew my thighs apart and flexed my angry gash at him.
I could see his nostrils flare. The smell must have been overpowering from when I had come so hard back at the house.
"Do you like it?" I asked as his slobbering mouth came closer and closer to my thrusting box. "Is my cunt worth two dollars to you, Mr. Businessman?"
I had expected his tongue in my slit by now. Instead, to my surprise, I got further conversation. "S ...'s ... say," he bleeped, looking straight at my snatch, "d ... d ... don't I know y ... you from someplace?"
"I don't think so," I said, "I buy all my liquor at the drugstore."
"B ... but you seem so familiar."
I should have been ordering him to shut up and start licking my pussy, but I found myself enjoying his nervous stammering. It was an undeniable kick to be able to turn the tables on a guy like this through the simple expedient of baring my body.
"I told you," I chuckled, "I'm just an ordinary housewife. There are a lot of women with faces like mine."
"It ... it isn't your face," he panted as though he had a terrible secret. "It's your ... your ... "
"Yes?" I asked with great interest.
"Your pussy," he blurted incredulously. "It's your pussy that's so familiar. I can recognize the hair ... the lips ... the mouth...."
I was certain I'd never seen this guy before in my life, much less stripped for him. Yet, all of a sudden, I was just as certain that he wasn't mistaken when he said he knew my cunt.
"Well, well," I chuckled. "So you've been reading your own magazines."
It took a minute for it to sink into his thick skull. When he finally made the connection his eyes lit up like tiny light bulbs.
"I know you," he gasped. "You're the housewife that gets wet thinking about tight pussies and hard cocks. Page forty-seven in this month's...."
"Right," I assured him. "Now how would you like to be the first one to eat the box-lunch that millions of men are drooling over at newsstands all across the country?"
"I don't think I could have stunned him more if I'd come in with a double-barreled shotgun to rob his store.
My cunt was sopping wet from the erotic excitement of being recognized. Fame had settled between my legs, turning my crotch into a swampy mess.
Like a spoiled movie queen, used to having her way, I grabbed the head of the gawking man kneeling in awe before me, and pulled his face into my crotch. Instantaneously, his features disappeared into the foliage of my tangled bush.
"Lick me," I commanded. "Put your tongue between my pussy lips and lick my box. Let me feel your hard tongue inside my cunt."
Slavishly, he did as I ordered. My fame drew his tongue up my twat while my labia kissed him wetly on the mouth. Within seconds he was sucking and probing simultaneously, orally fucking me as I so desired.
"You have a rough tongue," I complimented him between moans. "A very rough tongue. That's why it feels so good inside my soft pussy."
My lewd talk was an aphrodisiac that made him tongue-fuck me all the harder. His oral prod wiggled stiffly to the gooey depths of my love-hole and pressed a sensual button that made bells ring and rockets go off.
I was so excited that I decided to go for his cock. How big was it? I wanted to know. How would it feel with my fingers wrapped around it?
Pushing him backward, I dropped to the floor on top of him, straddling his body with my knees. Then, I quickly executed a 180-degree turn, my cunt never leaving his face as it swiveled around on his sucking mouth. While he continued to eat me out from the rear, I went for the bulge I could now see looming from his fly.
The zipper screeched down and my hand was inside his pants. Panting with excitement, I drew out inch after inch of pink meat. By the time the job was finished, my fingers were wrapped around over nine inches of glorious hard-on.
While I slowly jerked him off, I used my free hand to pull his balls out to join his stiff dick. They were hairy and throbbing. I licked my lips thinking about how much cum must be stored in them.
Lowering my head, I slid my lips over the crown of his prick. The knotty barb of meat pulsated with runaway desire. A glob of cream bubbled from the-tip and slid down my throat.
Slowly but surely, my sucking lips replaced my fingers around his peter. Finally I had it all the way in my mouth. His balls churned against my chin, while his cock-head plugged my throat and made me gag joyously.
At my rear, he wedged his face into the crack of my ass as he devoured my pussy. His nose pressed against my sweaty asshole.
Writhing as a single organism, we sixty-nined on the floor. The more of his prick I swallowed, the further his rigid tongue stabbed my pussy. The more cream my cunt produced, the closer his dick got to erupting with the juice of the male sex.
However, I was too horny by this time to just want his spunk splashing down my gullet. My cunt ached for a coating of warmly soothing jizz. I wanted to fuck.
It was time for another 180 degrees. Removing his twitching dork from my mouth, I drew my wet snatch from his face and turned myself around on top of his body so I was facing him with my ass on his crotch.
"Stick it in me!" I hissed. "Fuck my tight pussy with your hard cock!"
His prick wriggled between my spread haunches like a live fish out of water. I reached behind me and shoved it toward my foaming slit. Penetration was automatic.
With his hardness slipping inside me, I twitched my ass and gyrated my hips. The steel of his prick surged like a torpedo toward the deep target at the rear of my fuck-hole.
"Oooomph!" I grunted as his cock-head seemed to strike bone. "Fuck me hard. Fuck my pussy the way you wanted to when you first saw my legs spread in the magazine."
His pelvis launched his phallic warhead further and further up my spasming twat. The bone it had seemed he struck felt like my spine. My backbone tingled as his cock went in me as far as it could go.
While he fucked me to the hilt, I seized his wrists and drew his hands to my bare tits. With his dick flailing against the door of my womb, I added to my lust by crushing his fingers against my turgid nipples, forcing them to squeeze.
With my tits and cunt being stimulated to the ultimate, I leaned over all the way and found his gasping mouth with mine. I covered it with my lips, savoring the taste of my own pussy on his hot breath as I deeply soul-kissed him.
The way his hips were bucking, it was only a matter of seconds until my box would be flooded with his hot milk. Grinding my hips against his thrusting loins, I matched his every lunge with a pelvic surge of my own. Our genitals seemed to be melting together from the heat of our passionate fucking.
"Come in me!" I shrieked when I couldn't stand the wait any longer, pulling away from our kiss and looking down between my legs at the action. I could see the base of his cock splitting my pussy lips. My leaking juice was everywhere. "Fill my cunt with your cum, you son of a bitch!"
He gasped like he had just been shot, except that he was the one firing the bullets. The pistol of his cock poured its ammunition into my pussy. Every round hit the bull's eye as he took dead aim on my desire.
His scalding sperm blasted me in searing spurts.
At the same time I answered his fire by contracting my cunt muscles as hard as I could. I was determined to empty his chambers.
He was coming so hard and so fast, I didn't knew where he was getting all the juice. But, on the other hand, my output was pretty much of a flood itself. My pussy had never expelled so much goo.
But then, of course, my pussy had never been famous before.
So this is what it's like to be a celebrity, I thought gleefully as I hunkered down for my last orgasm before he finally stopped coming. Fucking had never been so much fun when nobody knew my cunt from a hole in the ground.
He screamed a little bit from the intense pressure of my suctioning pussy and then collapsed beneath me. One last projectile of jizz trailed up my spasming hole as his prick slid out and flopped wetly on his belly.
There was a long pause as we both caught our breath. Both of us gazed at the sticky mess splotching our loins. The wet evidence of a perfect fuck was all around.
Finally, I spoke. I couldn't resist a little applause.
"Was I as good as my picture?" I asked.
"Better," he added the last word to my delight.
CHAPTER FIVE
Needless to say, after all the action I'd gotten in such a short time after my split beaver had hit the newsstands, I was very optimistic about the future. However, I'd made the mistake of forgetting the other people in my life.
After all, mass circulation of my open twat didn't change the fact I was still a wife and mother. The picture of my pussy had consequences for the other members of my family, as I was soon to find out.
How could I have been so naive as to think that all I had to do was have a photograph of my snatch published and everything would come up roses? Obviously I had sent in the picture in the first place because I wanted a lot of people to ogle my cunt. But there were also some people I'd have just as soon kept in the dark.
Such as T. J. Cooper.
"Cooper's fired me," George said in a panic over the phone. "He said the company couldn't afford the bad publicity. When I asked him what he was talking about, he told me to ask my wife ... Sharon, what the hell is going on? What do you know about this?"
I didn't have to be Dick Tracy to figure out this mystery. Cooper had seen the magazine.
This was a contingency I'd never considered. A guy like T.J. Cooper seemed like the last person to stick his nose in skin magazines. He was a deacon in the church; a moral pillar of the community. When the library had been forced by a citizen's committee to burn some of its books for being too dirty, he'd led the charge.
"Sharon?" George was saying impatiently at the other end of the line. "Tell me what's going on."
"The magazine!" I blurted out. "That damn magazine."
"What are you talking about, Sharon?" George answered. He was obviously perplexed. "What does a magazine have to do with me losing my job?"
He'd forgotten all about it.
"Well, that was understandable. After all, it had been several weeks since I'd wondered aloud to him about sending in a picture of my pussy. And then, I'd gotten him so horny in order to trick him into shooting my beaver with the Polaroid, the whole incident was probably just like a vaguely remembered wet dream to him.
It was clear to me now that, in his middle-class attitude, George had never really thought I'd actually send in my snatch to the magazine. A typical male chauvinist, he didn't mind looking at the cunts of other men's wives. However, when it came to his own baring her cookie, the prospect was unthinkable. Obviously, he'd repressed the whole matter from his consciousness.
"Sharon!" he snapped at the other end of the line, ants in his pants because of my long pause to think. "You tell me right now what's going on."
How could I tell him the truth?
After all, hadn't he warned me against sending in the picture before I'd tricked him into taking it? If he found out what I'd done, even though we were talking on the phone several miles apart, he'd find a way to strangle me with the cord.
Yet, there was no escaping it: the truth was the truth. Marriage is built on honesty. If I lied to George now, despite the brutality of the truth, I would be pushing our relationship over the brink of disaster.
And even if our marriage was far from perfect, I wasn't ready to end it now. There were the kids ... the house....
And George. George needed me now more than he ever had in his life.
I had to come to his assistance now, even if it meant telling him the truth.
"I'm not just talking about my magazine, George," I finally told him. "I'm talking about that one you brought home a few weeks ago and I found on the dining room table. You know, the one we, uh, talked about."
There was a deathly silence as George interpreted my comments. I closed my eyes and envisioned his face, screwing up in annoyance as it always did when he had to think, while he put two and two together.
After several torturous seconds he arrived at four.
"You mean THAT magazine?" he gasped like someone had just kicked all the air out of his lungs.
"That's the one," I gulped.
I expected an explosion. What I heard instead was the sound of somebody strangling.
A bubbling gag sifted through the receiver. It was followed by a thud.
"George! George!" I shrieked.
But, down deep, I expected no reply. The thud had been the unmistakable sound of George falling to the floor. The awful truth had flattened him like a right to the jaw.
The next time I saw him was in the hospital in an oxygen tent. He'd had a heart attack.
I wanted to apologize to him-to get down on my knees and beg forgiveness-but it would have been a useless gesture. He was unconscious as he fought for his life. Even if he recovered he'd be in intensive care for weeks. Any reminder of what I'd done to him would probably cause a relapse.
Burdened by guilt, I sent the kids off to my mother's, and sat around the house brooding. It was the wrong thing to do in terms of peace of mind, because the whole time the phone kept ringing.
"That damn magazine," I muttered every time I heard it.
I knew the callers had seen my picture and wanted to lay a little sleaze on me. As I had asked for it in the first place, every jangle drove me deeper into the pit of my guilt.
What was I going to do? Not only had I given my husband a heart attack, I had inadvertently put the family on poverty row. When George had been fired he'd automatically lost all of his fringe benefits. Past his severance pay we would have no money coming in. There was no insurance to pay for his hospitalization.
Slowly, painfully, it occurred to me that George being in an oxygen tent wasn't my only responsibility. Through my bumbling I had created a situation where I was not the sole support of the family. Forget about the impossible cost of the hospital; right now, I had to start thinking about just putting food on the table.
As the full impact of the situation hit me, I began sobbing uncontrollably. Not only was I shrouded by guilt, I was enveloped by a chilling sense of my own incompetence.
How could I support a family? All I knew how to do was clean, wash and cook. My profession was wife and mother-a totally unsalable commodity in the labor market.
Interrupting my contemplation, the phone rang. Only this time I didn't resent it. I welcomed the opportunity it represented for a respite from my troubling thoughts.
"Hello," I answered.
"Is this Sharon Duncan?" a woman's voice asked at the other end.
God, I thought, it isn't one of the guys who's seen my picture in the magazine. I supposed it was someone from the hospital. A nurse, perhaps, with some new development on George's condition.
"Yes, this is Mrs. Duncan," I said. "Is this something about my husband?"
"Oh, yes," the caller said. "He's the photographer, isn't he?"
"I beg your pardon?" I replied in surprise. "My husband is ... or was an executive for Cooper Industries."
"I wasn't talking about his job," she chuckled. "I was talking about his hobby."
"George's hobby has always been golf," I answered nervously, becoming more confused by the second with this puzzling conversation.
"Not on the links," she said. "In the bedroom."
Photography? Bedroom? What in the world...?
Suddenly I felt like I had been pole-axed. It hadn't hit me at first because the caller was a woman.
I was talking to another one of my fans. Only this one was female. Probably a lesbian, who bought girlie magazines to look at the split beavers as avidly as any horny man.
"I can tell by your heavy breathing that you're surprised I'm a woman," she picked up the conversation. "Don't worry, Mrs. Duncan, I assure you I can satisfy that wet pussy of yours as well or better than any man. I may not have a dick between my legs, but I have a lot of other tricks up my sleeve."
"You're kidding," I bleated. "This is a put-on."
"I've got fifty bucks that says I'm as serious as I can be," she said tersely.
When I paused in stunned silence, she raised her offer to a hundred.
"No ... no " I finally managed to mutter. "You've got me all wrong. I couldn't ... I just couldn't-"
"One fifty," she interrupted me.
"What could you possibly want from me that's worth so much money?"
"Your cunt," she said evenly. "I've got to have it. What's the use in bargaining. I'll pay anything to gain access to it. Name your price."
Gradually, the impact of the money she was offering began to seep in. Money that I could use to keep the family together until George got out of the hospital and could find another job.
Money to keep a roof over my head. To feed the kids.
Money.
Money was what I needed more than anything now-not self-respect.
"Two hundred," I mumbled.
"Make it two-fifty," she said excitedly, "and I'll meet you in an hour at the Ramada Inn on Highway seventy-six. Just tell the desk clerk you're there to see Mrs. Gray and he'll send you up to my room."
I was numb all the way to the motel. When I got there I confronted the desk clerk like a zombie. "Uh, somebody named Mrs. Gray...." I muttered hollowly.
He was expecting me. "Mrs. Gray left a message that you were to come right up," he said. "Room six ninety."
My knees knocked all the way up in the elevator. By the time I reached the sixth floor I could hardly stand.
Feeling fainter by the second, I tried to walk down the hall by leaning against the wall. But no matter how securely I balanced myself, my environment seemed more and more uncertain.
Things were spinning. My throat was dry, and my stomach was churning. My senses reeled.
Could the hallway be actually turning itself upside down? Were the walls really closing in on me?
I was in a panic. I cried out for something to save me, and then, all of a sudden it did.
I was saved by the darkness. It abruptly drew itself over me like a blanket and then carried me away.
Falling into the pit of blackness was such a welcome alternative that I don't even remember hitting the floor. Later I would discover that I had chipped two teeth when I fell from fainting.
When I came to I didn't know where I was. In fact, I wasn't even sure I was truly conscious. I seemed to be in the middle of an infinite beige void.
Then I became aware of the scraping. It was the only clue I had that I was actually somewhere and that something was happening.
As the seconds passed, the scraping became more pronounced. It got so that I could feel it as well as hear it.
Things started to take shape. It wasn't a void I was staring into at all.
I was looking at a ceiling. I was flat on my back.
I felt around. Softness. Sheets ... a mattress. I was lying in bed.
The ceiling at home was green. This one was beige. I was in somebody else's bed.
The scraping sent a tingle abruptly shooting through my body. Jolted by my senses, I sat up with a lurch and found myself staring at the top of a woman's head. Her long blonde hair dangled over my lap as she leaned over to attend to some task she was performing between my legs.
The scraping continued. I could hear and feel it more intensely all the time.
The woman's right arm was moving. Something she was doing with her right hand was causing the scraping.
And now it wasn't all I heard. I became more and more aware of the sound of her heavy breathing.
Then I started to feel the wetness. It was directly between my legs.
"What are you doing to me?" I cried out, acknowledging the return of reality with a frightened screech.
She looked up and I saw her face. It was a beautiful face, made even more striking by. a dazzling smile.
There was no need for words. When she'd lifted her head, she had exposed the mystery. I looked down between my thighs and saw to my shock that my crotch was partially covered with puffs of snow-white lather. Where the lather was scraped away there was bare, pink skin instead of pubic hair.
I looked over to her right hand and saw light glinting from metal.
"You've been shaving my cunt!" I blurted incredulously. "Who are you? Why are you doing this?"
"For two-fifty I should get to do anything I please," she said through her smile. "I'm sure you'll agree when you stop to think about it, Mrs. Duncan."
Oh, my God, I thought, Mrs. Gray!
I'd awakened and found myself flat on my back being a prostitute for another woman! My pussy was no longer my own personal property.
"I love a shaved cunt, don't you, Mrs. Duncan?" she asked sweetly. "They make things so much easier. You can feel so much more."
"You can?" I mumbled in confusion.
She arched her pencil-thin eyebrows. "You mean you've never tried it? My, my, you do have a treat in store for you, Mrs. Duncan. Do you mind h I call you Sharon?"
I dumbly nodded my head, still awe-struck by what was happening.
"Good," she trilled. "And you must call me Amanda."
Amanda, I reflexively inserted the information of her name into the slot of my brain. Amanda Gray.
"Amanda Gray!" I suddenly bleated. "You're not the Amanda Gray who-"
"The very same," she smiled brilliantly. "Social register. Daddy's a millionaire. All the rest of it ... Yes, Sharon, I am that Amanda Gray."
I couldn't believe it. Amanda Gray was one of the most socially prominent women in the city. I read about her and her husband constantly. Locally, they were the closest thing we had to jet-setters.
"But you're married...." I said.
"It's just a cover-up," she explained. "My husband is as queer as I am. Our marriage provides the perfect ploy for him to go chasing after boys, and me to go chasing after girls. And I must say you're the juiciest specimen I've run across in some time. I hope my husband is having similar fortune in finding cocks."
"Then you're going to eat me out," I said in a voice hollow from the shock of realization.
"Until you scream for more," she assured me. "Now, if you don't mind, since we've been properly introduced, I'd like to finish shearing that nasty hair off your sweet-looking cunt."
* * *
After Amanda had finished shaving my cunt, and after some initial reluctance on my part, we got down to the nitty-gritty. We sucked each other's cunts until we'd both come what seemed like hundreds of times each.
Finally, we'd both just passed out from so much coming.
When I awoke Amanda Gray was gone. Placed between my tits were five crisp, new, fifty-dollar bills. For the first time since my pussy had been sheared I recalled the monetary bargain I had struck which had led to my ecstasy. Needless to say, the realization made me feel doubly rich.
There was a note, too. Amanda promised to be in touch.
I left the motel room with a new sense of self-respect and anticipation. Not only had I found a way to support the family with my husband sick and out of work, my picture in the magazine had opened up a whole new door of pleasure to me.
I couldn't help but wonder what new surprises lay for me around the bend because of that picture.
CHAPTER SIX
Of course, bringing home the bacon and taking care of the house and kids all at once was a tough juggling act. I was always on the go.
Even though I was now the family breadwinner, my old household duties remained. There were still beds to be made, floors to be waxed, clothes to be washed, and so forth.
And it didn't make it any easier when I had to drop everything to go out on a job with no more advance notice than an urgent phone call from some horny customer.
Sometimes it seemed like everybody in the city with genitals between their legs had seen my split beaver in the magazine. People of both sexes were calling constantly, each one hornier than the last.
My modus operandi over the phone was straight and to the point. If they wanted to see the goodies in the flesh that had turned them on so much in print, they'd have to pay. Ninety percent of them were so hot by the time they'd gotten the nerve to call me up, they were ready to meet any demand I made.
The price depended on three things: (a) How low the family kitty was at the time; (b) How hot the breadwinner's pussy was at the time; and (c) What the caller wanted to do to me.
There was no doubt about it, there were some strange people running around loose. Some of my callers were offering me sexual propositions that I wouldn't have thought anatomically possibly before I stumbled into this line of work. And others were so morally disgusting by conventional standards, that I previously would not have thought the minds conceiving them should have been allowed to function outside the walls of a heavily guarded institution.
After a while, though, I realized that it was I who had been out of line all these years. Quickly I came to understand that nothing which occurs to the human mind can be considered unnatural.
The human body, I came to see, was an exquisitely-tooled precision instrument of pleasure. And the brain was the high-powered motor.
Without their brains people would be just like animals when it came to sex. No imagination ... no strange thrills ... no wild pleasures. Nothing new.
Just the male impersonally sticking his stiff cock in the pussy of some anonymous bitch in heat and mindlessly fucking until he got his rocks off. No coming for the female ... just babies.
In a human being the brain was an extra erogenous zone. The biggest and the best, in fact.
What your brain could think up, you could always force your body to do-no matter how much it hurt.
For example, an everyday housewife, as I had been for so many uneventful years, would find it next to impossible to imagine more than one dick in her cunt. Yet, since I had crossed over the line from so-called normality, I had taken as many as three dorks between my legs at once.
No, it certainly wasn't easy. But it was sure as hell worth it.
The average person doesn't even like to think about anal sex because it isn't supposed to be nice to associate love-making with shit. I had come so far from that puritanical point of view that I had been the recipient of a multiple ass-fucking more than once. If one hard-on felt divine splitting my tight chocolate-eye, two were twice as good, and three were infinity. Sometimes I'd be up all night after a job, crapping semen.
I could go on and on, but I'd need an encyclopedia to list all the new kinds of jollies that came into my life. Just let me summarize by saying that although combining the careers of call girl and housewife was always demanding, for the first time I had found true meaning in my life and in being a woman.
On the home-front, my kids were thriving. I had expected Billy and Betsy to be adversely affected by their father's illness, however they seemed to thrive under my sole care. They seemed to have a new respect for their mother.
Then one afternoon, while making their beds, I discovered something which made me wonder if the new attention they paid to me had entirely to do with a good job I was doing taking care of them. Under Billy's pillow was explicit evidence that at least my son knew more about my talents than I had ever dreamed possible.
The magazine! And spread open right to the picture of his mother's hairy twat.
Billy had apparently been looking at it before he'd gone off to school this morning.
I couldn't believe it. Billy was only thirteen. How had he ever gotten anybody to sell him that magazine?
Enough's enough, I decided. A mother had to draw the line somewhere to protect the innocence of her children.
But how could I handle this? This was by far the most delicate situation with which a mother could have to cope.
Then, gradually, as I vainly tried to figure out what to do when Billy came home from school, I started trying to see things from his point of view. What must it be like, I thought, to open up a magazine and see your mother's spread pussy staring you in the face?
Some of Billy's friends must have told him about it. They probably came across the magazine around their homes. Probably some of their parents were among the ones propositioning me over the phone.
Looking at the picture of my cunt, I tried to imagine Billy's reaction to it. He was growing up. I'd noticed that his dick was getting bigger all the time. I couldn't help but wonder if the glossy image of his mother's drooling beaver had made it hard.
I found myself speculating whether my son had become so aroused he'd been forced to jack off over his mother's picture. I could just picture him sitting on the toilet seat, yanking his foreskin up and down his young cock while he ogled his mother's glistening snatch.
With a mother's innate curiosity, I wondered if my son was capable yet of drawing cream from his prick when he masturbated. Did the jizz come flying from his spitting cock-head as he moaned with pleasure? Increasingly, I couldn't get the thought out of my mind.
Even though I didn't want to admit it to myself, the thought of cum spurting from my boy's stiff tool was erotically exciting to me. I wondered if because the cock-muscles were firmer in youth, the spunk didn't squirt several extra inches into the air.
After he was finished coming, I could see Billy down on his hands and knees, swabbing up his wad from the bathroom tile with a towel. Somehow it seemed a shame to me that so much sweet boy-cum should be so utterly wasted as to find its way to the bottom of the clothes hamper.
As a matter-of-fact, I was still thinking about it when! heard the back door open. Forgetting to put the magazine open to my picture aside, I walked with it dangling from my hand to see who had just come into the kitchen.
"Billy!" I blurted. "What are you doing home from school so early?"
"I had a stomach ache, Mom," he said as he headed for the peanut butter.
"Then how can you be hungry?" I asked.
"It went away on the way home from school," he answered while he spread a big glob of chunky Jif across a slice of Wonder Bread.
"Are you sure you weren't trying to get out of some big test, young man?" I inquired sternly. "You know, you haven't exactly been studying your brains out around here lately."
"Well, gosh, Mom," he said as he stuffed his face with peanut butter sandwich, "I've had other things on my mind."
"Such as?"
"Oh ... just things."
Suddenly it dawned on me that I had inadvertently carried the conversation too far. Billy was looking straight at the magazine that was hanging open in my hand.
"Billy," I tried to bring us back to normal, "don't chew with your mouth full."
My nagging didn't work. By now he was gaping. His tongue lolled over his lower lip as wet peanut butter oozed from the comers of his mouth.
"Oh, whatever is wrong with you?" I said as if I didn't know. "Look at your face. You've got Jif all over it."
I was so nervous that the only thing I could think of to do was to mindlessly continue to press the point of his sloppy eating. Going to the sink, I got a wet rag and came back to wash his face as though he were a baby and had just spit up his strained carrots.
"Aw, Mom," he whined as I wiped the goo from his mouth, "I'm not a kid any more."
He certainly didn't need to tell me that. I was all too painfully aware of it now that I had found the magazine under his pillow.
Kids grew up so fast. Where had my bouncing baby boy gone? Where was my innocent little Billy?
The person whose face I was dabbing was no innocent little boy any longer. He was almost as tall as I was, and at least ten pounds heavier. Pretty soon he would be shaving.
Suddenly I felt a gushing wave of maternal instinct pour over me. This boy had sprung from my body as a helpless infant, and, now, a few short years later, he was well on his way to becoming a man. I couldn't stifle an incredible feeling of combined loss and pride.
Loss that his innocent childhood was gone forever, pride that he was growing up so straight and tall.
Overcome by sentiment, I impulsively embraced him and gave him a sobbing kiss.
Surprised by my abrupt advance, he squirmed in my grasp, but I wouldn't let him go. "W ... what's wrong, Mom," he stammered, "how come you're crying?"
"I ... I'm just glad you're home, son," I improvised. "It was lonely around here today."
He didn't know how to reply to that. I took up the slack in the conversation by squeezing-my body closer to his. As we pressed tightly together I became aware for the first time of an unmistakable bulge in the crotch of his tight-fitting jeans.
With the arc of his groin rubbing against my flanks my sentiment began to ebb away. In its place evolved a tingling excitement. Automatically, I parted my legs just enough to fit his straining phallic curve into the space between my thighs.
Feeling my cunt seep all the way through my, panties, I changed my kiss from a soft, maternal one into a hard, thrusting .one. My tongue shot into his mouth, surging all the way to the mouth of his throat.
By the time I had to come up for air, I was so turned on by my young, strong son that my last inhibition had vanished. Only utter frankness would suit me now.
"You saw my picture in the magazine, didn't you, Billy?" I whispered moistly in his ear.
"W ... what picture?" he nervously stuttered.
"The picture of my cunt," I said bluntly. "With my legs spread so you can see everything."
"Oh...." he gulped. "T ... that picture."
"That's the one," I cooed and raised my knee into his crotch. I could feel his balls flattening against the top of my thigh as I slipped my leg tightly between his thighs. "Tell me what you thought the first time you saw your mother's wet pussy."
"Do ... do you really want me to tell you, Mom?" he gulped.
I answered by sliding a hand between us, and clasping my fingers over the throbbing rise in his pants. His denim-sheathed cock and balls felt electric in my grasp.
"When I first saw it," Billy began talking excitedly, "my nuts hurt so much I couldn't get my cock out of my pants before I came."
"Was it your first cream?" I asked with drooling interest.
"No," he said proudly, "I've had it for almost a year."
"How exciting," I gushed. "Have you ever shot it into anyone?"
"Just my hand, mostly, he said sheepishly.
"But you'd like to, wouldn't you, son?" I led him down the primrose path toward the burningly erotic objective that now engorged my mind.
"Sure ... sure...." he bleeped. "What kid wouldn't?"
"How would you like to fuck the real thing instead of just beating your meat in front of a picture of it?" I asked matter-of-factly.
"You mean...." he gasped incredulously as he sensed my motives.
"How would you like to shoot your cream into me?" I said with motherly seductiveness. "When I told you I was lonely, I forgot to tell you what I was lonely for."
"Yes?"
"A big, hard cock. And I think yours is the hardest I'm going to find today."
There was no further need for conversation. I couldn't keep my hands off Billy's prick a second longer. My fingers grasped the tab of his zipper and pulled it down with a screech. Within seconds I had pulled his young peter from his jeans and was clutching the throbbing bare shaft.
Using the rigid cock-head as a prod, I lifted up the hem of my dress with Billy's hard-on and gave him a peek at my wet panties. He liked what he saw because his tongue shot out of his mouth as stiffly as his dick had shot from his crotch.
"Look how damp baby-boy's great big thing has made Mommy's panties," I cooed to him in provocative baby-talk. "Feel how wet you've made me."
He was too scared to move his trembling hand toward my crotch, even though I had just begged him to do it. Gripping his wrist, I stuffed his fingers between my legs and joyously felt them mash against my sopping box.
"Rub," I told him. "Rub your fingers around on Mommy's pussy. Show her how pleased you are-that she's letting you play with her cunt."
It was my son's first stinky-finger, but he knew instinctively what to do once he recovered from the initial shock. Slipping under the elastic of my ruined panties, his fingers immediately found my gooey slit and penetrated into the mouth of my womb. Reeling from the intense tingling that spread through my body with his first touch, I staggered backward and leaned against the kitchen table for support. Billy followed me every inch of the way, never losing a fraction of his digital penetration.
"Finger-fuck me," I moaned when I was finally situated securely enough to take a reaming. "Move your fingers inside my cunt and made me come."
"Your pussy is so deep," Billy said in wonder. "If I keep pushing, I'll put my whole hand in it."
"Please," I begged, "please do. Fill Mommy's cunt with all your fingers. Do it, Billy, do it. That's what Mommy wants you to do."
When all of his hand was engorging my distended slit, I wriggled my ass to achieve maximum penetration. His fingertips gouged into the rear of my love-tunnel and made me whimper, but still it wasn't enough.
"Am I deep enough?" Billy asked anxiously, eager to please his spasming mother.
"Deeper!" I exhorted. "Make a fist!"
"Won't it hurt you?" my son asked worriedly. "Yes, yes, of course!" I cried. "Why do you think I want you to do it?"
Mmmmm, his knuckles drew up excruciatingly in my tight cunt. They were like an interior gauntlet of spikes, systematically lacerating my ultra-sensitive female tissues.
"Is ... is this what you want me to do?" Billy stammered self-consciously, naive enough at thirteen not to understand that women love pain while they're having sex.
"Oh, God, yes!" I cried. "Fist-fuck me, Billy! brutalize me!"
At his young age he'd probably never heard the expression "fist-fuck" before. But as a male, he knew instinctively what to do. How gratifying for a woman! (And a horny mother!)
Behaving like the head of an immense cock, Billy's tight young fist began ramming my masochistic pussy to the ultimate. I could feel his knuckles battering against my spine as he bashed me to the hilt.
Every punch in my cunt brought a blast of pain. But each blast summoned an absolute explosion of incredible pleasure.
Each moan of agony was followed by a shriek of divine release. The agony and the ecstasy of being brutally fist-fucked by my thirteen-year-old son was an incredible turn-on. I couldn't get enough. "Am I making you come, Mom?" Billy asked with genuine concern as he whammed away between my legs.
"Can't you tell?" I gasped.
"I ... don't ... don't know," he admitted, reminding me of how innocent he really was. "How can I tell?"
"Feel how wet my pussy is," I instructed him. "Notice that no matter how big what you've got inside of me is, my cunt is still tight. Feel how it contracts against your fingers. Listen to me moan. Hear my heart pounding."
"But if you come with my fist in your pussy," he said with more than a tinge of concern, "will I still be able to fuck you with my prick like you promised?"
"Yes, yes," I bleated. "A horny woman can keep on coming forever. Don't forget, son, when it comes to sex, all a woman wants is more! Now do it to me one last time with your fist, and then get ready to fill my hungry cunt with your beautiful cock."
He bashed me like he was driving a knock-out uppercut to my crotch in an obscene boxing match. His knuckles seemed to tear up through my body. I thought his fist would come crashing out of my throat his punch was so severe.
The pain enveloped me, bringing me to the abyss of unconsciousness. But then the imminent darkness exploded in a riot of colors as the torment abruptly transformed itself into something wonderful. A capping orgasm surpassed all the smaller ones that had preceded it and reduced my body to shimmering jelly.
Already helpless from coming, now I was drooling and ready for a cock in my cunt. Sliding away from Billy's fist, I grabbed for his peter and began guiding it toward my oozing glory-hole.
My panties were no barrier. Billy's cock was so strong and hard that the barbed head just tore through the sopping crotch of the disintegrating fabric. Exposed through the gaping rip in the useless cloth, my pussy lips spread apart with the engorgement of my son's tool as he began to fuck in earnest.
"Stick it in me all the way!" I implored. "The first thing you've got to learn, son, is that no woman is satisfied until she's got every inch of a man's cock filling her cunt. You've got to make her scream from too much to make her love it."
Slamming his young loins into the well of my crotch, Billy bullishly gored the horn of his prick into my thrillingly wounded twat. His dick may have been somewhat slim because of his age, but it was curved like a cruel blade. It reamed my guts like a linoleum knife.
"That's it ... that's it...." I gasped between pants. "Fuck me hard, Billy. Fuck Mommy as hard as you can."
Now he was really in the groove. His deep fucking motion was as rhythmic as the stroke of a seasoned Don Juan. Apparently, boys were just born knowing how to fuck.
And, fortunately, all females were born knowing how to take it.
My ass squirmed against the sink as I widened my cunt more and more for Billy's thrusting prick. He battered my body as only young boys can do, with a lightning speed and surging penetration that went deeper with every sharp stroke.
The intensity of my ceaseless orgasms continued to increase now that he was fully within me. My lungs gasped for air as I deliriously accepted his pumping, swollen cock in my pussy.
With his balls squashing against the bottom of my snatch, I grabbed his tightly packed scrotum and began squeezing. Churning in my grasp, his nuts pulsated wildly from the frantic manufacture of boy-jism.
I had always heard about how these young teenage boys could cream, and now I was on the verge of experiencing it from the pounding dick of my own thirteen-year-old son. His hard-on lurched an extra inch in my hole, ready to shoot its wad.
"Come in me, Billy!" I pleaded. "Fill Mommy's cunt with your hot, sticky cum!"
When he came it felt as though he were unleashing thirteen years of stored-up sperm in my cunt. The spurting seemed as though it would never stop. My insides were bathed with an ocean of cum.
I was determined to drain him dry of every drop of his marvelous goo. I did things with my cunt that I wouldn't have believed I was capable of, wringing his prick like I was trying to rip it off his body.
The spurting from his peter went on and on, filling my pussy cavity to unbelievable proportions with his steaming cum. Popping my son's cherry by taking the first cuntful of his cock-juice was perhaps the greatest sexual thrill I'd ever known.
Finally his scalding offering stopped. However, he continued to fuck me as though he were just starting. His cock shot in and pulled out of my cunt at an even greater rate than before he'd blown his load.
My son's boundless teenage energy seemed to turn me on even more than the fact of his dick still engorging my pussy. It was after he had actually come for the first time that I had my greatest orgasm.
The spasming was so intensely shuddering that had I not been pinned under my boy's muscular body, I would have jack-knifed in agonizing ecstasy. The possibility of being infinitely fucked by this junior super-stud was more than I could bear without feeling like I was flying apart in tinglingly sensuous joy.
I had no choice but to scream to release some of my pent-up excitement. The searing sounds of my joy were wrenched from my throat, spewing from my mouth like hot thunderbolts of verbal cum.
"My God," I ejaculated, "are you going to fuck me forever?"
I prayed that the answer was yes, yes, yes!
But Billy said nothing. His thrusting loins and stabbing prick did the talking for him.
His naked young body continued to pump ceaselessly at my clutching twat. If anything, his cock was growing stronger by the second.
And then, once again, he was pouring his scalding goo into my cunt. All the orgasms I had experienced were surpassed by a new climax so cataclysmic that I couldn't believe it was happening to me.
I couldn't scream any more without rupturing my lungs, so I started to whimper like a puppy.
But for all my orgasmic noise, Billy was still as quiet as a mouse while he continued to fuck me. The only sound from him was the squish of his spurting dick inside my cum-infested pussy.
He was completely single-minded, concentrating entirely on the newly found task of fucking his mother's ovaries out. Coming like a fire hydrant, Billy filled the depths of my pussy with bucket after bucket of fresh young semen.
Eventually, the spurting stopped again ... but not Billy. His stiff prick kept right on pumping as though it were a perpetual motion machine.
His tool was as hard as ever, and even more active. I gasped with disbelief as I realized he was trying for yet another ejaculation ... a third explosion in my body.
My pussy was so saturated with Billy's cream, that any further deposit would go unnoticed. Casting out for fresh territory, I pulled his cock from my gooey snatch and moved it a notch down between my splayed cheeks. Within seconds I was working his brutal cock-head against the tender petals of my asshole.
Before he could realize what I was doing, and lose his nerve from the shocking prospect of fucking his mother in the ass, I locked him up. Spreading my buns apart to the ultimate, I widened my shit-pit and shoved my butt at his crotch. The head of his prick popped inside, plugging my asshole like a huge cork. He was trapped within the clutches of my tight bunghole.
To strengthen the bond of ass and cock, I wrapped my legs around his waist and crushed him between my compressing thighs. While inch after inch of his searing prick went into my asshole, my mouth found his and I soul-kissed him passionately. My tongue fucked his mouth as deeply as his hard-on was starting to ream my anus.
My son fucked my ass with the wild, reckless fury that only a young boy could possess. It was miraculous how his dick seemed to grow harder by the second, even though he had already shot his wad twice within minutes.
God, how wonderful it was to have a youngster on top of my writhing body, pumping his swollen cock into my asshole. And not just any youngster ... but my own flesh and blood!
My son seemed to know instinctively just what I wanted from his prick. It was as though he had in his genes an innate sense of what really turned his mother on. His dick knew just where to go in my body, as though its head were engorged with miniaturized radar equipment instead of trapped blood.
As though he could read my mind, Billy placed his hands under my tush and clutched my buns furiously. Accelerating his frantic cornholing movements, his prick went deeper and deeper within me until it engorged my colon. Hot shit lapped against his cock-head.
"Oh, Jesus," I whimpered, breaking off from our kiss as an anal orgasm shook me to the roots of my being, "you're going to kill me. You're going to fuck me to death!"
My son came in me at that precise moment. His spunk was as thick and rich and hot as it had been the first two times. "Oh, Jiminy!" he cried boyishly, the first words he had spoken since we had first joined our bodies in fucking.
His cock squirted once more, he shuddered, and then proved that teenage boys were human after all by collapsing on top of me Bending under his full weight, I slid to the floor while his spent prick uncoiled from my dripping asshole.
When I saw my boy's now-wilting pride and joy, sticky with cum, I couldn't resist taking it in my hand. Leaning over, I pressed its glistening head to my lips and lapped the residual spunk from its flange. As I anticipated, boy-cream was delicious.
After I'd licked his pecker dry, and it rested limply in my hand, restored to its former innocence, I told my son just how proud of him I was. "You're a wonderful fucker, Billy," I complimented him, squeezing his tight, round balls for emphasis.
"You're ... awful good ... too," he panted. "Can ... can we do it again?"
"How can we help it?" I smiled, and gave him a big, motherly kiss.
CHAPTER SEVEN
My pace had been so hectic ever since my picture in the magazine came out that I had forgotten all about the hundred dollars the publisher promised for printing your photo. When the letter finally arrived, the check was a pleasant surprise.
However, nothing , like the surprise from what accompanied it.
In fact, surprise is hardly the word for it. Abject shock is the expression I'm searching for.
My mind boggled as I read an invitation from the editor to pose for a whole layout of nude pictures. They wanted me to be in a centerfold!
I couldn't believe it. But my eyes weren't deceiving me. When I reread the letter I realized that the offer was on the level. All I had to do was sire them my acceptance and they'd send me a round-trip ticket to New York.
According to the letter, not only would I get a free trip out of it, and an all-expense paid week's stay, they'd actually pay me a fee for posing. A thousand dollars, they promised!
How could I say no? Even if I hadn't needed the money to support my family, there was no way I could refuse. An offer like this was the dream of any woman.
Even before I called my mother to make sure she could tend the kids while I was gone, I dialed Western Union and sent the message that I was coming to New York. I was as excited as if I had just been picked to play Scarlet O'Hara in a remake of "Gone With the Wind".
When I finally talked to my mother, though, I found myself automatically bottling up my excitement. The minute I heard her voice I realized that she would never understand my going to New York City to pose for a nude centerfold.
"Mother," I found myself lying, "I've just got to get away from the house and the kids for a few days. The pressure since George has been in the hospital as really getting to me."
She was very sympathetic with my plight. Mom connected with any situation where something a man did made life more burdensome for a woman. Probably because my father had always made life difficult for her with his drinking and repeated business failures before he'd been hit by a beer truck when I was ten.
Mother believed that women were meant to be martyrs. It had always been a pain in the neck, but, for once, it was coming in handy.
"Don't worry about a thing, Sharon," she reassured me. "I'll take care of everything. I knew it was only a matter of time before all of this overwhelmed you. Husbands just don't seem to care how much suffering they cause their wives. It seems like the more loyal and hardworking a woman is, the more grief a man is determined to bring her."
She was so busy hauling out her scrapbook of complaints against the male of the species that she didn't even bother to ask me where I was going on my so-called vacation. That was convenient because it saved me another lie. If I'd told her I was going to New York, I'd have had to listen to an extra lecture about the evils of the big city.
"When are you going to bring Billy and Betsy over to see their Nana?" Mother finally asked when she had finished an exhaustive tirade against men and I had given her no further conversational stimulus to rail against.
"Uh, I'm not sure yet," I said, realizing that I didn't even have my ticket yet. How did I know that the magazine didn't plan to shoot the centerfold several months from now?
"Well, you know I have Bingo on Thursdays and Mambo lessons on Saturdays," she prattled. "If I'm going to be taking care of Billy and Betsy I'll have to adjust my schedule. If I don't show up for either Bingo or Mambo without a word, the next thing I know the Reverend Felcher will be knocking on my door trying to find out if I had a stroke."
"Sure, Mom, sure," I sighed. "I'll let you know as soon as I know for sure. Talk to you later."
What a letdown I felt when I hung up the phone.
That magazine might put off shooting my centerfold until next summer. Or they get some better prospect for a layout and cancel me out all together.
Suddenly I felt tremendously threatened, thinking about all the other women across the country sending in photographs of their spread legs to compete with the picture of my pussy. Some woman out there right now was probably looking at my split beaver in that magazine and saying to herself, "My cunt is wetter than hers."
Where less than an hour earlier I had been ecstatic with happiness, I found myself feeling crushingly depressed. As it turned out, I hadn't really been lying to my mother at all. The strain of being the head of the family was truly getting to me.
What if some brassy bimbo from the Midwest or someplace did send in a more provocative photo than mine and caused the editors to reconsider their offer to me? Now I knew how George felt that time he'd missed out on a promotion.
Feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders, I moped my way into the bedroom and flopped down on the bed. As I landed, the impact caused the hem of my housecoat to fly up my parted legs. All of a sudden I found myself looking across the room at a reflection in the vanity mirror of the bare crotch I hadn't gotten around to covering with panties yet today.
What a cruel joke, I thought. My pussy seemed to be mocking me, its pink lips forming a vertical sneer.
It seemed to be saying: Don't worry, Sharon, I'll let you down, too.
I was torn by doubt. All of the confidence I had shakily built since George's heart attack was crumbling.
The whole idea of posing for a nude centerfold in a national magazine now seemed impossible. "People would laugh at me," I said to myself in a whisper.
Might as well face the facts, I decided. Might as well take a long look at this body I've been depending so much on lately.
Reluctantly, I got up from the bed and began to strip before the mirror. The last thing I wanted to do at the moment was confront my naked body, but I realized that it was a necessity to give myself an honest appraisal if I wanted to keep going.
My tits were what first caught my eye when my housecoat and nightgown were a heap on the floor. Holding them up in my hands, I pushed them next to the mirror to study them for flaws.
Tracing every inch of tit-flesh, my gaze poured over the two hemispheres on my chest. I had never looked so closely at my breasts.
Well, I had to admit they were certainly big enough. I had the kind of tits that men refer to as "jugs".
I had always been proud of the way men looked at me when I wore a tight sweater. Even in my self-critical state of mind, it was easy to understand why their mouths always watered.
My nipples were nothing to be ashamed of, either. Fingering them lightly, I was astonished how hard they became with just a few rubbing flicks. Without my really trying, all of a sudden they were standing out at least an inch between my fingers.
Satisfied with my breasts, I lowered my anatomical inventory to my belly. Pressing against the muscles, I was surprised how flat and hard my tummy had remained after thirty-two years and the birth of two children. In a two-piece bathing suit my stomach could still pass for a seventeen-year-old cheerleader's.
Moving my critical gaze downward, I inspected the beginning of my crotch. I had kept it shaved since my experience with Amanda Gray and was pleased how pink and vibrant the tone of the taut flesh down there was.
To tell the truth, I looked like a young girl between my legs. My pubic mound was flushed with a rosy triangle of circulating blood instead of mossy hair. Just looking at it made me feel good.
Automatically my suddenly trembling fingers snaked down to the center of my thighs. When the tips brushed against my ultra-sensitive pussy lips, a tingling spasm shot through my body.
After a moment of agitated fluttering, my fingers settled onto the sides of my snatch. Slowly and revealingly, I pulled apart my labia, staring at the reflection of the opening mouth of my cunt in the mirror.
I was surprised to see that I was wet. This was one naked trip I had taken to the mirror with no thought of sexual arousal in mind.
However, intended or not, there was no denying it. My cunt was sopping wet. Now that I had seen my drooling box, I couldn't stop fondling it. While I continued to pry apart my pussy lips, my thumbs shot up to the top of my gash and trapped my clit in a squeezing rub.
If I'd been surprised at how inadvertently wet my twat had become, I was ever more astonished at the erectness of my clitoris. It was positively straining, as hard as a miniature cock.
Licking my lips in anticipation, I kept my joy-button imprisoned between my thumbs while I began introducing the rest of my fingers into my slobbering cunt-hole. Before I knew it I was avidly finger-fucking myself, giving my pussy a thorough ream-job.
"Oooooh!" I moaned as I penetrated all the way to the nodule of my cervix with several fingers. In fact, I moaned so loud that I didn't even hear the front door bang shut.
My eyes were closed as I stuffed my cunt to the hilt and fantasized that I was taking a cock between my legs as big as a horse's. When I finally opened them and looked into the mirror again, my digitally engorged pussy was no longer the focal point.
To my alarm, Betty's face was all I could see.
"Oh, no!" I blurted, unable to think of any other response upon being caught in such an embarrassing situation by my eleven-year-old daughter.
"Don't worry about it, Mom," she said between pops of the bubblegum she was chewing. She didn't seem concerned at all.
"I ... I beg your pardon...."
"Don't worry about it," she reiterated smugly. "I've already seen your picture in that magazine. You don't have to hide anything from me."
"Billy showed you?" I gasped.
"Of course," she answered as though I was a moron for thinking he would do otherwise.
"I'll kill him," I seethed.
"Oh, I'd have found out anyway," she said, cocking her head to the left as though she were exasperated with my naivete. "Two different girls brought the magazine to school. They were passing it around the lavatory."
My cunt a joke for a bunch of giggling schoolgirls! The thought made me wince.
"Aw, don't sweat it, Mom," Betsy said cheerfully. "Everyone agreed that you have the best cunt of any mother."
"Really?" I asked anxiously. I was so uptight that I hadn't even noticed her shocking language. "Sure," she said. "I'm so proud of you."
"Are you really?" I asked expectantly, my daughter's approval suddenly the most important thing in the world to me.
"Of course," she answered matter-of-factly. "A lot of kids have moms that are good cooks, and all that kinda stuff. But the best pussy ... well, wow! That's super!"
I turned to face her. There hadn't been a trace of sarcasm in her voice, and there was none in her facial expression.
Even though my eleven-year-old daughter had discovered me playing with myself, she had miraculously put me at ease. I hated to think about my performance had I come upon her masturbating.
"Thank you, Betsy," I said gratefully. "You don't know how much I appreciate what you've just told me."
"Mom," she replied, girlishly twisting her legs around each other as a result of my gushy response, "is there something I could ask you?"
"Yes, of course, darling," I said, trying to put her at ease.
"How come you shaved your pussy? It looked so neat in the picture with all the hair all over it. A couple of the girls at school said it even turned them on.
"Don't you like it this way, dear?" I asked. "This way you can see everything."
"Could you show me?" she said innocently, obviously pleased by the grown-up confidences we were sharing.
"Of course, sweetheart," I instantly agreed. "Come over to the bed and I'll lay down and spread my legs. That way you'll be able to see all of it."
Pulling each other by the hand, we skipped to the bed and I flopped down on my back as promised. With Betsy peering intently, I slowly parted my thighs, giving her a perfect shot at my gradually gaping snatch.
"Oooooh, Mom," Betsy gushed, "now I can see what you mean. I can see everything. You're right, your cunt is so much prettier without the hair. It's just groovy, Mom."
Reveling in my daughter's admiration of the epitome of my femininity, I asked the inevitable question: "What about you, darling," I cooed, "do you have any hair yet between your legs?"
"Just a couple of strands," she confessed with a giggle. "Two long, black curls. They look just icky."
"May I see?" I asked simply.
"Sure," she said, and started pulling her corduroy jumper over her head.
Abruptly I found myself looking at the white cotton underpants that tightly encased my little girl's loins. I had shuffled her panties In and out of the laundry a million times without ever giving them a second thought except to check for childish stains. Now, all of a sudden, I couldn't take my eyes off them with her young body filling them.
Betsy was growing up right under my nose, and I hadn't even really noticed the changes until now. For example, her hips were starting to develop curves as her pelvis widened. Her legs, always as skinny as matchsticks, were starting to take a womanly form.
"Take your panties off, dear," I said as I found myself panting.
Obediently, Betsy slid her fingers under the elastic waistband and rolled the white cotton down her tummy. As they reached her thighs I felt my tongue pass wetly over my lips while my eyes bugged at the sight of her girlish pussy.
She was right. There were two black hairs curling from the top of her pubic mound. Far from being icky, they were charming. In their wispy sparseness they just accentuated how innocently young she still was, even as she slowly grew into a woman.
When I just kept staring at her exposed crotch, Betsy started to grow uneasy. "It looks goofy, huh?" she muttered anxiously.
"It's just beautiful," I reassured her. "You're going to have a lovely cunt by the time you grow up, Betsy."
"As pretty as yours, Mom?" she asked expectantly, her spirits immediately lifted by my compliment.
"You can't miss," I winked. "Now come to Mother, and show her how much you love her." Happy with the prospect of being in my arms, Betsy eagerly crawled on top of me and fell into my waiting embrace. As she did so, the bottom half of her little body fell comfortably into the well of my parted thighs.
"Move your hips, darling," I whispered as I slid my lips along her cheeks. "Push your pussy into Mom's. Let Mommy feel your beautiful little cunt."
Squirming her tight little ass, Betsy slipped her twat against mine. As my larger pussy lips engulfed her smaller petals, I felt my cunt gush.
"Oh, Mommy," Betsy shrieked with delight, "you just made me all wet!"
"I couldn't help it," I laughed.
"I wish I could do that," she said, obviously in awe of the sticky moisture generated by her mother's twat.
"You could if you tried," I assured her. "Do you want me to show you how?"
"Yes, Mommy, please," she begged. "Please show me how to make my pussy wet!"
"Start rubbing," I instructed her. "Start rubbing your little cunt against mine as hard as you can." Awkwardly at first, Betsy began chafing her groin in the damp slot between my thighs. Handicapped by lack of experience, in the beginning she had trouble establishing the proper rhythm.
"Wiggle your ass," I coached her.
"You mean, shake my booty?" she giggled as she flailed in the well of my crotch.
"Exactly," I broke out laughing. "Shake your booty!"
"Put my rump in the funk!" she cried as she squirmed her ass in a pink blur.
Now she was getting it down pat. The power of her gyrating pelvis sent her little cunt lips twisting maddeningly against my foaming gash. My larger labia sucked her girlish petals completely within the ravenous mouth of my pussy until our cunts were as one.
As Betsy continued to hump away, the match-up of our mother-daughter femaleness became perfect. My stiff clit found her blossoming joy-button and pressed it like a doorbell. When my baby girl lurched and shrieked, I knew I had rung her chimes.
"Oh, Mommy," she cried deliriously, "I can feel it leaking! I can feel my pussy leaking all over you!"
"So can I, honey," I replied like the proud parent I was. "You're doing just perfect."
"Thanks, Mom," she beamed, basking in my praise.
"I have just one little suggestion," I said.
"Yes?" she said expectantly.
"Don't stop moving for anything."
We both broke up from that.
But even our shared laughter didn't stop my precious little girl from moving like a powerhouse between my legs. Her cunt was now sliding all over mine, as greased by its own girlish juice as by my more mature flow.
Miniature orgasms were starting to spread in concentric rings from my pumping crotch. Naturally, I wondered if Betsy was experiencing her first climactic tingles.
"Can you feel it, Betsy?" I asked while we rocked back and forth on the bed. "Can you feel anything in your cunt?"
"Like a fluttering?" she gasped as she moved like a demon against my hot groin.
"Yes," I assured her. "A fluttering right in the center of your pussy."
"I can feel it!" she cried joyously. "Oh, Mom, I'm coming! I'm coming for the first time in my life!"
"Mar ... vel ... ous...." I panted from the excitement and the accelerated effort of pounding Betsy's little box with my own wide slit.
"It feels so wonderful," she moaned. "It feels so wonderful to come for the first time!"
Not as wonderful as it was going to feel by the time I was finished educating my little girl. Betsy had passed the first test with flying colors, and now she was ready for the next step in her training.
"Swivel around on me," I told her. "I want your cunt in my mouth."
"But what'll I do while you're doing that?" she asked innocently.
"You'll figure it out, darling," I promised. "Just trust your old Mom."
Reluctantly pulling herself out of the warm nest of my crotch, Betsy twisted around on my belly.
When her little snatch was winking at me, I grabbed her by the hips and pulled her bottom toward my watering mouth.
Spreading apart the soft cheeks of my daughter's ass, I droolingly watched her tight little pussy open up like a clam. Close up, Betsy's twat was even more delicious. I couldn't wait to eat it.
Snaking out my tongue, I tickled the virginal ridges of Betsy's gooey cookie. It was so sweet-tasting it was like sampling a fresh pot of jam.
With my tongue lapping her girlhood, Betsy began writhing on top of me just as squirmingly as she had between my legs. It was only a matter of seconds before it occurred to her what she was supposed to do next.
My stiff tongue slipping between Betsy's pussy lips was the stimulus that forced the obvious into her mind. As I began orally fucking her, she gasped with joy, and then threw her face between my legs.
Just as my tongue reamed her box, now Betsy's oral prod surged into my open pit and began wiggling away. "Oh, God, Betsy, that's it," I whimpered from the abrupt pleasure of my own daughter eating my cunt. "Fuck me with your tongue. Tongue-fuck me until I scream!"
She had began eating my box as though she had been doing it all her life. Every thrust of my own tongue up her tight love-hole was matched by a further penetration of her oral hard-on up mine.
With our tongues firmly lodged in each others' pussies, I began playing with Betsy's cute little ass. Probing in the downy cleavage of her plump cheeks, I found the blossoming flower of her anus and began stroking it.
Fingering my daughter's asshole until it started to ooze, I used the lubrication to slip inside. Wiggling up her narrow tunnel, I buried my finger up to the third knuckle. Then I started moving it back and forth in slow thrusts of about an inch, giving her her maiden finger-fuck.
My daughter was the perfect pupil. As soon as she fully realized what I was doing to her ass, she started doing the same thing to mine. The sensation was exquisite.
Because her fingers were much smaller than mine, Betsy was able to easily penetrate my shit-pit with three of them right at the beginning. Then, as she gouged to the hilt, she realized there was room for even more and inserted her pinkie and thumb. Her whole hand filled my spasming asshole.
"Make a fist, darling," I called down to her.
"Won't it hurt?" she answered apprehensively.
"It better," I enthused.
Sensing how badly I wanted to feel the pain, Betsy drew up her knuckles inside the tunnel of my rectum. When they were knotted into a tight fist, I groaned in ecstasy and started bucking my hips. Her fist crashed into my colon, slamming against a hot wall of solid shit.
"Oh, God, that's it!" I screamed in excruciating delight. "Fist-fuck me! And don't stop eating my cunt!"
Attacking me in both holes like a demon, my little girl really went to work on her mother now. Simultaneously fucking me in the pussy with her stiff tongue and in the ass with her brutal young fist, she made me come violently in both orifices at once.
Despite the fact that I was on the verge of rattling apart from my orgasmic vibrations, I still had enough wherewithal to repay my debt to my darling daughter. At the same time as I shoved my erect tongue to the ultimate depths of her clutching pussy, I crammed another finger into her anus and began thrusting toward her bowels. It was a tight fit, but I was not to be denied.
I knew I had plumbed Betsy's bunghole to its gooey depths when a mass of her girlish shit lapped against my fingertips. Its heat seared like battery acid as I wiggled gleefully away in her gurgling colon.
At the same time I finger-fucked my daughter's cache of chocolate syrup, I performed a continuing series of wonderful tricks with my tongue in her cunt. Rubbing its rough surface over the puckering nodule of her cervix, I made her awakening womb expand and contract like an interior pussy.
"Oh, Mommy," Betsy screamed, "do it to me! Keep doing it to me! I feel like I'm coming in three places at once. In my ass ... in my cunt ... and somewhere inside me!"
"You are, darling, you are," I assured her. "And so is Mommy."
Yes, my womb was fluttering like a bird in flight, too. And my pussy was spasming and creaming. My asshole orgasmed unstoppably.
We were both triple-coming. Mother and daughter coming and coming and coming!
"Oh, Mommy, I love you so much!" Betsy gushed as she writhed on top of me.
"I love you, too, darling," I sighed ecstatically with a mouthful of wet pussy. "I love you, too." Later, when we were finally finished making love, and lay exhausted in one another's arms, I told Betsy about the centerfold offer.
"Are you going to do it, Mom?" she asked enthusiastically.
"I want to very much," I confessed. "But I'm afraid they'll change their minds at the last minute and I'll feel like a fool."
"Don't worry about it, Mom," she made my spirits soar. "With your cunt you can't miss."
CHAPTER EIGHT
All my worrying had been for nothing. The tickets to New York arrived the next day by special delivery. I packed the kids off to my mother's and hurriedly packed to make the night flight the magazine had scheduled for me.
I pondered over what clothes to take. Did the editors see me as a sex bomb like the kind of woman who usually modeled for nude photographs, or as an ordinary housewife having a fling?
Finally I just decided to be myself. They'd have to take me the way I was.
After all, I hadn't been putting on any airs when I'd spread my legs and posed for the original picture. They'd liked it well enough to publish it and offer me a centerfold, so there didn't seem any reason to change now.
Consequently, when I boarded the plane for New York I looked just like any other young matron on my way to a holiday in the big city. I was confident that there was nothing out of the ordinary about my appearance.
I had never taken a trip in an airplane before. Just like any other first-timer, I sat next to the window and gazed out in wonder as the lights on the ground became twinkling dots while we soared in flight. The town where I had been born and raised became as impersonal to me as a map before we finally flew away from it. I started to forget all my troubles.
It was somewhere above the clouds, when I couldn't see anything but ominous dark billows, that I finally turned from the window. When I did I found myself confronting the person sitting next to me for the first time.
He was just an ordinary-looking man. As unremarkable in appearance as I considered myself to be.
Yet, there was something about him that caught my attention more than usual in a situation like this. And, what's more, he seemed to have a similar attraction to me.
Oh, it was nothing obvious. Just a little glance out of the corner of his eye from time to time as he read his magazine. But it was there nonetheless.
What was it about him? Had I met him someplace and not remembered?
I had a long plane ride still ahead of me. I decided I had nothing to lose by introducing myself to the man next to me. After all, we apparently had something in common. I might as well find out what it was.
"Hello," I said, "my name is Sharon Duncan."
"I know," he said to my complete surprise.
"I ... I beg your pardon?" I stammered. "Do I know you from somewhere?"
"I don't believe so," he smiled as he looked up completely from his magazine for the first time since I'd noticed him.
"Then how do you know my name?" I asked.
"I was just, uh, reading about you," he said calmly.
Suddenly the basis for our mysterious familiarity came to me. The reason I'd been drawn to him was not that I'd ever seen him before, but because I'd had a subliminal recognition of the magazine he was reading.
When I cocked my head and looked directly down into his lap, I saw that my deduction was absolutely correct. I was staring straight at the glossy image of my own spread legs.
"I recognized you when we were boarding," he confessed. "I tipped the stewardess to let me change seats so I could sit by you. I just happened to buy this magazine at the last minute at the airport, but, believe me, Mrs. Duncan, now I'm a fan. Could I trouble you for your autograph?"
My autograph? I couldn't believe it.
I was so stunned, all I could think of to say was, "Sure. Do you have a pen, Mr. ... Mr. ..."
"Tracy," he said, reaching into his coat and extracting a ballpoint pen. "Al Tracy."
Accepting the pen, I said as though I had been a celebrity all my life, "Do you want me to sign the picture?"
"Would you?" he gushed like a teenager about to get Elton John's signature on an album.
"Sure," I said. "Anything special you want me to write?"
"Anything?"
"Of course."
"Okay," he said eagerly. "How about this: 'Dear Al, I'll never forget that night we spent on the airplane to New York together'."
"Perfect," I said. "Let me have the magazine." As he handed it to me, he cleared his throat, I didn't think anything about it, but while I was writing his inscription across the pink glossiness of my magazine thighs, he did it again. Then, when I didn't look up, he coughed.
"Is there something wrong, Al?" I asked as I finished signing my name.
"Just this," he muttered under his breath.
"I'm afraid I don't understand, Al. Why are you whispering?"
He answered by grabbing my wrist and forcing my hand into his lap. I heard the pen clatter to the floor as I realized why he was so agitated.
His crotch was bulging. He had a hard-on that was almost tearing his pants!
With his cock and balls straining hotly against my fingers, it because immediately obvious that Al Tracy had a lot more on his mind that merely getting my autograph. His prick had apparently been doing his thinking for him from the start.
This was no accident. Otherwise, he wouldn't have grabbed my hand in the first place and crushed it to his throbbing crotch. And he certainly wouldn't have forcibly kept it there, imprisoning it by closing his thighs around my wrist.
"What do you expect me to do now?" I whispered warily, desperately afraid that the other passengers would overhear us and report us to the stewardess. I could just picture myself being met by the vice squad when I got off the plane in New York.
"Take my cock out of my pants," he hissed urgently.
"But we're on a plane ... there're people all around us," I objected under my breath.
"Fuck 'em," he snapped. "If they're horny, let 'em make with whoever's sitting next to them."
"That's not exactly what I had in mind," I protested.
But he wasn't having any of my logic. "Just shut up and pull my cock out," he whispered hoarsely. "If you don't, I'll call the stewardess myself and tell her you tried to proposition me. I'm sure you can guess they don't take too kindly to hookers on the airlines."
What could I do? I was damned if I did, and damned if I didn't.
If I pulled out his prick in the middle of a plane full of people, I would risk totally degrading myself. The odds were at least even money that someone would spot me playing with him, even if I covered his lap with a blanket.
On the other hand, with his threat, there was a 100% probability I would be marked as a whore if I refused to meet Al Tracy's lewd demands. If I failed to pull his dick out, I had every confidence that in his agitated state he would make good on his threat to turn me in to the stewardess.
I couldn't afford any hitch in my plans. Any irregularity on my trip to New York, and I was terrified that I'd blow the whole centerfold deal. What would the editors think if they found out I wasn't there to meet them at the airport because I'd been hauled off on a morals charge?
"Well?" he insisted.
"All right...." I reluctantly wheezed. "I'll do it. Put the blanket under the seat on your lap."
"That's more like it," he beamed.
When his lap was covered, I clamped my trembling fingers around the tab of his zipper. I winced as his fly screeched open, certain that everybody in the plane could hear it. When I finished I looked around and saw to my relief that no one seemed to be paying any attention.
"Come on," Al Tracy hissed. "Hurry up. I want to feel my bare cock in your hand."
Realizing that I would never have any peace until I did what he said, I stuffed my fingers into his open fly and rummaged for his stiff prick. It wasn't difficult to find.
Like a deadly snake that had been patiently awaiting his prey, his cock sprung from the nest of his groin and struck my hand. Instantaneously I found myself with a pulsing grip of hot, throbbing gristle.
Operating like a surgeon, I expertly plucked his prick from his pants. Wriggling with the shock of . exposure, his dick sprang forward at least eight inches in my grasp.
It was hot and hard in my hand. I wanted to be disgusted ... yet, somehow I found myself experiencing an odd sense of elation at being able to force a man's prick into such rigidity in public.
"Wha ... what do you want me to ... to do with it?" I stammered. I was uncertain now whether my anxiety came from fright or anticipation.
"Go down on me," he said matter-of-factly. "Fuck me with your mouth."
I started to say that I couldn't. But the word couldn't get out because my tongue was in the way hungrily licking my lips.
"Hurry up," he spat.
In the face of his insistence I couldn't think. There was no time to reason it out. I was hopelessly on the spot.
The choice was simple: I could go ahead and stick my head under the blanket and suck his cock, or be turned in to the stewardess and take my chances with the airline.
"Coffee, tea or milk?" I could hear the stewardess up the aisle.
Al Tracy was aware of her proximity, also. "Start eating, baby," he hissed, "or I'm gonna start screaming."
Feigning airsickness for the benefit of my potential audience, I swooned and laid my head onto Al Tracy's lap. Then, when I was convinced that no one had noticed anything out of the ordinary, I lifted the blanket over me and started moving my lips toward his standing cock.
Scalding the twitching column in the darkness, I finally felt my mouth work over the plum-like knob at the end. Wrapping my lips securely around his cock-head, I worked my spit into his flesh with my tongue.
"Ahhhh," he moaned from above, "that's it. Make me wet while you swallow me. Make me wet all the way down to my balls."
It was obvious that he expected me to swallow the whole thing. Every inch.
It was a formidable task. But I had decided that my only alternative was to go ahead and do it. The only way I could save my future was to suck his hard-on to the hilt.
Once I had made up my mind, gobbling his throbber was a hot easier than I had anticipated. With all the intellectual uncertainty out of the way, my instincts as a woman took over fully and guided my mouth down the shaft of Tracy's cock like a fireman down a pole.
My nostrils flared as I realized just what a tangy prick it was. The last couple of inches required some effort to get inside, but it was worth it now that I knew what a savory hunk of meat I was tasting.
His dick wriggled like a live fish in my oral cavity, swimming its way upstream toward my throat in an ocean of my gushing saliva. Shoving my face into his musky crotch, I achieved the proper angle for maximum penetration and opened the locks to the canal of my gullet. His cock-head surged into the expanded opening and made me gag with delight.
"I can hear you like it," Tracy said smugly from above. "That's good. I like my women to choke on me. The contraction of your throat feels just like a tight pussy."
What a filthy man, I thought. And what an exciting dick, I added lasciviously. I wonder what his cum tastes like?
Working my lips in a pistoning suction, I began moving my puckering mouth up and down his joint in a slurping blur. While I sucked him, I reached into his fly for his balls and began squeezing them until I was sure they were bright blue.
Then, with his prick-head surging with maddening friction in and out of my esophagus, I felt Tracy's hand reach under my dress. Working their way up my thigh, his fingers made a bee-line for my crotch. Already I was sopping wet, just awaiting their arrival.
His hand plunged into the well of my thighs.
Ripping and clawing like an insect caught in a spider's web, his fingers fought against the gooey restraint of my saturated panties.
Then, I heard a moist tear. He was through the barrier and touching my bare twat.
It was electric having the pulsating folds of my cunt manipulated by a handful of busy fingertips. I was so aroused by now that any place on my box was the right place to touch to make me even wetter.
"Mmmm," I whimpered damply around the juicy column of his cock. The dual sensation of a hard-on down my throat and five wriggling fingers on my pussy was driving me wild with desire.
There was no doubt about it. I had to come ... and I had to feel Al Tracy's hot cum down my throat.
It no longer made any difference if we were in the middle of an airliner full of passengers. When three of his fingers slipped inside the mouth of my cunt and began digitally fucking me, I increased the pumping suction of my mouth on his prick. Suddenly we seemed to be in a contest to see who could make the other one come first. But it was a race I didn't really care who won, just so long as I staggered across the finish-line.
Now his knuckles were flexed within the pit of my cunt and kneading excruciatingly against my cervix. My mouth was completely covering his prick, my lips nibbling his churning balls.
I could feel the head of his cock mushroom in my gullet, pushed forward an extra inch by the power of his loins. At the same time, the walls of my pussy tightened around his fingers like hardening cement.
We were both on the verge of coming. It would happen at any second.
Who would be first?
His dick twitched. My box convulsed.
There was a surge in my windpipe. An incredibly wet spasm in my cunt.
Thrust! Squish! Sllluuuurmppp! We both came at once!
Buckets of steaming jizz poured down my throat, massing in my stomach. Between my legs, my pussy erupted with cream until it trickled down my thighs and I was sitting in a pool of goo on the seat.
I couldn't decide which felt better: the male cum in my mouth ... or my own cum cascading from my snatch. Both were conspiring equally to ring my chimes.
Tracy's spunk just wouldn't stop spurting. My twat wouldn't stop foaming. Neither of us could stop coming.
"Coffee, tea or ... my goodness!" I heard the stewardess interrupt herself with a sharp cry. "Is this passenger in distress?"
"My wife is just having a little airsickness," Tracy lied between suppressed gasps as he continued to fuck my mouth. "She's embarrassed to have the other passengers see her upchucking in a bag, so she's doing it under the blanket."
"Well, I can assure her there's nothing to be ashamed of," the stewardess reacted cheerfully now that she was on familiar ground. "No one can guarantee how they will respond to air travel. Is this your wife's first trip?"
"Yes, yes," Tracy said quickly.
"Too bad this had to happen," she said sympathetically. "I'll go get her a Seven-Up. A Seven-Up always tastes good after a little airsickness."
After all the conversation, Tracy's hard-on had dried up. Between my legs, my cunt was still glowing, but it was on the downslide of orgasm. With moments it would be all over and I would have to face the real world again.
Unless I wanted to walk off the plane with a blanket over my head, I was going to have to face the rest of the passengers. Not to mention the stewardess, who was bringing me a Seven-Up I didn't want.
I was convinced that when I came out from under the blanket, all eyes would be upon me. If my cock-sucking was going to escape undetected, I'd have to be pretty convincing that I'd just spit up rather than swallow practically a pint of hot cum.
Steeling my nerve, I began to draw my head from under the blanket. The instant the blinding ray of the overhead light caught me like a lance in an eyeball used to pitch darkness for the past several minutes, I forced myself to sputter and gag. Contracting the way I'd hoped it would, my stomach forced up its contents. Before I knew it I-had a mouthful of regurgitated jizz.
"Here's your Seven-Up," the stewardess smiled in my face just as a bucket of cum sloshed its way out of my gaping mouth. Hot stickiness drooled down the front of me. Spewing from between my lips, Tracy's spunk easily passed for fresh vomit.
"Th ... thank you, Miss," I splattered the stewardess with flecks of cum.
I accepted the Seven-Up and started forcing it down, knowing that every eye in the place was on me. If it had been half as tasty as Tracy's cum, the job would have been a lot easier.
CHAPTER NINE
The interlude with Al Tracy had turned out to be just what the doctor ordered. Naturally, when I'd boarded the plane, I'd felt a lot of anxiety about going to New York for the first time in my life, especially to pose in the nude.
Tracy had reminded me of how desirable I actually was. I realized that the magazine wouldn't have offered to bring me to them unless I had something they wanted.
By the time the plane landed at La Guardia, I was imbued with super confidence. I started down the off-ramp feeling on top of the world. Ready to meet anything. I had something between my legs that the country wanted.
But not even under the spell of such euphoria was I prepared for what transpired. I could have psyched myself up for anything imaginable and still not have been ready for this.
A huge banner was stretched across the waiting area. "Welcome to the Big Apple, Sharon Duncan. Miss April of 1977!" I read before I was blinded by a multitude of popping flashbulbs.
"That's her! That's her!" I could hear people screaming from down below.
All of a sudden I panicked. Afraid to go a step further toward the madhouse below me, I turned and tried to go back up the ramp. However, there was a crush of people moving inexorably behind me, and their impetus made me lose my balance. Tripping, I lost control of my body and began to feel my strength abruptly ebb.
"Look, she's a fainting!" where the last words I heard before the darkness caved in on me. I fell amidst the tramping feet of the other passengers.
When I came to I realized that the man in the white coat probing my naked body was a doctor. However, we were not alone.
"Does she have any bruises, Doc?" I heard a voice in the background ask with genuine concern.
George? Was that my husband worrying about me for a change?
Was I back home? And what happened to my trip to New York?
Suddenly I felt my heart beating wildly as the doctor put a stethoscope to my chest. I was overcome by anxiety, certain that I had blown the centerfold by collapsing at the airport.
"She's coming out of it," the doctor said. Her heart's thumping like a bass drum."
"Then she's going to be all right?" the voice in the background asked.
"I suppose so," the doctor answered with a touch of irritability in his voice, "but no thanks to you. That circus you put on at the airport was a bit much for an ordinary housewife on her first trip to New York, don't you think?"
"I was just trying to get it on the six o'clock news," the other man said apologetically.
When he was through speaking I replayed every word through my mind for familiarity. Nothing came up matching. The voice didn't belong to George, that was for sure.
Now the doctor was explaining to whoever it was that was so interested in my condition that I'd just fainted from the excitement. It had looked scary when I'd fallen in the crowd coming off the ramp, but there was no real damage done. Everything was going to be all right.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I learned of my clean bill of health. All I had to do now was figure out in front of whom I was lying naked, if not my family physician and my husband.
"Am I still in New York?" I abruptly sat up and blurted, desperate to find out if I'd blown my big chance at recognition.
"Where else would this year's Miss April be?" a swarthy, macho man sitting in a red velvet chair asked rhetorically. It was his voice that I'd been hearing in the background.
Miss April....
That was me ... Mrs. Duncan was Miss April!
I was still on the right track.
"Are you one of the editors?" I asked the swarthy man.
"Sort of," he smiled enigmatically.
"The photographer?" I searched.
He nodded his head and added smugly, "And the publisher. I'm Jack Gucci. I suppose you've heard of me."
"No, I can't say that I have," I admitted. The only thing I'd ever looked at in the magazine was the pictures. I certainly hadn't wasted my time memorizing the masthead.
All of the swarthiness temporarily went out of his rugged face with my response to his boasting. He turned pale and sputtered slightly. Obviously I'd upset him. Strangely enough, it made me feel good.
"You ... you are the Sharon Duncan whose picture we ran in the magazine, aren't you?" he asked nervously.
"Sure," I said, realizing for the first time since I'd initially regained consciousness that I was stark naked. I turned toward Gucci and parted my legs. "Can't you tell?"
He looked at bug-eyed. I smiled with satisfaction as a shock of recognition came across his face.
"You shaved your cunt!" he bleated.
"Don't you like it?" I answered with a feeling of super confidence, thrilled to be back in business.
"I love it!" he gushed. "We haven't had a shaved snatch centerfold in months. The freaks love 'em."
"Well, then let's get started," I said, swinging my legs over the side of the surface on which I was lying. It was then that I noticed for the first time that it was a round bed. Looking around I saw that the sheets were glistening satin.
"Do you really feel well enough to get busy?" Gucci asked as he got up from his chair. As he did I noticed for the first time that the walls and fixtures matched his chair. The whole room was done in red velvet. It looked like the suite at a fancy bordello.
"Of course," I replied, my eyes still taking inventory of my surroundings. As I tilted my head upward, I suddenly found myself looking at myself. There was a huge mirror paneling the ceiling over the round bed.
"Then don't move," Gucci said. "I do all my best work on this bed."
That startled me. But I was determined not to show it.
"Do you plan to take my picture or fuck me?" Gucci guffawed like I'd just told him the world's funniest joke. When he caught his breath he turned to the doctor and said, "Go on and get outta here, Doc. I'm sure we're keeping you from your backlog of abortions. And Miss April and I have work to do."
When the doctor left and Gucci was standing before me licking his lips while he stared at my cunt, I put the question to him again. "Fucking or picture-taking?" I asked simply.
Only this time I wasn't scared inside. Something about the obvious sexuality emanating from the environment made me more than willing to accept either.
"Anybody in the industry will tell you," he said as he advanced toward me, "that Jack Gucci is all business. No way I could build this empire of mine by fooling around."
By the time he was finished talking he was standing directly in front of me. Placing his rough hands on my knees, he yanked my legs apart as far as they would go. I winced as the mouth of my pussy strained from the prying.
"Your shaved pussy will show up great against the satin sheets on my bed," he said eagerly. "On your back, baby, with the pillow under your hips. And keep those legs spread."
"Did you say this was your bed?" I asked him as I slithered to the center of the bed and slid the fluffy pillow under my ass.
"Sure," he said, flipping on a switch which activated a gauntlet of blinding lights built into the walls and ceiling so they illuminated the circular bed. "This is my own personal bed. I always do my best work here."
"Then you're expecting this to be a special project?" I asked expectantly, feeling my squirming buns settle down in the lush pillow.
"With your pussy, baby," he grinned, "it can't miss."
I was thrilled. His oily charm had me ready to go just as far as he told me to.
"Now start playing with yourself to get yourself in the mood while I get my camera," he said, getting ready to leave the room.
I didn't bat an eyelash. The second he was gone I plunged my hand into fleshy triangle between my thighs. To my delight my pussy was already damp.
As I inserted a couple of fingers into my slit, I tingled from how gooey my cunt already was. Rhythmically beginning to lightly finger-fuck myself, I looked up toward the mirror and drooled at my exciting image reflected across the ceiling.
The sight of my own naked body was even more exciting to me than my fingers in my pussy. I was breathless from how gorgeous I looked. The red walls cast a sort of pink light in conjunction with the photographer's lights that made my body seem even more young and firm than it already was.
I felt and looked eighteen again. My body was perfect.
I couldn't wait for America to see it. Good-bye everyday housewife ... hello, sex symbol.
By the time the door reopened the Gucci was back in the room, I was writhing on the bed with my cunt steaming. My eyes were plastered on the mirror as I grooved on myself.
"Ah," he pronounced with delight, "I see you're getting in the spirit of things. I'm beginning to think this might be the best centerfold we've ever put out."
He moved around the bed until he was facing my spread crotch. Leaning forward, he aimed the camera right at my finger-engorged goodies.
"Don't move," he directed. "Don't change a thing. Just keep fingering yourself. Our readers love it."
I did better than that. Sticking another finger up my box, I spread apart my pussy tunnel, opening my fuck-hole for the masses.
"Delicious!" he exclaimed as the camera clicked. "I could practically see your ovaries in the view-finder. Now, just keep it up. Do whatever comes into your kinky little head."
I was determined to.
While I plunged my fingers to the rear of my beaver, I placed my thumb against the top of the outer folds and pulled the meat to one side. I could feel my stiff clit springing free, posing proudly for the camera in its turgid erection.
"Oh, beautiful!" Gucci gushed. "What a fantastic clit. It's so wet we won't even have to smear it with Vaseline to make it shine." The camera clicked again.
I was so proud of myself that all I could think of to do was more. With Gucci jockeying for different camera angles, I rolled over on my tummy. Kneeling, with my head buried in the pillow, I shot my ass into the air. Pulling my thighs apart, I gave him a perfect tear view of my pussy and asshole.
"Oh, Jesus!" he enthused. "Your ass is as wet as your cunt. What a shot. Every man in America'll want to stuff his pecker into that shit-pit."
"What about you, Mr. Gucci?" I murmured over my shoulder.
He laughed. "Not now, baby," he said. "With a camera in his hands, Jack Gucci is all business. Besides, aren't you a married woman?"
"I think that was in some other life," I giggled. "Now do you want me to reach behind and spread my cheeks?"
"Do dogs have tails? Is New York a city?" Throwing my arms along my sides, I spread my fingers across my buns. Reaching all the way into the furrow of my crack with my grip, I pried my ass apart. The split was so severe that I could feel my asshole seem to gape open almost as much as my cunt.
Jack Gucci expressed his further appreciation of my body and the camera clicked. Another shot of my naked charms was committed to posterity.
With the picture of my spread ass taken, one of my hands began to explore the crevice of my rump. Not surprisingly, my crack was soaking wet from the seeping blossom of my anus all the way to my pussy. There was enough natural lubrication there for two dicks in each hole if I'd been at an orgy instead of having my picture taken.
Anxious to test out my second hole, I pressed my fingertip against my moistly pouting bunghole and shoved. Three inches of penetration later I was wetly reaming myself out.
Click ... My finger up my ass was immortalized on film.
Now I added a couple of fingers in my pussy to the, one in my ass. Finger-fucking both holes simultaneously, I used my free hand to pull aside one of my cheeks. I wanted the world to have a perfect view of the action through the camera lens.
As for myself, I glanced upward and watched myself in the overhead mirror. What a turn-on!
Click.
"Mmmmm, you're fantastic!" Gucci congratulated me. "You should see the juice running down your legs."
"Don't mind if I do," I replied saucily. Rolling over onto my back, I thrust my pelvis toward the ceding so I'd have a perfect view of my wetness in the mirror.
My thighs glistened as though someone had smeared honey all over them. It was such a delicious sight I couldn't help rubbing my cunt and then bringing my fingers to my mouth and tasting the results.
Click.
"Perfect," he gushed. "The centerfold tasting her own spunk. Too bad you're not double-jointed."
I agreed it was. "Then how about a cum-shot," I suggested. "I'll be glad to have somebody make me even wetter."
To my surprise he shook his head. "Can't do it," he said sadly.
"This magazine is sold in super-markets and drugstores everywhere. There's no way we can show any penetration or ejaculation. A dick has to be limp and harmless-looking."
"Don't worry about it," I assured him. "Just get somebody to come all over me and I'll do the rest. I'll come up with something the family trade can swallow."
"I don't think there's anyone available," he said.
"What about you?"
"I'm all business," he protested. "Anybody in the industry'll tell you...."
"You mean you've never made it with one of your centerfolds?" I interrupted him incredulously.
"Never," he shook his head. "We'll just have to try something else without the cum-shot. Now how about a cucumber?"
"Forget it," I snapped, abruptly sitting up. "I want your cock. There's a first time for everything."
All of a sudden the big, swarthy Jack Gucci was reduced to a little boy. His camera dangled uselessly from the strap around his neck like a broken toy. Incredibly, my aggressiveness had immobilized him with anxiety.
Our roles had abruptly switched. It was obvious that I was now running things. Gucci was so flustered he couldn't have made a decision to go to the bathroom if his bladder was bursting.
Taking ever, I jumped toward him, freezing him in his tracks with my boldness. Grabbing the hanging camera, I yanked it toward me. Pulled by the strap around his neck, Gucci fell forward, toppling in a heap on the bed.
Pouncing on my fallen victim,-I rolled him over and went for his fly. Greedy for his cock and balls, I ripped down his zipper and shoved my hand into his open crotch.
Was I in for a surprise!
Of course I had been expecting instant stiffness. What I got instead of a hard-on was a handful of soggy meat. It was like touching a pound of defrosted hamburger. Gucci's dick was totally soft.
"What's the matter?" I wailed in disbelief as I fished out his pathetically wilted pecker. "Did I do something wrong?"
Sadly, he shook his head. There were actually tears in his eyes.
"It ... it's not you," he blubbered. "You're one of the best models I've ever had."
"Then what's wrong?"
"It ... it's me," he sobbed. "I'm impotent. I haven't been able to get it up in years."
"But all this...." I gestured to the sensuously decorated room. "And your magazine."
"It's all a front," he admitted. "I started the magazine because I thought being around naked women all the time would straighten me out."
"And it didn't work?" I asked incredulously. "I'm worse," he acknowledged shamefacedly. "I've even tried to jerk off looking at my own centerfolds, and I still can't get it up."
"Poor baby," I whispered sympathetically, backing off from my aggressiveness now that I knew the truth.
I knew exactly how Jack Gucci felt. He had been living a lie. just as I had for so many years. True, our roles were sort of reversed, but that didn't mitigate my empathy.
Gucci had been telling the world that he was a swinger as he hid behind the facade of his skin magazine. Millions of his readers assumed he got all the sex he wanted, and more. Every one of them probably assumed that Gucci personally fucked each of the centerfolds.
In actuality, Gucci's sex-life turned out to be more frustrating than that of the average middle-aged nobody reader of his magazine.
On the other hand, for fourteen years I had been going through the dreary motions of being a typical American housewife. When men saw me with the kids in tow, or pricing detergents at the supermarket, they undoubtedly assumed that sex was the furthest thing from my mind.
If they only knew the truth. For years I had been living a secret fantasy life drenched with lust.
There was a major difference, however, between the shared hypocrisy of mine and Gucci's lives. I had finally come out of the closet!
By sending in my spread-legged picture to the magazine, I had come out in the open as a vibrantly sensual being. A woman who wanted to show her tits and cunt and ass to any man who wanted to look just because she was a woman.
A woman who would fuck and suck anyone because fucking and sucking is what being a woman is all about.
It was Gucci's magazine that had set me free. Naturally, being a fair-minded person, I felt I owed him a debt in return.
His surprising predicament made the pay-off easy.
While he was trembling with shame in a pitiful heap on the bed, I gently hugged him. "I'll make it better," I promised. "I'll make the hurt better."
He was like my own son Billy in my arms as I kissed him softly on the cheek. Then, as he sobbed in my lap, I slowly began to undress him.
When I had Gucci naked I marveled silently at his muscular development. Apparently this tortured soul had sought to compensate for the flagging muscle between his legs by building up the rest of his body to rippling proportions.
His body was like his magazine. A. glossy cover-up for the hollowness beneath the surface.
What a shame, I thought, that there's all this meat and no potatoes.
To show my gratitude, I was determined to help Gucci set a full plate.
Slowly, gently, I coaxed his peter out of his pants. I was so limp and vulnerable-looking when I got it out-but I was determined to change that.
Pressing my face to his trembling crotch I swallowed his miniscule cock and flaccid balls whole. They fit into my mouth as easily as a big bite of overcooked sausage.
"What are you doing?" he muttered with disbelief when he felt my wet mouth enveloping his obsolete equipment.
I wasn't offended. I understood completely. It had been so long since he'd made it with anyone that my lips sucking his prick and nuts must have been the most alien feeling imaginable.
He squirmed beneath me, trying desperately to live up to his negative image of himself by resisting sex. But there was no way he was going to escape my gratitude.
Suctioning his cock and balls into the warm hollow of my oral cavity, I wound my tongue around the head of his prick. The end of his dick was soft and mushy, but that didn't stop me from treating it as though it were as hard as a rock.
My tongue danced everywhere on his cock-head. It slid across the vertical smile at the very tip, roughly pulling apart the tiny ridges and stimulating the tender urethra. The circumference of his flange was explored. The whole of the spongy crown was lapped.
"No, no," he protested. "Please ... please, don't."
I paid him no more attention than a high school stud pays to the objections of his date when they're making out at the drive-in.
I was the teacher and Gucci was the pupil. Extreme diligence was required if my student was to achieve a passing mark.
"Just relax," I soothed him with a mushy mouthful of cock. "Sharon will do all the work, Jackie."
Jackie. It was perfect.
He was my little Jackie. Another insecure son for me to nurture into manhood.
I lovingly gave his cock and balls another wet tug with my suctioning mouth. By now I was beginning to taste the latent sweetness of his sadly inoperative equipment. This revelation was an exciting incentive to redouble my efforts.
"Please ... please don't suck me," Jackie whimpered. "I can't stand the pain."
He was talking about mental pain, of course. The kind of pain that it was my job as his surrogate mommy to alleviate.
His plea to stop sucking his cock just made me suck all the harder. Compressing my cheeks around his meat, I drew it toward the mouth of my throat. At the same time, I slid my hand under the crux of his legs and began snaking my fingers up the hairy furrow of his sweaty crack, searching for his asshole.
When I felt his anus puckering against my fingertip, I pressed his button like I was ringing a doorbell. Slipping inside his tight hole, my finger surged within him to the last knuckle.
Slanting my thrust downward, I began a rhythmical finger-fucking motion which targeted in its penetration on his prostate gland. At first nothing happened, but then a hardness gradually developed that reminded me of a stone.
Then the stone became a rock. Jackie's dick was still useless flesh in my mouth, however I was positive that would change if I stuck to my game-plan.
With my goal to make his cock as hard as his reawakened prostate, I continued my inventive anal finger-fucking. Slowly, Jackie's asshole began to get wet and gooey. It was only a matter of time until the arousal passed into his adjacent balls ... and from there into his dick.
"Oh, no...." he moaned. "Please, don't ... I can't stand it."
I paid him as little attention as I did Billy when he complained about the stinging of iodine on a cut. Mother knew what was best for little Billy ... and she knew what was best for little Jackie.
Stirring ... stirring in my mouth.
His cock and balls were stirring in my mouth!
Yes, it was unmistakable. The nuts were faintly churning, throwing off the cobwebs as they began working for the first time in years.
The prick was stiffening. Not much at first, to be sure, but it had been a long time since he had flexed his muscle.
Excited by my progress, I stepped up my therapy even more. My finger was now pumping like a piston in his spasming shit-pit, prodding his prostate incessantly with the staccato of its rigid tip. My mouth was like a super oral pussy, wringing his prick like a wet washrag.
The only sound in the room up until now had been the slurping of my busy mouth. All of a sudden it was blotted out by the thumping of Jackie's heart.
Perspiration popped out all over his body. Within seconds he was glazed with a slick coating of hot sweat.
Inch by inch his cock was stiffening to life inside my mouth. His nuts were no longer merely churning. They were grinding. It seemed as though they were generating sparks that were flashing down my throat.
With his phallic tension bulging my cheeks, I was ready to move on to the next level of my plan. Oh, God, was I ready!
Sliding his prick out of my mouth, I began talking. At the same time I began slowly jacking him off with my hand.
"Your prick is so beautiful, Jackie," I crooned. "It's getting harder by the second. I love how sweet it tastes."
"Please ... please...." he rasped, but now his protests were getting weaker. And he hadn't said "don't" this time.
"Please, what?" I teased.
"D ... d ... d...." he stuttered, but he was unable to complete the word.
"You want to say 'don't', but you can't," I gleefully summarized the tantalizing situation.
Blushing, he nodded his head. He was so cute ... just like my own little boy.
"Look how hard your prick is getting," I invited him to admire his progress.
"I ... I can't," he muttered. "I'm afraid if I look at it, it'll go away."
I promised him it wouldn't with a slurping kiss on the head of his cock.
"Don't worry, Jackie," I soothed, slipping completely into my imagined role, "Mommy will make it all better."
Kissing and stroking, I brought his prick further and further into the air. Eventually it was standing on its own, as stiff as any teenager's.
"You should see it now," I gushed. "Look, Jackie. Look at yourself. See what you've done. Mommy is so proud of her little boy for becoming a man."
I could feel his body straining. He wanted to look, but the memory of the failures of the past would if I let him. How sad, I thought as I kissed the end of his dick with maternal pity.
"If you won't look at your big, strong cock," I warned him, "then I'll just have to make you feel . how long and hard it is."
"How?" he gulped, "You know," I winked.
He looked stunned for a moment as my implication sunk in. Then, when it had registered, he cried, "No, no, not that! I can't ... I just couldn't...."
"Mother knows best," I grinned, and started getting into place. "There's nothing about your bashfulness that a little wet pussy won't cure."
"Please ... please . ., " he whined. But the only thing I heard was the absence once again of the word "don't".
"You know you want it, Jackie," I taunted as I straddled his crotch, clutching his prick beneath the looming spread of my haunches. "You know you want your hard cock in my tight cunt. You know how badly you want to-"
"No, no!" he shrieking interrupted me. "Not that word! You mustn't say that word! I can't stand to hear it ... it'll tear my heart out!"
"You know how badly you want to fuck," I ignored his plea. "F-U-C-K. Fuck! Fuck, Jackie, fuck!"
Slowly I lowered myself toward his twitching meat. The fact of his cock-head brushed against my pussy lips and then twitted my clit.
Letting go of his prick, I gouged my fingers into my vulva and pulled apart my pussy lips. The end of his dick shot inside me, searing the mouth of my twat like a hot coal.
"Look at my cunt swallowing your cock, Jackie. Pretty soon the whole thing will be inside me. Every throbbing inch."
As I hunkered down on him, I squeezed my pussy muscles around his rapidly penetrating tool. The force was too much for him to ignore. At last he was compelled to actually witness the miracle that was taking place between his legs.
I watched with satisfaction from my perch atop his crotch as his eyes bugged out of his head. The sight of his dick hard and standing, and being devoured by a sucking pussy, made him choke for breath. He couldn't have teen more stunned if someone had slugged him in the solar plexus.
"I ... I'm f ... fucking," he said in wonder. "I'm actually fucking."
"And how!" I assured him, grinding my hips downward so I could take him to the hilt.
"I'm fucking a woman," he whispered in awe, his gaze hypnotically riveted to the glistening juncture of our sex organs. "I'm finally getting to fuck one of my centerfolds!"
The last was obviously the best part for him. All of a sudden his cock shot an extra inch up my twat and was in me all the way. I was sitting on his balls as his hard-on disappeared entirely within me.
He had changed from a hurt little boy into a raging bull. I no longer had to do any of the work as Jackie started fucking me instead of me fucking him. Even though I was still on top, he managed from his bottom position to supply all the thrusting power needed for perfect friction. Already I was starting to experience miniature orgasms.
"Oh, that's it, Jackie!" I cried. "Fuck me hard! Fuck me deep! Fuck me until I scream!"
He was really in charge of the situation now. Seizing complete control, he rolled us over with his prick still in me, and began screwing me from the top. Gouging his strong fingers into my tits, he whammed his steel cock all the way to my spine.
"Harder! Harder!" I begged, hoping he wouldn't stop now until he had split me in two. "Fuck me like you've always wanted to fuck the other centerfolds. Fuck me the way your readers think you do every woman you can get your hands on."
He was more than up to the task. Never had I felt a dick that went in so deeply.
The last time I had looked at his prick it had seemed to be about ten inches. But. at the moment, inside me, it felt at least a foot long.
Twelve power-packed inches of rippling cock. So much cock filling my pussy that I had to wrap my legs around him to widen my hole enough to take it all.
What a hidden treasure I had uncovered between his legs. A million dollars in gold couldn't have thrilled me the way his pumping hard-on was now doing in my cunt.
My orgasms were coming so fast and thick by now that I would have gladly settled for just a straight fuck. But there was more ... much more.
My fledgling lover was not about to be satisfied with just one hole. With all that stored-up energy in it, his prick needed more than just a pussy to make up for lost time.
A notch below, my asshole wetly beckoned. There was no way Jackie wasn't going to take advantage of it.
His cock pulled out of my cunt and stabbed for my ass. I gritted my teeth, wincingly anticipating the wounding penetration that was about to come.
Ommmmph! He was inside me. On the initial thrust he slammed four inches of hard-on up my tight shit-pit.
Shit massed in a fiery ball in my colon, and then surged to meet the advancing head of his prick. They collided in a torrid explosion which shook me from head to toe.
"Oh, God, I love it!" I cried. "Fuck me! Fuck me in the ass harder and harder! Deeper and deeper! Fuck me!"
He was in me to the hilt now, stuffing my asshole as completely as he had my cunt. His dick was in me so high and tight that it seemed to be engorging every pore of my body.
"Come!" I screamed. "I've got to have your cum!"
Grunting like an ox, he slammed his loins into my open crotch and practically halved me with his ass-gouging cock. He was so aroused that his hot breath was like flames licking across my face.
"Fill my ass with your cum!" I pleaded. "Oh, God, how I need it!"
I went all out to coax his wad out of his throbbing cock. I squeezed his balls. Ran my fingers up his sweaty crack and pronged his asshole. Soul-kissed him so deeply my tongue went down his throat.
All of a sudden I felt almost as though I had to take a shit. The only difference was that the hot chunk of gruel was heading up my shit-chute instead of out of it.
What I felt was cum, of course. Hot cum hurtling up my bunghole like a cannonball. Wonderful cum.
Within seconds my insides were coated with dripping jizz. Excess spunk backed up in my bowels and then came spraying from my asshole despite the cock engorging it. My whole butt was slick with male slime.
"Now!" I screamed with sudden inspiration. "Pull out of me and take the picture! Get the cum-shot!"
A wave of recognition spread across Jackie's face that was a joy to behold. I felt like a teacher finally getting through to a retarded child.
"Yes, yes!" he gushed. "A centerfold cum-shot ... with my cum! Fantastic! It'll sell a million extra copies!"
Pulling out, he scrambled madly for his camera. Pointing the lens between my thighs in a close-up so tight it seemed like a second prick attacking me, he snapped the picture of my jism-speckled loins.
The camera got it all. My gaping pussy. My oozing asshole. The white spunk smeared all over my wide-open thighs. My glory immortalized on film! Fucked by a camera lens as well as twelve inches of love-starved cock!
The centerfold to end all centerfolds!
I felt the way a woman at the end of a perfect fuck is supposed to feel. Queen of the world.
CHAPTER TEN
Jack Gucci offered the moon. Then, when I hesitated, he threw in the stars and the sun, too.
He wanted me so badly on the staff that he even went into the realm of the impossible to get me to say yes. He offered me a piece of the magazine.
"Do you realize the deal I'm making you?" he exhorted. "Five points of the ownership might net you over a couple of hundred grand a year. Especially if you hype the circulation like I know you will."
Thanks, but no thanks, was all I could keep saying. No matter how flattered I was, I couldn't make myself forget that I had a husband and two children waiting for me back home.
What will happen to them, I kept thinking, if I stop taking care of them to pursue a career in sex?
A centerfold was all right. It was a fantasy come true. However, a day-to-day life in the competitive world of publishing was just another kind of rat race.
If I was going to be in a rat race, at least I wanted to be in one where my family was with me on the treadmill. I had learned enough now to realize the support of those you loved was irreplaceable, even by money and fame.
Every time I wavered, I forced myself to look at what money and fame had done to Jack Gucci. He had everything, and yet he was still unable to do the thing that man desires to do most, the one thing that poverty and powerlessness is no barrier to.
As rich as he was, Jack Gucci couldn't fuck. With the most beautiful, spread-legged women in the world at his command, he hadn't been able to get it up until a simple, everyday housewife had shown him how.
Yes, it had taken plain old me to teach the King of Sex how to fuck.
It wasn't my new life as a sex celebrity that had given me the ability to raise Gucci's dick from the dead. It was the simple loving virtues I had instilled in me as a wife and mother.
Let's face it. I mothered his cock back to life.
And now that I had worked my maternal magic on him, it was time to get back to my real family. As badly as Gucci had needed someone like me, George and Billy and Betsy needed me more.
The kids and my mother were waiting for me at the airport when I got home. Billy and Betsy were so happy to see me that my heart melted. Now I was positive that I had made the right decision.
In the car I asked the children how their father was. Abruptly, both of them put on long faces.
"He's worse, huh?" I sadly concluded.
"Not physically," My mother interrupted.
"Then what is it?"
"It's mental, Mom," Billy said in a voice mature beyond his years.
"The boy's right, Sharon," Mother said. "The doctor says that George is actually physically able to go home now, and could start looking for a new-job within a few weeks. But George is so depressed about everything that's happened he's making himself stay sick."
"Yeah, Mom," Betsy interjected. "It's like Daddy's afraid to get better."
I was stunned. I felt personally responsible. My picture in the magazine was what had started all of George's bad luck. And, then, my going to New York without telling him why on such short notice must have seemed like I was deserting him in his hour of need.
Posing for the centerfold was a chance that I hadn't been able to pass up. I accepted it for both the money involved and the sorely needed self-esteem it provided.
There was no way I could ever convey my feelings to George and expect him to understand. They were too personal ... too female. Husbands and wives just weren't meant to communicate that way.
However, the truth was no barrier to my making it up to him. I didn't have to tell George everything to let him know how much I really loved him.
In fact, I didn't even have to say a word to him.
There was a way to show my love that it was so basic, language would only get in the way.
"Drop me off at the hospital," I told my mother. "I want to see George."
"But visiting hours are over," she protested. "It's almost midnight."
"Perfect," I said under my breath. For what I had in mind I didn't want anybody else hanging around. "What did you say, Sharon?" Mother asked.
"Just drop me off," I raised my voice so she could hear. "I'll take my chances."
"Do you want us to go in with you?" she asked. "Or wait?"
"No," I said. "Just drop the kids off at my place and I'll be there in about an hour. I'll take a taxi home."
Once inside the hospital I didn't even bother to check in at the desk. Fearful of having to explain my presence in the elevator without a pass, I made my way up the lonely stairs toward the tenth floor and George.
Once I was on the cardiac ward I peeked around a comer and saw that there was only a single nurse or duty. Even from a distance I could see that she was completely distracted by the book she was reading at the desk. It was called "Sister Theresa's Shocking Dreams", and had its reader licking her lips and squirming in her chair.
When I tiptoed by her, the nurse didn't even notice me. She was too busy getting turned on by her book ... and masturbating. The fingers of one hand where shoved under her dress and ripping away between her spread legs.
In George's room, I closed the door behind me and tried to adjust my eyes to the darkness. I couldn't afford to turn on the lights because one of the other patients might wake up and see me.
Finally my vision was good enough to-make out four beds in the room. Al! of their occupants were sound asleep. The only problem was that I didn't know which one was George.
I had to go around and silently pull the covers off their heads like they were sleeping children to find out which one was my property. They all looked so helpless and vulnerable asleep-more like boys, really, than grown men recovering from head attacks-that I hoped the three other than George had someone at home to love them.
George was by the window. Actually, I recognized his light snoring before I pulled back the covers.
He was so precious slumbering there. A helpless little boy that I could do anything I wanted to.
After I softly kissed his cheek, I pulled the bedding all the way down. Lifting up his gown I took my first peek in weeks at the most memorable part of George's body.
In alarm I saw that his cock was the sickest part of him. If I had tried to identify my husband by looking at that portion of his anatomy first, I don't think I'd have recognized him. His prick appeared to be just a useless hunk of meat.
Sadly, I took his cock and balls into my hands and gently rubbed them. There was no reaction. He seemed dead between the legs.
Was this what I had left New York behind for? A hopelessly limp dick!
No, no, I told myself. Nothing is hopeless. Love can restore anything.
Dropping to my knees, I leaned over and slid my lips over George's drooping peter. It tasted old and musty. Like it had been stored away in an attic with all the rest of the useless junk for years.
I could swear that my tongue was wiping dust away from his cock. This was one reclamation project that was going to require all of my assets as a woman.
While I continued to suck his prick, I began to undress. When I was nude, with my face swiveling in his crotch, I got on top of him, shoving my ass into his face. Positioning myself, I worked my open cunt against his mouth until I could feel his labored breathing blowing against my pussy lips.
Gritting my teeth, I turned it on, activating every muscle in my body to make my box work the way I wanted it to. Abruptly the cream flowed from between my legs. All of a sudden my husband's face was stuck in a cauldron of wet, steaming pussy.
I was sure that a damp blast from my randy slit would wake George up. However, to my shook, he remained as comatose as ever.
Then, there was an occurrence which made me realize that the paralysis did not encompass his entire body. Something stirred below his waist, I was almost certain of it.
Yes, something definitely did stir. In my mouth.
George's cock was weakly rippling. His balls were staring to tighten in their sac.
It wasn't much, but it was something. A beginning.
Increasing my suction, I stretched George's prick out in the vacuum of my mouth, elongating it with sucking oral pressure. At the same time I massaged the tender area behind his balls with my fingertips, and then rubbed his asshole.
His legs were actually twitching a little bit now. The process was excruciatingly slow, but my husband was definitely coming back to life through the resuscitation of his cock in my mouth.
"Come on, now, Georgie," I pleaded with a mouthful of dick. "Make your prick hard for me. Make a hard-on for Sharon. Fuck me in the mouth."
There was nothing from George's head that indicated he'd heard me. However, his cock and balls were a different story. They'd gotten my message loud and clear.
George's prick grew an extra couple of inches in my mouth. The impact of the sudden swelling forced his nuts out and I could feel them churning hotly against my nibbling lips.
"Ooooh, that's it," I moaned under my breath. "Grow in me, Georgie. Fuck me in the mouth. Ram your hard cock down my throat."
With my finger in his asshole, I cupped his balls with the palm of my hand as I sucked his prick to the hilt. He was getting stiffer by the second. In a minute I'd be choking on his meat.
At my rear, I wiggled my ass in his face, begging him with the damp scent of my open pussy to become completely conscious. I was turned on enough now by the restored hardness of his dick to want to hear him groan with pleasure.
I cunt-farted in his face, spraying him with my goo. Tightening my sexual muscles, I sealed his mouth with my pussy lips, kissing him with my twat.
"Oooooh," I could hear and feel him finally moaning into my glory-hole. His tongue fell out of his opening mouth and slid into my sucking gash.
I knew I was on the right track. He had just come to and already he was tongue-fucking me.
"Eat my cunt," I hissed imploringly from around his dick. "Eat my cunt like your life depended on it."
George's teeth began to chew into my soft pussy folds. His lips nibbled away. My stiff clit rubbed thrillingly against his bared gums.
"Oh, eat it, George, eat it," I whimpered. "Eat my love-starved pussy. Make me come all over your face."
His cock was getting too big for me now to talk and suck at the same time. Since I craved the arousing sound of my lewd words almost as much as his cock in my body, I decided it was time to move on to another hole.
My snatch had done all it could to his face. Now it was time to fill it with some hot, throbbing boner while I babbled my funky stream-of-consciousness.
"It's time to fuck me, Georgie," I informed him as I sat up and twisted my body 180 degrees around on top of him. Watching his face gape with astonishment, I slid on top' of his prick and felt it wiggle against my cunt.
"Oh, that's it," I crooned. "Your cock feels so hard against my pussy. Work it inside, Georgie, and fuck the living hell out of me."
His eyeballs rolled in his head as he panted like a thirsty dog. The only thing that was missing now was the shock of recognition. The poor dear still didn't know who I was. He probably thought he was having a wet dream instead of being seduced by his own wife.
"Lift up your ass," I whispered urgently. "Make your cock shoot up my pussy."
He grunted, and with great strain forced his bed-ridden body to hoist his loins.
"Oooooh," I sighed, "that's it. You're inside me now, can't you feel it? Can't you feel your big, strong cock in my wet cunt?"
"Y ... yes," he muttered, his first comprehensible words since I'd awakened him. "What a tight pussy."
"Now move in it," I instructed. "Fill me with every inch of your prick and I'll make you come like you've never come before."
"Who ... who are you?" he stammered as I ground my cunt down on his engorging prick and automatically started his hips moving.
"The angel of mercy," I replied, feeling that I was more or less telling the truth. "An angel with a tight, wet, hungry cunt that only your cock can satisfy."
With every moment he was more completely into the groove of fucking. His pelvic rhythm became increasingly fluid and sustained until there was no more awkwardness or hesitation. His prick was pumping up and down in my pussy like a piston on a perpetual motion machine.
"That's it, George," I moaned excitedly. "You're as much a man as you ever were. You're all better. You're going to walk out of this hospital as a new man, ready to conquer the world."
"Who are you?" he asked as his dick tore into my snatch.
"Can't you guess?" I teased, covering my face so he would have to recognize the fuck instead of my features.
"Sharon!" he suddenly blurted. "Oh, my God, I'm fucking my own wife!"
"Straight from New York," I cracked.
He was so glad to see me that he didn't even ask me why I'd gone in the first place. Mutual trust seemed to cement us together as tightly as our fuck-locked genitals.
"Oh, Sharon, I love you," he gushed. "But how will I be able to support you without a job?"
I could feel his sudden anxiety starting to wilt his dick. Clenching my pussy muscles, I propped it up to full length while I went to work on the last part of my cure.
"Don't worry, darling," I said, "we'll find a way to get by. Love will see us through. Now shut up and come in me. Fill my cunt with your jizz and show me how much you love me."
I literally bounced up and down on him, tearing his foreskin back and forth along his prick with my lurching movements. The friction must have been maddening. His nuts rippled at the bottom of my pussy.
No anxiety imaginable could keep him from coming now. The hot cream poured into my fuck-hole. It was scalding and there was an ocean of it. Heart attack or not, it was the cum of a well man.
As George's spunk splashed away in my cunt, I felt delirious with joy. I came harder and faster and more than I ever had in my life. My orgasm was so intense that I had to grind my teeth together to keep from biting my tongue in two.
It was my greatest thrill. Having millions of men drool over my spread legs in a magazine was a kick, but it still took second place to making one man happy with my pussy in the flesh. I saw now that no centerfold could make me as happy as my own husband's dick splitting my cunt and making me come with his spurting jizz.
This was what being a woman was all about. Fucking.
Oh, sure, the future undoubtedly held some dissatisfactions for me, just as life had in the past. But all the events surrounding my picture in the magazine had made me See that the best kind of sex is with those you love.
Of course there was a whole world out there with sexual opportunities which I might never get to try if I stayed at home. But, on the other hand, I would always have George and his nine inches.
And, I had to admit to myself, my son was getting bigger all the time.
Betsy's pussy would soon be sprouting hair. Tits would be rising on her chest.
My family was enough love-making for me, I decided for once and for all. Anybody who got excited by my centerfold would just have to beat their meat. I wanted a husband and kids, not cheap thrills.
I'd had my fling. Now I was ready to come home for good.
"Do you really think we can make it, Sharon?" George asked when the steam finally started to go out of his cock.
I assured him that I loved him and that he could. "There's just one little request I have to make, though," I added.
"Yes?"
"Promise not to buy any more of those girlie magazines," I said.
I breathed the biggest sigh of relief of my life when he agreed not to. He didn't know it, but he'd saved himself from another heart attack this coming April.
