Message-ID: <6356eli$9712121558@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year97/6356.txt>
From: Coyote Azure <not@quite.duh>
Subject: Vickie's Secret by LLIILLII (MF FF inc voy humor)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Reply-To: not@quite.duh
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <3490741C.BEABE859@quite.duh>
To reply to poster, send to 'coyote_azure' at hotmail.com.
This is only the first part of the story, but I don't think the rest was
ever posted. Has anyone seen more of it?
The following story contains adult sexual material. Do not read
further if you are under 18 years of age.
Vicki's Secret
By LLIILLII
the author of "JOHNNY'S CLOSET" and "INFINITY"
"You're a fuckin' liar. If you fuckin' think I believe you're
fuckin' sick this morning, you're more of a fucking asshole than I
thought."
"Don't say that word so much, son. I don't like that."
"Try this shit once more and you're fuckin' history, you got
that?" I hung up hard on that shit-head Anthony and adjusted my tool
belt.
It was the third Monday in a row he'd called in. This time it was
something he ate. Right.
"Son," said Mom, who was standing next to the stove waiting to
turn pancakes, "there's really no need to talk to people that way."
"There's a need Mom," I said. "Fuckin' Anthony is takin'
advantage, and I don't stand for takin' advantage."
I sat down at the kitchen table, sipped my black coffee and waited
for the pancakes to brown.
Mom was a sight with her hair in curlers and wearing her ancient
pink chenille robe and floppy slippers. She got up every work morning to
make me breakfast.
I'd been back home for six months now, after the divorce. I was
27, had a 6-year-old son I saw every other weekend and an ex-wife I paid
$200 a week to.
"It could be worse," Dad said last summer when he found out I
needed a place for a while. "We could have rented out your room." Dad
was a joker.
I had my own contracting business and used a corps of about 10 men
on and off, six of them regularly. Fuckin' Tony - I mean Tony - had been
a good worker until he got on my regular list. Then, and I have no idea
why, he started screwing up. He wired a whole fu - a whole bathroom with
the wrong material - aluminum instead of copper. The mistake cost me six
hours and about $200.
And lately he hadn't been showing up on Mondays.
The phone rang again.
"Fuck you!" I shouted into the mouthpiece before Tony had a chance
to say a word.
"Bryan, is that you?" said a female voice.
"Oh, shit, I'm sorry. I was expecting someone else. Who's this?"
"Well I hope so," said the voice. "It's Vicki."
It was my cousin, the lesbian. Now I know, I know, it's not real
nice to refer to people by what they are instead of who they are, but
everyone does it so don't criticize me. Tell me you don't say, at least
in the privacy of your home, something like, 'I saw fat Billy today
downtown,' or, 'That gay guy Fred called.' Well in our family, Vicky was
the lesbian. We didn't mean anything by the title except to help
identify who we were talking about.
"Vicki. Hi. I've had a rough morning. Sorry. You want Mom?"
"No, I actually wanted to talk to you. I need some work done.
Quickly. It's kind of an emergency, really. Are you very backed up?"
"I'm always backed up," I said, "and I don't mean the constipated
kind. Tell me what you need and we'll see how long it'll take."
"Bry, I'd rather not do this on the phone. Can you come over for,
like, five minutes to talk about it?"
Vicki's apartment was on the way to the job I was finishing, so I
said OK. I wolfed down three pancakes with about a quart of syrup and a
second cup of coffee, and hopped into my van. I was at Vicki's in 10
minutes.
She lived in a garden apartment with her roommate Marsha, a short-
haired blonde who was nice enough but who wouldn't win any beauty
contests. It was Marsha who answered the intercom.
"It's Bryan for Vicki," I said.
"Come up, Bry," Marsha said, and she buzzed me in. Vicki was
waiting at the top of the steps and took me inside the apartment. She
had on shorts and a white T-shirt with a Grateful Dead logo on it, but -
clearly - no bra. Her dark nipples made it look like the shirt was
staring back at me.
Marsha was sitting in the living room on a beanbag chair. Vicki
walked to the couch and motioned for me to sit next to her. She was a
little tentative.
"Bry, we're pals, right?"
"Yeah, of course," I said.
Well, we weren't really "pals" though we had watched each other
grow up. She was 25 now, and I could remember starting to notice her
when I was 18 and she was 16. We had had only one heavy conversation in
all those years. It was a night when I tried to cop a feel on her
developing tits.
"I like girls, Bryan," was how she ended our chat. And I never
thought about her sexually again.
"I need you to do some carpentry for me. What I'm going to ask you
might not seem legal. OK, it's absolutely not legal. If you don't want
to do it, I'll understand. But if you do, I'll pay you fairly. Should I
go on?"
"Sure," I said. This was interesting, I thought. Marsha was
shifting in her beanbag seat and looked as nervous as Vicki.
"One more thing. Whether you decide to do this or not, you have to
swear on your Mom's life that you won't tell anyone. Anyone."
"I won't tell anything to a soul, Vick, Scout's honor."
"No, Bry, not Scout's honor. On your mother's life."
"OK. OK, on Mom's life. Nothing leaves this room." Vicki looked
over to Marsha, who nodded.
"Bry, I'm opening a clothing store downtown."
"Vicki, that's great. What's so illegal about that?"
"Quiet. Listen. It's a lingerie store. I wanted to call it Vicki's
Secret, a take-off on Victoria's Secret, but my lawyer friend Tina said
I'd lose if they sued."
"So-" I said. I couldn't see where this conversation was going.
"So, we're opening this store, Marsha and me and a few other
girlfriends."
She accented the word girlfriends, so I would know she meant
lesbian friends.
" Big fu- big deal," I said. "It's not illegal for a bunch of le-
girls to open a store. What do you need me for?"
"Bry, this is the part you have to swear not to tell. Promise?"
"Vicki, I'm late already and you're starting to piss me off. Yes,
I promise."
"Bryan, Marsha and I came up with this plan. We want all of the
dressing rooms in the store to be along the back, with our business
office behind them. We want the mirrors against the back wall of the
try-on rooms to be two-way mirrors."
Hmmmm. I was beginning to catch on. I smiled.
"You're getting it already," Vicki said.
"Go on."
"I want to be able to videotape everything that goes on in the
booths."
"For, um, security?" I asked, testing her.
"Bry, don't be funny. You know why. Marsha and I want to tape
everyone who goes into the dressing rooms. We want to watch them change.
And we've been told by friends who have similar arrangements that many
customers, in the privacy of a locked booth, do more than just try on
clothes."
"So, uh, what will happen to these tapes?" I asked, enjoying
making Vicki spell everything out. She knew what I was doing.
"Thanks, asshole. OK - we're going to take the tapes home at the
end of each day and watch them and, you know, fool around."
I was getting a hard-on, so I shifted my clipboard to my lap so
the girls couldn't see.
"And what do you want from me?"
"We want you to build the dressing rooms - four of them - and put
in the mirrors, and build a fake wall behind them for the cameras. Then
we need access to the passageway between our office and the rooms, so we
can put new tapes in the four cameras every morning and get them out at
night. The passageway has to be totally secret and undetectable by
anyone else who works for us or goes into the office. And we need some
switches to start and stop the cameras."
I was really hard now. My dick was beginning to press into the
screwdriver on my tool belt. I tried to adjust my position without
giving anything away, but I saw Vicki notice the bulge.
She smiled. "I see that you're at least interested," she said.
I got a little red in the face.
"OK, I admit it's a sexy idea. Give me a few minutes."
I started to make some quick sketches.
"How big do you want the booths?" I asked.
"The standard size is four feet by four feet. They need a full-
length mirror on at least two sides so customers can see the front and
back at the same time. Plus a few hooks and a shelf seat so they can
take off and put on stuff like pantyhose."
I did a rough estimate of the materials for one of the booths,
then multiplied by four, then doubled the whole thing to add the labor
cost. Obviously, I'd be doing all the work myself.
"Vicki, we're talking in the neighborhood of $2,000. And I could
do the work only on weekends. Two weekends, I think - four full days."
"Shit!" I heard Marsha say.
"No go, huh?" I said.
"We were hoping for half that, Bry," Vicki said. "A thousand is
what we have left for this after getting the four cameras."
My mind started to work at fast. My hardening dick kicked into the
conversation, too. And here's what I came up with:
"Vick, I want to be able to see those tapes."
"Absolutely not," Marsha said. "We can't take that chance."
"What do you mean?" Vicki asked her. "Bryan promised not to tell
anyone, and I trust him."
"Look, Vicki, we've already been through this. If we get caught
we're in deep shit, jail-deep shit. Do you think the guy exists who
wouldn't want to share something like this with his macho pals? Sorry,
Bryan," she said, turning to me, "but that's how I feel."
I really wanted this now. I had to figure out a way to convince
Marsha that she could trust me.
"Look," I said, thinking as I spoke, "what if you had, uh,
something on me. Like something I wouldn't want anyone to know. So if I
told what you were doing, you could get even."
"Like what?" Vicki asked. Marsha sat there looking skeptical.
"Like-" my mind raced to think of something. My dick was killing
me now. It had expanded another inch and was now rubbing against the
business side of my 8-inch saw in my belt. I looked down at it and the
next sentence just sort of flowed out of my mouth.
"Like, uh, if I jerked off and you got it on tape."
"What??" Vicki said. "What did you say?"
"You said you have four video cameras. Are any of them here?"
"They're all here," she said. "You mean you'd take off your pants
and masturbate and let us tape it?"
"If that'll prove I'm being honest, yes, I'll do that."
"That," she said, "is crazy-" She looked over at Marsha, who was
trying to hide a grin. "-but it just might work. You jerk off on tape
for us, and if you tell a soul about what we're doing, we'll make copies
of it for every citizen on the East Coast."
Marsha was shaking her head no now, but only with disbelief.
"Go for it," she said. "But I want something else on the tape.
While you're jerking, I want you to say that this was your idea, the
video stuff in the changing rooms. That way if you blab, you'll be
cutting your own throat."
"If that's what you want," I said, "I'll say it."
Marsha went to a closet and got a camera. "We've been learning on
this one," she said. "It'll be ready in a minute." She started fiddling
with the battery.
"One thing," I said. "I get to watch the tapes you make, right?
All of them."
"Agreed," said Vicki.
"Agreed," said Marsha.
I was feeling lucky, so I thought I'd try for a little bonus.
"OK, we've got a deal. I'll do all the work for $1,000 over the
next two weekends. Five hundred when I start, five more when I'm done."
"Great," Vicki said. I could tell how excited she was getting. She
was hooked and didn't want anything to go wrong now.
"But, well, there's this one little problem."
"Shit," Marsha said. "I knew we couldn't trust him."
"Let him talk, Marsha," Vicki said. "What's the matter, Bry?"
"I've lost my hard-on." I said. "I'm really late and I don't think
I can jerk off now."
"Right," said Marsha. "So you leave here with our idea and we have
nothing on you."
"That's not what I mean," I said. "I mean I need something to help
me get off."
"What are you saying, Bry?" said Vicky. "I told you in high school
that I don't do boys."
"You don't have to touch me," I said. "I just want to, uh, look."
"Look? At what?"
"At your sweet little body," I said, mentally crossing my fingers
for luck.
"Spell it out, you shit," she said.
"I'll get over there on the beanbag chair," I said. "Marsha, you
set up the camera on its tripod in front of me. And Vicki, you stand
next to the camera and play with yourself. I'll jerk off while I watch
you."
Vicki was really pissed and her glare showed it. Marsha, on the
other hand, was clearly amused.
"You're a prick," Marsha said, "but you're good at it."
"You actually want me to do this?" Vicki said angrily to her
lover.
"You're the one who suggested Bryan," she said. "So shit or get
off the pot."
I was actually getting hard again just thinking about finally
seeing Vicki's dynamite body, a combination of what the magazines call
"perfect 36's," and a really sexy ass. I couldn't let her see my
lengthening rod.
Marsha got a tripod out of the same closet and attached the camera
to it. She flipped open the tape compartment and put in a fresh
cassette. "Let's get going," she said.
"I'm waiting for you, love," I said, looking at Vicki.
"This is ridiculous," Vicki said, but she started to peel. The T
came off first, and out popped the tits I had tried so hard to get my
hands on almost 10 years earlier. They were scrumptious, much better
than the pathetic baggy things my ex had. The main attraction were the
pointed nipples - tips that looked like oversized pencil erasers. What a
waste, I thought, that no man would ever latch on to one of those
beauties.
"Get started," Vicki said.
"The shorts," I said. "Then I'll jerk."
She pulled her shorts and panties down in one quick motion. I felt
an initial disappointment: There was no pubic hair, and I was a hair
man. But then I realized that I had ordered her to play with herself.
That'd mean I'd be able to see down to the pink when she started to rub.
"OK," she said, standing there motionless. "Get this over with."
"Vicki, I said you have to play with yourself."
Marsha broke in. "Will you just get the fuck going - both of you!"
Vicki reached down and began rubbing her hairless pussy. Marsha
focused the lens of the video camera on my crotch.
"Start jerking, asshole," she said and pressed the "record" button.
I had already removed my tool belt, so all that was left was to
undo the button on top of my jeans and lower the fly. That took a
second. Then I pulled down my jockey shorts and kicked them onto the
floor. My dick flopped out and both Vicki and Marsha made an audible
gasp.
I think I forgot to tell you. In high school I was known as Keep
'em Cryin' Bryan. Vicki and Marsha were looking at what any normal girl
would think of as 10 inches of heaven. To them, of course, it was more
like a male pig's battering ram, but no matter what your orientation, my
cock was always something that brought on the "ooohhs."
I looked over at Vicki and saw that it was now also bringing on
the "ooze." She was getting a little bit more into the activity, and
even though she's not of the men-fucking persuasion, the sight of me
staring at her body and jerking my machine must have opened some faucet
inside.
Marsha had set the camera first so it would take in my whole body,
I guess because it was important to show a face connected to the dick.
But when I exposed my Jolly White Giant, her hand quickly moved to the
zoom button. I could hear the gears inside the lens moving to show a
close-up of you-know-what.
After a few seconds of jerking, I looked away from Vicki and over
to the camera and noticed Marsha wasn't even operating it anymore. The
tape was still running - I could see the camera's red light blinking -
but Marsha was now sitting on the couch and, like I was, watching Vicki
get off.
Marsha had been wearing gray sweats. She had now rolled the
bottoms down to her ankles and had two fingers already deep inside her
hairy bush. Vicki saw where I was looking and glanced over. The sight of
Marsha vibrating the shit out of herself got Vicki really excited, and
she turned to face her.
"Take off the top," Vicki said, and before I had a chance to
wonder if she'd meant me, Marsha reached up and pulled the sweatshirt
over her head. The woman was incredibly muscular. In fact, if it weren't
for her two tiny firm breasts, I'd have thought I was looking at the
sculptured hard body of a male weightlifter.
Both women were now staring at each other and masturbating like it
was a race. Neither, it seemed, even remembered I was in the room. In
fact, the only thing paying any attention to me was the camera.
Vicki walked to the couch and sat next to Marsha. In what looked
like a well rehearsed move, they reversed in an instant who was doing
what to whom. This really got me hot, and all of a sudden I didn't care
who was looking at me. I was in jerkoff heaven, watching my busty lezzy
cousin and her muscular lover work at making each other come.
I took another look at Marsha's tits. As small as they were, the
main attribute of each was a huge, wide nipple. Each pink circle took up
almost half of the front surface of its boob and clearly were an
important part of the girls' playing field. Vicky reached up with her
other hand and wet the fingers with her tongue. Then she rubbed the
spittle into Marsha's right nip. Marsha started pinching her other one,
and in a few seconds both nipples had completely transformed. Each was
about half its former size, and much darker and wrinkly. Seeing them
change before my eyes started the first sensation of my orgasm.
I knew the camera was on, capturing everything that would happen
as I shot my first load of the day, but I guess my ego kicked in. Here I
was in a room with two women, and my 10-incher was about to throw off a
good ounce or two of jism. Dammit, I wanted someone watching.
"Hey, I'm coming," I shouted.
"Fuck you," Marsha said, her voice vibrating as she rubbed, and
the two women continued masturbating each other.
"You're missing this," I said as the first two shots flew out of
my cock and landed inches from the camera.
"You 'll never know what you're missing," Vicki managed to say.
"Here comes some more," I said. "It's your last chance."
The bitches were completely ignoring me now.
I finished up and hobbled into the bathroom to get something to
wipe myself off with. When I got back, stained tissues in hand, the two
were lying on the couch staring up at the ceiling. Guess I'd missed
their finale, too.
"So," I said, "looks like we've got a deal," I said.
"Get back on the chair," Marsha said, "and say that the whole
taping thing was your idea."
"Oh, yeah," I said. I had honestly forgotten about that part.
I returned to the scene of the slime and pulled on my jockeys and
jeans, sat down and looked right into the lens.
"This whole idea of looking at ladies changing and taping them was
mine," I said. "There, you happy?"
I got up and walked over to the couch and looked down at Vicki.
"Just one little squeeze?" I asked, taking probably my last look
ever at Vicki's luscious boobs.
Marsha answered for her. "You want to keep that dick?" To be
truthful, Martha looked like she'd be willing to go with me hand to
hand, and I didn't want to ruin what was a shaky relationship to begin
with.
"Hey, I had to ask," I said.
I put on my tool belt, gathered up the rest of my stuff and said,
"Don't bother seeing me to the door."
They just lay there on the couch naked and smiled.
"Oh," I said, "I almost forgot. Where's the store? And what time
can I get in there Saturday?"
"I'll call you tonight," Vicki said.
"And what name did you decide on for the place?" I asked.
"Private Moments," Vicki said. And the two started giggling at the
irony.
"Bye, ladies," I said, and shut the door behind me.
I drove to the morning's site thinking about what I had just
agreed to. I would build four dressing rooms for my cousin's lingerie
shop and install spy mirrors and video cameras in each one. I'd set it
up so the two girls had access to the cameras through a dummy wall and
passageway. And at the end of every taping day, they'd bring the tapes
home and do whatever lezzies do when they watch girls trying on bras and
bathing suits.
I, on the other hand, would drop by Vicki's apartment now and then
and pick up some tapes to take home. And I knew what I would do while
watching those.
I made just one mental note: The first thing I'd do this evening
was get one of those double-cassette video recorders. The kind you used
to make copies of tapes.
Monday's work was a breeze, probably because Anthony had called in
sick. I made a mental note to give him two weeks' notice. Why keep an
employee on the books when things go better on the days he isn't there?
I did some finishing work on a client's new bathroom - mostly sanding
and retouching - and since the two guys I had working with me were first
class, we all ended up going home four hour early.
If you're a building contractor, or have any friends who are, you
probably know that we live week to week. A check presented by one client
is used to make your payroll and buy materials for the next job. With
some luck, there's a little left over for things like food, rent and
clothes. And child support.
And if the customer's check bounces, it starts a domino effect
that makes the fall of Cambodia look like a board game.
I hoped Monday's check was good, because since I had so much extra
time that day I went to my lumber yard and spent $500 to buy materials
for Vicki's project. The wood was the easy part.
The tough part was tracking down two-way mirrors that didn't look
like cheesy material for a junior high school science project.
The first three places had mirrors you could see through from
behind, but they were made of a flimsy material that wouldn't fool a
child. Finally, I found a store that dealt in surveillance equipment.
But like the sign said, they'd sell only to "official law enforcement
and investigative personnel." A $50 bill helped convince the owner I was
a genuine private detective. He found four full-length wall mirrors
which, when you stood behind them, looked as clear as glass. And he
reminded me - duh! - to keep the lights off on my side. Total for the
mirrors, $400.
Another $100 for carpeting and molding, and I came in right on
budget.
My four days of labor would be free to Vicki, but I figured she'd
be paying me back big time week after week as I borrowed the tapes she
and Marsha made of their customers. I chuckled when I thought about the
name they had chosen for their lingerie store: Private Moments.
The ladies who'd lock themselves in the dressing rooms and think
they were disrobing in private wouldn't be more mistaken. They'd be on
tape.a kind of America's Sexiest Videos.for the personal use of my
lesbian cousin and her lover. And, of course, me.
Marsha had been right, of course, when she suggested it would be
difficult to keep such a find to myself. Imagine having videotapes taken
inside lingerie dressing rooms. It's something you would want to share
with the guys. I knew that could never happen, though. Loose lips may
feel good when they're pressed inside your asshole, but when they're
blabbing to the cops about something illegal, it's a bummer.
I'd been thinking a lot about Vicki's plan, and I found a flaw in
it. She had said they'd put a new tape inside each camera every morning,
and then turn the cameras on. They'd let them run throughout the day and
then remove the cassettes, take them home and, presumably, masturbate
together while they watched.
But the store was open eight hours on most days, and to get good
quality pictures you have to tape at the fastest speed. That meant
they'd have to change tapes every two hours - both too risky and too
much damn trouble.
So I gave the girls a present of four motion detectors - actually
parts I'd collected over the years from various alarm-installation jobs.
Hooked up correctly, the sensors would turn the cameras on only when
someone walked into a booth. That way, there'd be no wasted taping. Each
video would contain a solid two hours of women dressing and undressing.
I was getting hard again thinking about each evening's viewing. A
hundred and twenty full minutes of women - young and old, tall and
short, fat and skinny, stacked and flat - taking off their bras and
panties to try on new ones.
And if what Vicki had said was true, some women would do more than
simply try on clothes. Well, the store was scheduled to open in a few
weeks, so I'd find out soon.
It was 3 o'clock, and with nothing left to do I thought I'd go
home and catch a little nap or TV. Now, I never get home this early, so
I opened the door quietly so I wouldn't scare Mom. When I got to the top
of the stairs, I heard her crying. At least I thought it was crying.
I ran to her bedroom and looked in, and got the shock of my life.
She was lying on the bed completely naked, and the noise she was making
obviously wasn't crying. She was moaning with delight, feeling herself
up and writhing up and down.
This may be hard to believe, but in my 27 years I never
remembering seeing either of my parents naked.
I stared, frozen in place. I had never dreamed Mom's breasts were
so big and, well, sexy. I felt a major portion of my blood supply
deciding to take a detour.
I was sure she'd see me and freak, but her eyes were closed and
there was a strange sound coming from the bed. I focused on her pussy
and immediately saw what it was: inserted deep inside her, so that only
about an inch showed through her mound of pubic hair, was the thickest
vibrator I had ever seen. It was buzzing away in there as she pumped up
and down.
My cock started to push against my jeans, like they had earlier in
the day when I masturbated for Vicki. I realized I was breathing faster,
and Mom must have heard that. She opened her eyes.
"Oh!" was all she said, and she threw her arms across her chest.
"Mom.."
I stopped, having no idea how to finish the sentence.
We stared at each other for a full five seconds - an eternity, if
you can picture the scene - until we both realized that the vibrator was
still on.
Neither of us had the slightest idea what to do. Mom was mortified
and unable to move. I was excited but also embarrassed - for both of us
- but not so embarrassed that I was willing to stop looking. My mother
was 50 and flabby in places, but the sight of her masturbating had
really turned me on.
Something had to give. I knew, and so did Mom, that to turn off
the vibrator and pull it out she'd have to uncross her arms and expose
her breasts. She simply was unable to force herself to do that in front
of me.
The result was that the vibrator kept on going, and as embarrassed
as she was, she found herself reaching an unstoppable orgasm. Her eyes
got wider and wider.
And after another 30 seconds, her pussy exploded in spasms. The
vibrator continued, like that damn persistent battery bunny who keeps
going and going and going. Mom had come once and was approaching a
second round when the sensitivity factor stepped in and the pleasure
started to become pain. It was like those rare instances when you're
getting a really good blow job, and the girl keeps sucking even after
you've shot your load down her throat. You want to keep going, but your
cock is so pins-and-needles that one more lick and you'd scream.
"Pull it out!" Mom managed to shout. "For God's sake, pull it
out!"
Being a high school graduate, with two years of community college
as well, I figured out she was talking to me. I walked over to the bed
as calmly as I could and sat down. Gingerly, I reached between her legs
and, with the thumb and index finger of my right hand gripped the end of
the vibrator.
Then, like those guys on cop shows who defuse bombs, I carefully
pulled the vibrating cylinder out of Mom's pussy.
I had expected one of those five or six inchers, but at eight the
tip was still out of sight. It took two more inches of lifting before
the whole thing was detached from her now dripping cunt. As I shut it
off, Mom turned on her side, away from me, and collapsed in sobs.
I put my hand on her shoulder and started to rub gently. It was no
help.
I took both hands and massaged her back gently. She was still
blubbering. I started to pat her back, like you do with a baby, and that
seemed to lessen her shaking.
"Mom," I said. "Please, don't cry."
"Oh, I'm so embarrassed," she said between sobs. "I was just.."
"Shhhh," I said. I tried to think of how to make her feel better
about an admittedly awkward situation.
"Mom," I finally came up with, "I remember when you walked in on
me once, when I was 12. You saw what I was doing, and all you said was
'Sorry' and walked out. I was so embarrassed I threw up, remember?"
A tiny laugh worked its way through her tears. She still couldn't
speak.
I continued to rub her back, hoping it would help. No boy likes to
see his mother cry. But this was really an odd situation. I was sitting
next to my mom with the hard-on of the decade poking out of the front of
my jeans, and she was lying curled up on the bed, naked.
"Would you hand me my robe?" she finally was able to ask. As I got
up to go to the corner of the room, where her pink, threadbare bathrobe
was draped over a chair, she looked up and saw Mr. Big. She'd never seen
even a bulge from me before, at least I didn't think she had. When
you've got 10 inches, you find ways to keep it down, or at least hidden,
at home.
She then said the two most beautiful words a man can hear from a
woman, although ideally that woman wouldn't be his mother.
"Oh, my!"
I grabbed the robe and held it in front of my pants. Mom just lay
there, no longer aware of her nudity, or at least not bothered by it
anymore.
She was on her back now, and her hands were at her sides. I
wondered if she was able to expose herself this way now because she was
in shock from the apparent size of my dick. Or could it be that she was
turned on by it?
"Bryan," she said, "I need to explain."
"That's OK, Mom. And I'm sorry I stared."
"Honey, your Dad is a wonderful man, but he hasn't been able to
satisfy my needs for years. I use this private time at home to, well,
you saw what I do."
All this time she lay there, not trying to cover up.
I sat back on the bed, so my engorged dick wouldn't show, and
handed her the robe. She took it but didn't cover up. She just kept on
talking.
"You know, I haven't been on a bed, naked like this, with a man
looking at me, for almost five years. It actually feels quite natural,
even with you."
What was she saying? My cock was beginning to hurt. If you have
only five or six inches, you wouldn't understand.
I shifted how I was sitting, pulling down on my pant legs to make
a little more room for Dr. Yes.
"Son," she said, looking at my pants, "if you want to slip those
off, I won't mind."
I didn't feel like analyzing what was happening. As my pal Pinto
used to say, the small head had started doing the thinking for the big
head.
I stood up, unbuttoned and unzipped and pulled my pants off.
What the fuck, I thought, and pulled the underwear down with them.
Mom moved over, as if to make room for another body. I inched over
and lay on my back. The Pointer Brother was staring at the ceiling.
She looked down at it, and I looked over at her. Then, as they say in
the romance novels, our eyes met.
She smiled, as if to say, "Whatever happens is all right," and I
smiled back.
I looked at the nipple that was closest to me, then reached out
and touched it. I felt it get harder between my fingers. Instinctively,
I leaned over and started to suck.
Mom closed her eyes again and I heard a soft moan. She reached up
and squeezed the breast, as if to help me bring milk to its tip. But of
course, no liquid came out.
She looked down the bed at my cock. "There's no milk up here," she
said, "but I bet there's a lot down there."
I released my lips from her nipple and she sat up, her breasts
flopping in front of her. Later, when I could think more clearly about
what had happened, I guessed that they were at least DDs, maybe 42 or
44. She certainly hid them well under that pink robe each morning.
She leaned down and extended her left hand to my dick. I inched back in
the bed, to show her it was OK. Then she grabbed it and her eyes widened
as she saw how much of it still extended up through her fist.
I knew what she was wondering.
"Ten, Mom," I said, without waiting for her to ask. "Ten big
ones.."
She started to pump it, as if jerking off guys had been her only
job for the past 20 years. I mean, this was an industrial-strength hand
job.
"God, Mom, that feels soooo good," I said.
"It's the only way your father gets off these days, Bryan," she
said. "I do this to him every night. He's too tired at the end of the
day to fuck, so I jerk him off at night, and I take care of myself in
the afternoon."
I'd never heard Mom say "fuck" before. Just that morning, in fact,
she'd told me not to use the work so much. I had to remind her.
"I love it when you say 'fuck,' Mom," I said, smiling as her hand
continued to pump me.
She recalled the morning phone call in which I had told off Tony
for calling in sick again. And she pumped faster to show me she got the
reference.
A few seconds later, it rained cum all over both of us. Now, you
know and I know that men like to count the number of times they squirt.
It's a guy thing, so if you're a girl reading this, just trust me. Maybe
women have a similar orgasmic scorecard, but I'm not aware of it.
Anyway, this was an eight on the Dickter Scale, only one short of
my personal best. (For you record-book freaks, my only nine was when I
slept over at my buddy Glen's house when we were both 17 and hid in the
basement till his parents got home. Glen had poked a couple of holes in
the heat vent return that went from their bedroom to the cellar, and we
jerked off together as we watched his Dad fuck his Mom in every body
cavity known to science. Yup, my one and only nine-squirter, so far, at
least.)
Mom watched as I erupted. The first two blasts landed over our
heads and started dripping down the headboard. I made a mental note to
remember to wipe that up. I don't think any explanation of how it got
there would satisfy Dad.
The next two were shorter, but their placement couldn't have been
better. One was on Mom's left nipple - right fuckin' square in the
center of it. The other was on my right nipple. Mom just kept on
jerking, waiting for the next few shots.
The next four all landed on me, three on my stomach and the last
only about an inch from my dick, right in my patch of pubic hair.
When she saw I was milked out, she gave my softening rod a few "good to
the last drop" squeezes, then bent over and kissed my dick on the pee
hole.
Whew! This was getting better every minute. I had never even
thought of Mom and sex in the same sentence before. Now, here we were
lying naked in bed, our only thought being what to do with the puddles
of white semen that were polka-dotting our bodies.
And the headboard, I reminded myself.
"Rub it in me," Mom said.
She lay back and pushed her tit, the one with the cum dripping on
it, toward me.
I took two fingers and, treating my semen like body lotion, rubbed
it into her until it disappeared, soaked up by the pores in her large
brown nipples.
She reached to the side of the bed and picked up her box of
tissues. She grabbed a handful and started using the whole clump to wipe
my chest and stomach clean. When she got to the strings that remained in
my pubic hair, she put the tissues down and started to run her fingers
through the individual hairs. No one had ever played like that with me.
It felt delicious, and I decided that one thing had been missing
from our encounter.
I moved as close to Mom as I could, put my hands on her shoulders,
and, moving head to head, wrapped my lips firmly around hers. Then, in
the middle of what I suspect was the most passionate kiss she'd ever
had, I forced her lips open with my tongue and started probing deep into
her mouth.
She put her arms around me and let her body go limp, her breasts
rubbing against my chest. And then I heard a noise, like water dripping
onto something. I felt my knees getting wet. She wouldn't let go for me
to look.
We continued our deep kiss, and in a second I realized that Mom's
entire body had relaxed so much that the muscles she used to keep pee
inside had simply stopped functioning. She was peeing straight into the
sheet.
She didn't even try to stop. The noise, and the wetting, lasted
for almost a minute. She didn't care. And I didn't care. In fact, the
warmth felt good, and as the sweet smell from it wafted into my
nostrils, I also began to let loose.
My cock had softened to the point that it could now urinate. It
was still large enough - about seven or so inches - to be pointing
outward, so my pee stream hit Mom in the stomach and dripped down to her
pussy before landing in the same puddle on the bed.
And there we knelt, mother and son, naked and in the middle of the
bed, peeing on each other. You're going to laugh, but at that moment all
of this actually felt normal.
Finally, when both of our bladders had emptied and my cock had
softened to its at-rest size of 6 floppy inches, we pulled apart and
stared into each other's eyes.
Then Mom looked at the clock on her nightstand.
"Shit," she said. "It's five. Your father will be home in a half
hour, and we have a bit of cleaning up to do."
We started to move off the bed, but in slow motion. After the two
hours of exhaustive, incestuous sex, we couldn't think about rushing to
do anything.
I picked up a few fresh tissues and wiped the headboard clean. I
took a few more and got the remaining semen strings out of my pubic
hairs. Then I put my clothes on.
Mom stripped the bed. Even the rubber liner she had put on the
mattress, for when my son would nap on the bed, was soaked. She threw on
her robe and took the sheets and liner to the washer in the basement.
When she returned, I had started to remake the bed with fresh
sheets. Bending over, she pulled the sides of the fitted bottom sheet
over the mattress. Her robe was open and her breasts swung down, moving
from side to side as she worked her way around the bed.
Christ. I wanted to suck them again. But the clock wouldn't allow
it.
"I don't suppose we should mention this to anyone," I joked.
She looked at me and smiled. "I think not," she said. "Thanks for
being so understanding to an old lady."
"If you want the truth, Mom," I said, "as good as that felt, there
was something more I wanted."
She put on her best "Gone With the Wind" accent and said, with a
wink, "Tomorrow is another day."
Well, tomorrow did arrive, but I was too busy to get home early.
During a short break for lunch I called Vicki to arrange to drop off the
materials at her shop Friday evening. That way I could show up early
Saturday and start measuring and framing.
"Hi sexy," I said when she answered the phone.
"Fuck you, pig," she said.
"Guess you've been watching the tape I made yesterday, bitch," I
shot back.
"Are you still on for Monday?" she asked, sounding more like the
sexy cousin I'd had a crush on before I learned she "didn't do boys."
"That's why I'm calling, you sexy, shaved beauty," I said.
"OK, truce," she said. "Let's forget about Monday and get on with
this."
"Deal," I said. "I want to bring the wood and molding and the rest
of the stuff to the store Friday after work. You gonna be there about
six?"
"Uh huh," she said. "Marsha and I are almost finished stocking the
shelves, drawers and racks. The only things left are setting up the
office in the back, putting up sale signs and getting some last-minute
price tags on stuff."
She said she'd let me unload my truck the next night. Then I told
her about the motion-sensors and she sounded genuinely excited.
"You really can be nice, you know, if you try, Bryan."
"You know I'm only being nice because you've got something I
really want," I said.
"Go blow yourself, asshole," she said. "See you Friday night."
I didn't say a word.
"Bryan?" she said. "Friday night, right?"
I kept silent.
"Bryan, dammit!"
"Sorry," I said, "I was blowing myself," and I hung up.
I had trouble sleeping the rest of the week. Usually, after a hard
day of work, I'd flop into bed, jerk off and be asleep in a few minutes.
But Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday nights were different.
I can handle thinking about one thing at a time. I'm no dummy, but
when two or three subjects are thrown at me simultaneously, I get
screwed up and can't focus well on any of them. I guess that's why I'm
good at checkers and lousy at chess.
And I guess that's why lying in bed and trying to jerk off those
three nights, my mind would Ping-Pong between Vicki and Marsha
masturbating together, and the idea of being able to watch hundreds of
naked women a week try on underwear, and, of course, lying in bed with
my Mom and having her jerk me off.
Yes, I know, you should have such problems. But the downside is I
was getting only about four hours of sleep a night, and that can be
dangerous in the construction business. Plus, my fuse got a lot shorter,
and when Tony called in sick again on Wednesday ("I think I have strep
throat, honest. It hurts like a bugger.") I fired him on the spot. He
groaned and moaned and started using adjectives and nouns I hadn't heard
spoken together since junior high. Like, I wanted to tell him "shit-
eating cunt" was not an image one could easily picture, and at the very
least was not gender appropriate if he was referring to me. But when you
can someone's ass I suppose you should at least let him curse at you, so
I listened and let him hang up first.
Friday evening finally arrived. I sped home, showered and was
heading out to the van when Mom headed me off. I told her I was going to
help Vicki with her new store, and that I had to drop off some lumber.
"I have to tell you something about the other day," she said,
sounding serious.
Uh-oh, I thought. Dad suspects something.
"Is it Dad?" I asked.
"How did you know?" she said. I got a sick feeling in the middle
of my stomach.
"He knows and he's leaving?" I asked. She could hear the panic in
my voice.
"No, nothing like that, Bryan, relax. It's something good.
Whatever buttons you pushed in me on Tuesday, it had a strange effect
later in bed. I practically raped your father that night, and he got
really turned on. I just wanted you to know that we fucked that night
and last night and Thursday night, and tonight we're," she blushed,
"going on a date."
I laughed, partly from relief, partly because this was so cute.
"So, I guess you and I won't be, uh .."
"I didn't say that," she said, finding exactly the right place
between my legs to stroke. "I just wanted you to know that you've put
sex back into my life in more than one way."
Dad was upstairs, so she knew we were safe for a minute. She
reached up and kissed my lips, like the kiss we had shared earlier in
the week, only this time it was her tongue that pushed deep into me.
"Mmmmm," I said. "I'll see if I can schedule another short day
next week."
"You do that, Bryan, you do that."
I opened the door and after a few steps turned to tell her when
I'd be back. After all, she was my Mom.
"Should be home before midnight," I said. Then I winked. "Don't
wait up!"
She smiled and closed the door, heading upstairs, I suspected, for
a pre-date quickie.
As I headed for Vicki's new store, I thought about how my life had
changed in the past week. Seven days ago I was a horny divorcé living at
home. And today, I was a horny divorcé living at home. On the surface,
it seemed the same. But, as they say, the Devil is in the details.
I drove my van to the corner of 12th and Hamilton. Vicki had said
I wouldn't be able to miss the sign she'd had installed the day before,
and she was right. Even in the evening darkness, the words "Private
Moments," written in a sexy-looking red script, stood out. It was
painted on top of the all-black silhouette of a woman who could have
been Dolly Parton, but without the oversized wig.
The whole front of the store was glass, so there was no way I
could bring the framing lumber in that entrance without risking a
catastrophe.
It was clear that the window dressers had already been at work. On
display were a six identical female mannequins in various stages of
undress. Their skin was made of sparkling silver foil and they were
perfectly formed except for one feature. They had no heads. I made a
mental note to ask Vicki about that.
I drove around the corner and pulled into a one-way alley behind
the row of stores. I was hoping there'd be some sort of loading dock
there, something with wide doors that would allow me to get the eight-
foot lengths of two-by-fours inside easily.
I clicked on my high beams and - what was that? - I was sure I
could see someone standing on a trash can behind one of the stores.
Whoever it was had been looking into a small window about seven feet
above ground level. The moment my lights lit up the alley, the peeker
jumped down and ran off. I flashed my lights and honked my horn to make
sure I had scared him off.
Vicki opened the back door and stuck her head out. She saw my van.
"OK, OK," she said. "You trying to wake up the dead?"
I pulled past the back door and backed in, leaving enough room to
pull out the wood and other material.
"Someone was looking in your window," I shouted to her.
"What?" she said. "Turn off the engine."
I shut the van off and stepped out. "I said, someone was standing
on that trash can and looking in that window when I drove up," I
repeated, pointing to the foot-wide window just to the right of the back
door.
"Just now?"
"No, two days ago. Of course just now. Are you fuckin' deaf?" I
looked closer at her. "Take off those goddamn earphones and talk to me!"
"Oh, right, sorry. Now, you said someone was looking in up there?"
"Jesus. Yes, just now. What is that?"
"It's a bathroom with a shower stall. Marsh is in there now taking
a shower."
"Great," I said, "The peekers are being peeked at. You better put
bars on that, and a shade."
"Don't tell Marsh," Vicki said. "She'll freak out. I'll call a
security guy tomorrow."
"I'll handle it," I said, "but I can't get the materials until
Monday. Bars for that size will cost less than $20 - you can pay me now
or tomorrow. I'll install 'em for nothing."
"Thanks, cousin," she said. "I owe you one... but not one you-
know-what."
Vicki gave me a hand with the wood, and with her help it took only
about 10 minutes to get everything inside. As we were piling the lumber
neatly along the back of the shop, Marsha came out of the bathroom and
walked into the office wearing not a stitch.
I was standing off to the side and she clearly didn't see me.
"Hon," she said to Vicki, "Dry off my back will you, there was
just this tiny hand towel in there."
Vicki was smiling from here to Main Street.
"What's so fuckin' funny?" Marsha asked. "Am I wearing a 'kick me'
sign or something?"
I cleared my throat and Marsha jumped so high she knocked over an
empty clothes rack.
She whipped around to see where the noise had come from and saw me
doubled over.
"You little shit," she said, and grabbed a terrycloth robe that
they had just marked with a sale tag.
"Like, I haven't seen your tits and bush before," I said. "Calm
down. You want me to strip and we'll call it even?"
"What you got don't interest me," she said, closing the robe
around her and using it to soak up the remaining moisture from her
shower.
"And thanks a lot to you, missy," she said to Vicki. "Like, you
couldn't tell me he was here?"
"Enough of this lovers' quarrel stuff," I said. "I'll see you both
in the morning. And remember," I said, pointing between my legs, "if you
change your mind, there's enough here for two."
I slammed the back door before either one of them could answer. I
looked around in the dark, then climbed into the van and, high beams on,
continued down the alley with my eyes wide open for any loiterers. I saw
nothing suspicious, but I didn't like the idea that someone might know
that two women were working alone in the store at night. Maybe I could
find a few spare minutes Monday to put the bars in, I thought to myself.
And I drove home.
I pulled up our driveway at about 9. The house was dark, so I knew
Mom and Dad were still out on their "date." I wondered if it was dinner
and a movie or just one of the two. My guess was one, 'cause with their
new-found love-life they'd probably want to get home early and start
fooling around.
I tried to picture Dad porking Mom, and just couldn't make the
pieces fit. Like she said, he hadn't touched her in five years, each of
which had seen another 10 pounds wrap itself around his belly. Still,
she told me earlier that, after I had turned her on during our Monday
afternoon encounter, they had fucked every night this week. I wondered
how he could get close enough to Mom to stick anything in her.
I shut the door and headed for the kitchen to get a beer and, if
there were any good cold cuts in the fridge, to make a mile-high
sandwich. I was famished, as anyone less than a half-mile from my
stomach could hear.
It was then that I heard them. Mom and Dad were home already, and
they were upstairs rock-and-rolling.
The squeaking of the bed was punctuated by Mom's now familiar
moaning. Adding to this sexual symphony, however, was a bass section,
with Dad playing first grunt.
Squeak, grunt, moan. Squeak, grunt, moan. Squeak, grunt, moan.
Their waltz of love came echoing down the staircase, aiming right
for the curiosity center of my brain's right hemisphere.
Maybe because I couldn't believe this was really happening and had
to see it with my own eyes, maybe because I already was in a voyeuristic
mode after a week of planning Vicki's hidden cameras - whatever the
reason, I took off my shoes and carefully climbed the stairs. I hoped
beyond hope that the God of Bedroom Doors had somehow left Mom and Dad's
open at least a crack.
Their "squeak, grunt, moan," was now a "SQUEAK, GRUNT, MOAN"
either because I was getting closer to them or they were getting closer
to the Big O.
I reached the door and- YES! It was closed but the latch hadn't
gone into the keeper. All I had to do was push it a quarter of an inch-
and- hope- it- didn't- make- any....
Perfect. The two were still going at it and I had my quarter inch.
I put my face up to the crack and....
I don't know how many of you have ever watched your parents fuck.
If you have, you can back me up on this: It's something like being told
you have a fatal disease.
First comes the denial stage. "This couldn't be them," says a
voice deep inside you. "This must be two actors with Mom and Dad masks
on. My mother and father would never do that."
Then comes the anger stage, especially if you have any of those
classic mother-love instincts the Greek playwrites always wrote about.
"Why that dirty motherfucker," you say about your Dad. Then, if
you have any sense of humor, you immediately realize that he is,
literally, fucking your mother, and you laugh and immediately forgive
him.
Then comes acceptance. "Hey, Dad and Mom are fucking. OK. I can
live with that."
Now, when it's a deadly disease you're talking about, those are
all the stages. But when it's Dad fucking Mom you're talking about,
there's an additional stage. The jerking off stage.
I went through one, two and three in about a second apiece. By the
fourth second my fly was open and my dick was in my right hand.
This was heavenly. Dad was standing at the foot of the bed, his
back to me and his cock moving in and out of Mom's pussy from behind.
She was on the bed and up on all fours, rocking back and forth to
enhance his penetration. And Dad was spreading her ass cheeks apart to
enhance his concentration. His concentration, at the moment, was on her
anus, which he seemed to be getting a real kick out of.
He took the index finger of his right hand and, without missing a
beat started to push it gently into that opening. I looked closer and
could see gobs of lubrication surrounding the hole and all up and down
his finger. It slid in on the first try, and mom let loose with a scream
of joy that almost by itself started me coming.
My whole load shot onto the outside of their door.
"Shit," I said to myself. How the fuck was I gonna clean that up
before they saw it?
I let go of my cock, and it just flopped down outside my zipper
and hung along one pantleg. And then, with no warning - and, wouldn't
you know it, right during a pause in their noisemaking - my food-starved
stomach decided to make an Olympian gurgle.
Dad stopped pumping immediately and his head whipped around. He
looked at the crack in the door, and I looked down at my dick. The
fucker had gotten hard again and, without my noticing it had stuck all
10 inches of itself through the opening in the doorway.
"What the fuck?" Dad shouted.
"Don't stop, George!" Mom shouted.
"Oh, shit!" I shouted.
Then either I unknowingly bumped the door, or at that moment it
took on a life of its own, but the thing swung open, revealing a 27-
year-old asshole, his dick dripping with strings of semen, watching two
fiftysomething parents who'd been fucking each other's brains out.
By now, Mom had turned to look also. She reacted like a pro.
"George," she said, "I asked you not to stop."
Dad remained motionless.
"Bryan," his lips said. His eyes were unfocused and glazed over.
"It's Bryan."
"Yes, dear, I see. Now, continue to fuck me."
Slowly, Dad started the rocking motion that earlier had pushed his
dick in and out of Mom. But now his organ, softened by the shock, was
too small to penetrate her pussy. Once it had slipped out, it didn't
have the rigidity to make it back in.
"I can't," he said, his face still turned toward me.
"Bryan, honey, get over here and help," Mom said.
Now, Mom and Dad have been married almost 30 years, and I was sure
Mom knew what she was doing. Maybe she had a dominance thing going I
hadn't been aware of. Maybe she was just so close to coming that she'd
lost all sense of propriety.
But, as I've said before, I may be 27 but she's still my boss.
"OK," I answered.
I walked in and Dad just stepped to the side. He looked down at my
10 iron and his eyes nearly crossed.
"Dear," Mom said to me. "I'm waiting."
I stepped up to the tee, planted my feet firmly and lined up my
shot. Wham! The entire, dripping-wet 10 inches went into her cunt with
virtually no resistance. A hole in one.
And not a word from Dad.
I re-started Mom on her journey to Comeville. Three long strokes
and she was a step away from the border. One more and- bingo! Save your
cards until we confirm a winner.
I kept the action up until her panting subsided and I felt her
pussy stop contracting. Then I pulled myself out. I wanted real badly to
come inside her, but I didn't want to risk what that would do to Dad.
My cock was wet with Mom's juices, and she noticed.
"You know where the tissues are, dear," she said to me.
Dad heard that and suddenly found his voice.
"He knows where the tissues are?"
"We'll talk about this later, dear," Mom said. "Bryan, that was
very nice. Thank you. I'll discuss this with Dad, so don't worry.
Everything will be OK, isn't that right, George?"
"Uh huh," Dad said.
I took a wad of tissues from Mom's night stand and cleaned off my
dick, which was still too large to force back into my jeans. Then I
wondered, do I kiss Mom and Dad goodnight, like I always do? Considering
what I had just done - fucked my Mom while my Dad stood watching - I
decided a simple "see ya" would do, so that's what I said. I turned and
left, making absolutely sure that the door latch caught this time.
I tiptoed down the hall to my room expecting to hear an explosion
of shouting, but all I could make out were muffled voices having what
seemed like a civil conversation.
The only phrase I thought I heard correctly was my Mom saying
something like, "George, he likes what you like." I'd have to ask about
that tomorrow. Unless, of course, Dad sneaked into my room tonight and
put a butcher knife through my chest.
I knew that was just a simple case of I-just-screwed-my-mother-
and-Dad-knows-it paranoia, but I locked my door anyway and felt myself
drifting off a few minutes later. No wasted time masturbating this
night. I was running out of fantasies to jerk to, anyway.
Tomorrow, I'd start work on Vicki and Marsha's project: the
installation of four hidden cameras in the dressing rooms of their new
lingerie store. For security purposes, of course. I was out in a flash,
and dreamed of headless mannequins trying in vain to suck on my cock.
---
Is there any more of this out there?
--
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |
| Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/><http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>