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From: losgud <lushgod@hotnomail.com>
Subject: <*> {losgud} NEW STORY-- Palindrome
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=========================
The following work is pure fiction.  All people, places & situations are 
complete fabrications of my imagination.  Any resemblance is wrong.  
Content includes GRAPHIC SEX.  If your laws state that you are too young 
to be reading this, grow up and change those laws.  Until then, duh, go 
wild in your own head.

©1998 losgud.  These words belong to me.  Don't fuck with them.  Write 
your own.  NO for-profit use, reposting, archiving [other than a.s.s.m & 
Deja News] etc.  Read, download, share with a friend.  Consider 
unauthorized inclusion in a personal web site as an infringement of 
copyright.
=========================
M/F  con  mast  inter  anal  lite-spank  humor
NOTE:  Here's a shortish strange one.  A mean little story.  Left-field 
losgud.  The tenses shift like crazy--duh, that's on purpose.  Apologies 
in advance for the lame-ass "hard-boiled" style in which this story was 
written--it's just the way in came out.  Otherwise, enjoy!  


PALINDROME


				_able was i ere i saw elba_


I think people tend to dismiss him as _that blow-hard with a beard_.  
Thinking like that, why wonder when you're cut down?  Because that's 
propagating the oft-fatal error called _underestimating the enemy_.  
Overestimate, I always say, play up to that esteem and they're suddenly 
your friends.  Let people underestimate _you_; that gains you tons of 
maneuvering room.

Castro may well be one of the most stubborn of men, but he's highly 
intelligent; never has he allowed his stubbornness to lead him astray 
into outright stupidity.  The dude _moved_ the missiles, you know what I 
mean?  He emptied the prisons and put 'em all on boats to Florida.  
Savvy guy, hey?

So, you've been isolated on your little island, having kept the running 
dogs at bay for nearly forty years.  You look around the world.  Hey, 
things are changing.  The Warsaw Pact--hell, they got a goddamn Polack 
in the Vatican wearing the big hat.  Bastard flies in wearing a bed 
sheet, mumbles a few old man words, and suddenly there's not a pair of 
dry panties on the island.  The Soviet Union cuts up the credit cards 
and then turns back into plain old Russia--they got the Golden Arches 
over there, the People lapping up the Big Macs.  They're digging up 
Che's bones to prove Che's Che, that Che's dead, like Che's Butch 
Cassidy or something.  Fucking Omar Sharif Guevara.  Wonder what 
Ortega's doing these days?  A chain of _Danny's Surf & Turf_?

Smell the smoke drifting down south.  Cigar-mania is sweeping the 
states.  The Havana Banana is commanding premium price.  But importing 
them through Canada, or across the Atlantic, and who the hell do you 
think's making the mark-up?

But ho!--look at Beijing.  They got the KFC.  And no one's bossing them 
around.  They say, _I'm too lazy to take a dump; I'm gonna sit on your 
face and you're gonna suck the shit right out of my asshole._  And 
Washington puckers up every time.

Aha!  Communism with a Capitalist smile.

This is where me and Darren come into the picture.  And, peripherally, 
Panama.  How we wind up down on the island.  But I'm getting ahead of 
myself here.

"So what I'm thinking is, Darren, . . . "

"Whoa, that's dangerous shit when you start doing that, Ray."

You know, we're a pair of schmucks getting drunk in a bar.

What I'm thinking is, that fucking banana republic is so old it's 
starting to go all squishy inside.  Castro, man, he's ripe for new 
friends.

"Sugar cane," I'm raving, "ditch the workers.  Build a machine to plant 
and harvest.  Joint venture.  Insist on control of production.  Market 
raw crystals as a luxury commodity.  Drop sugar futures into the 
basement.  Clean up the world market."

The bad thing is that when I start to get like this, the bartenders 
generally refuse to serve me any more.

But Darren knows better than to not pay attention to my jags.  He's made 
too much money off of them.

I'm the ideas guy.  I point directions.  Darren thinks he's the big boy 
because he rounds up all the cash.  He shakes hands with people of 
enormous bank accounts.  He does lunch with people so rich they never 
have to pay for their meals.  Darren believes he is a tree, arms up like 
limbs, in the cool cash of fall.  He rattles his branches and the 
foliage of green, black and white showers down on me.  Like I'm the guy 
who sweeps up all the money and is oh so eternally grateful and 
beholden.

Power schmower.  Fuck that.  Cash is crop.

I _breakfast_ with the people above the money.  What are bank accounts 
compared to _Treasuries_?  Money's a slut.  It just shows up and you can 
spread it any way you like it.

Darren does tend to squander his share of the proceeds.  It's what keeps 
our partnership alive.

Me, I plan to take my money and . . . I wasn't sure quite what.  Become 
like all the good socialists stateside.  Care deeply about the 
downtrodden masses because you feel so damn good in the morning after a 
night spent sleeping on a thousand dollar mattress.  That was the life 
for me.

I consult with some people I know, get a rough design done of the damn 
machine within a week.  It takes a few months for Darren to get the 
finances rounded up and the prototypes built.  Assembled, field tested, 
then disassembled and packed into containers on a ship docked off Miami.  
Everything is kept very hush-hush.  I'm already thinking . . . this cane 
planter/picker, with some modifications, we might wind up breaking the 
Chinese, get them feeding their billions with cheap imported American 
rice.

So we fly down there.  Down to Miami, then on to the island.

This is it.  This is where things start to get kind of ugly.  We're 
stepping into the story, we join up at the airport.  He shows up with 
fucking Panama swinging on his arm.

The one woman in all the world I have no time for.  I'll sneak a bomb on 
if I have to be on the same plane as that bitch.  What can you say about 
her?

"Darren," I called coldly, giving a scornful glance off her, "I believe 
this to be a _business_ trip."

He fumbled but she picked it right up.  "I happen to be _all_ business."  
Not a question.  Nor pausing for Darren's confirmation; it wasn't 
needed.

"You mean like an oily little machine?"

"You mean like bought and paid for, no pleasure intended?"

"You mean in the same class of deduction as dinner and drinks and a 
room?"

Panama was nothing if not all business.  I didn't have to say any of 
those things to her.  She heard it all from the way I looked back my 
reply.

I snorted a little.  "No doubt," I did say.

Panama sort of tossed her head and swung her hair, but in a gesture that 
was barely perceptible.

I continued to boil in my own little way.  With Darren--I'd long ago 
decided--the best bet was to keep my temper on far reserve.  Ray can 
seem the most good-natured guy around--but if you get him mad you're 
dead.  I'd perfected it to where I only had to pretend to be angry to 
get my way.

"That's not expense account," I fairly snarled, "that's out-of-pocket.  
Yours, hers, but not _my_ fucking pocket."

That settled, what else could I do.  Go home and blow a damned good deal 
because of it?  It being the she-creature known as Panama.  No way!

If Darren was about twice his age, she'd be his trophy wife.  But he's 
not; she's his gorgeous girlfriend.  The best that money can buy.  A 
cash drain.  I watch Darren mentally juggle the numbers.  I doubt he has 
the money to use a payphone.  The poor guy's paying more in credit card 
interest than many people make in a year.

Panama--oh the allure, the exotic cachet.  The name conjures up a dark 
lusty beauty from down by the canal zone.  Though she speaks fluent 
Spanish, in fact she's a blonde grain-fed bimbo from the midwest.  Like 
a walking advertisement for a Florida Spring Break.  She claims to have 
just the one name, as if she's somehow famous.  Like Madonna.  But 
everyone knows Madonna's not some alien goddess from the planet Sex--
she's a mortal who moved to the big-time from Michigan:  fucking Italian 
pope-hugging stock.

Panama City, I call her.  I fake a south-of-the-border accent and call 
her _The Panama City Beach_.

So off we go to Cuba, no doubt to some beaches, in the company of the 
_beach_.

This is an official visit; our queries were met with an invitation.  We 
arrive as guests of the State.  The hotels, as I understand it, are in 
shameful disrepair, so for accommodations they put us up in a quaint 
little cottage.

It's open and airy, the grounds resplendent with gardens.  There's a 
central room--livingroom--set off by a half-wall from a small kitchen.  
Two bedrooms and a fully equipped bath off down the hall.  Windows and 
doors everywhere.  The three main rooms have outside walls of French 
doors opening out onto the gardens and walks.

To say that Panama and I did not get along would be kind.  I can't say 
for sure that she hated me on sight, but it was soon apparent that the 
second glance was enough.  It probably didn't help that that first time 
I ever saw her on his arm, I remarked at their approach, "Nice Rolex."

I wasn't being very charitable, but _really_ . . . I could have said 
_Nice Timex_.  

Darren was meeting me for one of our lunches.  We hook up at this nasty 
little diner for these lunches, where we can jaw up new ideas in 
private.  And he comes in wearing this babe in a scant $500 dress.  And 
he's wearing that huge smug smiley face I can't stand.  There's no doubt 
but that he's also wearing aftershave.

"You fucking show-off," I shout.

I mean, he's blown our fucking cover.  I'm tired of him doing this 
glittery shit.  And I really don't like the way this woman is looking at 
me--I can give back better than that by the bucket.

"You're like a crow, Darren, you know that?--quite an eye for the scraps 
of flashy trash."

She's looking at me like a bug she wants squashed.

"With all due respect, ma'am," I gave her a cowboy nod.

They sat down across the table from me.

Darren has a cement grin.  "Ray, this is Panama; Panama, this is Ray."  
I extended my hand, truly meaning to calm down.  She looks at it with 
distaste, like a cut of spoiled meat, then ignores it.

"Darren's told me about you."  The auspicious pre-introduction aside, 
her tone is evident that he imparted nothing but slander.

"Panama? huh?"  I turned to Darren, continuing, "Goddamn good of you to 
bring the Canal back into American hands.  Fuck Carter.  How about 
hiking her skirt and showing us the goods.  Ready for the passage of a 
strange ship eager to rededicate the transport?"

So there the three of us are, cozy as can be in a Cuban cottage.

What bugs me is that she's included so he can show her off.  He's done 
this before.  And it bugs me.  Showing off to me.  Showing her off to 
me.  There is no doubt that Panama is a woman well-worth the showing and 
well-worth the show.  You'd have to be of another species not to 
mentally undress her the first time you saw her.  The second and quite a 
few other times as well.  Man, woman or child; she's _that_ tasty.  But 
I get tired of all the rehearsed grab-assing.

She's rather enthusiastic, it seems; there's no doubt that she's 
whipping him on along.

I don't care that they're at it morning, noon and night for all the 
world to hear.  I don't care that Darren's always got that grin like 
he's been eating shit by the truckload.  I don't care that there's 
Panama hanging out on the sofa, barely dressed and verily hanging out.  
Lounging around and reeking of fresh-fucked cunt.  A steam bath of 
semen.

It's _her_ attitude I don't like.  She can be decent to other people.  
But me, she either pretends I'm not in the room, or she acts like I 
should be paying for the privilege of getting so much as a glance off 
her.  Hell with that!

Sitting there like she's the big tube of filet behind the glass case.  
Specialty cuts.  Gotta ring the bell to get the butcher up front.  Leave 
a credit card as a deposit.  And she's like, _cheap ground beef for you, 
boy!_  That grey glop over in the cooler.  89˘ a pound.  20% fat 
content.  20% gristle, cartilage and bone.  20% floor sweepings.  Dog 
food for people.

I don't _do_ dogfood.  Nor do I have much tolerance for fancy cow.

Fortunately I'm quickly too busy to care about any of that.  To think of 
any of that.  To even be around any of that.

I'm spectacular in the preliminary rounds of meetings.  I got a shoe off 
and I'm banging it on the table.  I can see the awe in their eyes--this 
crazy _nordamericano_, he's even better than Kruschev!

"Cuban cane is _incomparable_.  You're gonna _fuck_ them beet boys up in 
_Lousyana!_  They put the goddamn nooses on themselves--what we're gonna 
do is cut the fucking floor right out from under them, stand down there 
and watch 'em hang!  We're gonna make all them subsidized gringo grain 
men _suck up_ all their goddamn _corn_ syrup."

Yea, right, of course our plans will put a bunch of peasants out of 
work.  But honestly, who's ever really given a shit about the peasants 
anyway.  And then there's the beauty of the Communist Model:  full 
employment.  Just pay the poor bastards to sweep the beaches or 
something.  Hey, that way everything'll be real pretty when they get 
that tourism thing going again.

We get the wink, the nudge, the nod.  I see that old Bearded Bastard 
listening in at the cracked door.  His head nodding up and down through 
the blur of the door's upper pane of frosted glass.

This leaves Darren on a flight back to Miami to get the boat and bucks 
on their way, while I get ideas to spend all my comparable time 
schmoozing.  

Darren's plane flaps off the runway at ten in the morning.  Sure it's 
early enough in the morning, but hell, the morning's almost shot, the 
morning's half the day, and I got a fucking full day ahead of me.

I gotta get my goddamn name on all the pieces of papers.  I _really_ 
need to go lick some Castro butt.

Darren's the kind of business partner, you know, you're a team, a 
_fucking team_--you go at it together, get that victory clenched, all 
but in hand, and the bastard starts thinking _what do I need_ that 
_bastard for?!!_  He'll fuck you over in a New York second.  Not that 
that's ever happened to me.  That's why we're still partners--_I don't 
let him_.  The slime doesn't know the meaning of slippery.

I do all the papers I can get my hands on.  Then I manage an audience, 
hanging out with Castro for a few hours in the late afternoon.  It's his 
hand has to spell out my name on the rest of the documents.

It's incredible.  After all these decades, the _Bearded Buffoon_ has no 
command of the chronic enemy's language.  I could have strolled in 
saying, "Hey Castro, I'm here to suck your cock," and he would have had 
to turn to the guy seated off to the side in an upholstered chair.

The guy turned out to be a good translator; at least, all the funny 
quips I kept making did, after a deathly mumbled pause, make the big guy 
roar.  And when I turned serious, professing the bedrock of my sympathy 
for socialism, I swear Fidel's eyes welled up.

And then I'm chattering away, the translation like an echo, "That big 
cigar in your mouth, you don't even want to _know_ what those things 
sell for in the States.  The only way to vanquish your foe is to learn 
to fight him with his own weaponry.  To be blunt, just how much of that 
margin makes its way back to _madre cuba_?"

I really ended with that.  Quickly.  Correctly.  With the _C_ blunt and 
the _U_ long, pronounced like 'cuda, as in barracuda, as in the shape of 
the fucking island, as in its danger to the fat seaslug to the north.

Well, you know, me and Fidel, we're back standing up and shaking hands 
for like ten minutes.  He's mumbling away and the translator's words are 
bouncing off my tympanic membranes.  I've seen him write my name on lots 
of papers.  I decline the dinner invite, modestly, in a way that leaves 
Castro smiling happy and clapping me on my shoulder.

A girl is sent to escort me home.

Not staying for dinner apparently entitles me to some take-out.

But she's not a girl.  Her name is Emma, while she looks full-blooded.  
She speaks Spanish with an English-language accent.  Her parents were 
pals of Castro, knighted diplomats; she grew up in private schools in 
Europe.  Her command of English is much gooder than mine.

"You know," I mentioned as we walked along the road, "anytime you want 
to ditch out is fine with me.  I'm not going to, I mean I'm not, that 
is, you know . . . _use_ your services or whatever.  Not like that."

"Then like what?" Emma asked back.

"Well, you know.  Like those _other duties as assigned_ of yours."

"What you mean?" she shrieked, "like some sort of class sacrifice of 
your entitlements?"

Her grin was what made me love her.

"What?  You don't want the fuck of your life?!!  I'm a paid 
professional, mind you, employed in a top governmental capacity."

"Well, I hardly dare doubt that," I smiled back.

"I've returned to my island," Emma nodded, "I'm serving my country, my 
sacrifice is justly compensated, and I get to fuck like crazy."

"I've got a better idea."

"And what's that?"

"You masturbate like wild, for the love of your country.  Not to 
discomfit you too much, but I will have to be in the room at the time."

I explicated my plan.  She loved it.

The bedrooms have those wonderful French doors out onto the terrace, so 
one can come home without announcing it via the entry hall.  As we 
bustled past the bushes, I could see Panama sitting on the couch in the 
livingroom.

There was the long creaky wisp of pulling the sagging doors in across 
the flagging.  The final sharp _click_ of the latch.

Then we spent an hour or so in my room.  Emma lay on the bed and enjoyed 
herself vastly for most of the time.  She whimpered and cried out 
salaciously, in a level of Spanish I could understand; it was all cocks 
and cunts and my name.  

Very nearby big tower bells clanged; Emma explained the bells rang 
nightly, at this off-hour, in honor of some revolutionary martyrdom or 
another.  She informed me of this while she had nearly a hand's-worth of 
fingers crammed up inside her, pointedly eyeing my crotch.  I was 
mightily tempted, but I didn't want to get submerged in my plan.

Instead I ignored my erection and pressed her for a promise of different 
girls for the same the next couple of nights.

On the third night I had the grand fortune of getting a real moaner.  
The woman keened on cue and key.  And had a rather nasty prattle going 
on.  That I could decipher because of course when one sets out to learn 
a new language, all the dirty slang comes first.

Clappers hit bells badly nearby.

So I slipped out the French doors.  Stepping carefully through the 
foliage.

The next room over, lights on, bold as day, there's Panama sort of 
slumped on the sofa with her pants to her knees.  Busy, _busy_ hands!  
Well along in _pulling her pud_, as us boys always say.

All this in three nights!  A few more nights, man, it's classic Pavlov.

The bells! the bells!

Then there's the night I don't go out to round up my whore.  I don't say 
anything about it, and what can she say about it when for the first 
night I don't go away?

Panama started getting all fidgety.  The caged big-cat syndrome.  Like 
she had some roaming that needed getting done, but something was in the 
way.  As if I was standing in the way of her and the t.v., so the remote 
didn't work.

I was curious to see the tack she'd take.  Taking the oblique path, 
Panama chose to cast aspersions on my manhood.  The proof being that I 
was wasting an evening at home when I could be out enjoying the whores 
of Havana.

I reply honestly.  I didn't come prepared.  And I wouldn't trust any 
rubber on the island.

Not a doubt in the house.  I could tell.  I could nearly smell her.  
Panama wanted to rub herself off in the worst way.

Then there's the nightly clangs for the Unknown Martyr.

She gives up on trying to control it.  Her bottom's been squirming for 
the past half hour, and now it's spread to her top.  Her t-shirt leaves 
no doubt how taut and full her nipples have become.  Does she not think 
I don't notice the way she keeps squeezing her thighs?  That little silk 
skirt is _riding_ high.

I get up, offering to get us some cold beers.  Fetch her one, since 
that's the trip I'm taking anyway.

I go into the little kitchen--it's just a countertop away.  I look back 
and Panama's sort of sitting up straight, almost lifted, leaning a 
little forward.  All I can really see is from the backside, how her arms 
seem to drop into her lap and disappear.

Squirming _all_ around, I tell you.  Riding her thumb right out in the 
open.

"Jesus Christ," I complain returning with the beers.  "Even most dogs'll 
go off in another room to do that!"

The way her lips played, something smart was about to come out.  I 
walked sideways to my chair.  From that distance I suddenly tossed the 
cold can her way.  Panama did the requisite squealing.  Catching a cold 
beer between the press of your hot thighs'll do that.  Finally her hands 
came free.

"Hump on that a while, maybe help you simmer down."

Panama took time out from her impending orgasm long enough to crack open 
her beer, take two big slugs, then fix me with a look.  Skewer me with a 
look, I suppose she was thinking.

"Ray, I used to think you were a third-class creep.  Turns out perhaps 
you are indeed a blue-blooded loathsome bastard."

"Ah, these words, like sweet birdsong to my ear.  The very words my 
mother used to sing to me."

"You are truly a sick man, Ray."

"Panama!  Ooh, how sexy--to be climbing the ladder of your esteem."

"I believe the direction being climbed is the dark, dank, _downward_."

The dark dank downward.  So, you know, I'm staring down at her crotch.  
Since that's where all the action is anyway.  She gets some fingers 
going back busy down there.

Panama sounds like she's reading from some sort of manifesto held at the 
wrong angle.  "You feel _threatened_ by a woman expressing her 
sexuality, don't you?"

_The hell I do!_

"Not according to my sources," I demur, giving my private stock a 
cartoon squeeze.

"You are _shocked_," she exclaims, "to discover that woman can pleasure 
herself without any need of you."

"I think _delighted_ better describes _that_ discovery!" 

That'd been the best part, these evenings--watching those women 
masturbate.  Even though I paid them to do it, they all took their work 
authentically in hand.  While of course remembering to shout out all the 
proper homages to the anonymous schlong.

_The magnificent plantain!_

"Well, hell," I finally said, tugging at my belt.  "If you can jerk-off 
in the livingroom, so can I."

Panama gets very interested as I loosen my pants and push down my 
underwear.

My member is magnificent, made all the moreso as I stroke it.

Panama watches avidly, her own hands busying themselves again.

"Do a proper job of it--take off your panties."

Panama set the beer can on the floor out of the way, then reached both 
hands up her skirt and under her bum.  She rolled backwards, onto her 
back on the sofa.  Her legs were ten miles long, pedaling in the air.  
The panties took a long trip up into the stratosphere before they 
floated down in her hand.

I got a good long look at her cunt.  From the looks of it, she'd been 
doing quite a proper job of it with the panties on.  As she swung 
herself back up to a sitting position her legs went wide in search of 
earth, adding, for the moment, a delicious spread to her sex.

"What do you want me to do next?" she taunted.

"Wear 'em on your head, of course." 

The look of complete confusion on her face was perfect, priceless.  Then 
her eyes shut to slits.  Fast arm!  She'd slung her panties at _my_ head 
before I knew what she was doing.

Didn't drop _that_ ball.  I immediately uncrumpled the balled panties 
and pulled them on over my face.  "Goddamn!" I exclaimed, "it sure 
smells good in here!"  I wondered what the hell I looked like.  That was 
a sight I really wanted to see.  Panama's face wasn't much of a mirror--
a slightly amused expression--but I decided I'd pretend it was.  I 
played peek-a-boo through the leg-holes.  Then my tongue started 
slurping out.  "Watch out!" I growled, "it's Super Clit!"

That made her mouth drop.  "You're a fucking maniac!  You know that, 
Ray?  That something you know about yourself?  That you're a fucking 
maniac?  You're one sick fucking pup, you know that?"

I just laughed.  "Unmasked at last."  And laughed.  I took off the mask, 
fingering the fabric.  "Nice panamaties."  I tossed them on the sofa 
within her reach.  

She reached out and snagged them, sort of rolling them in her hand, then 
threw them back.  "Keep them," she challenged.

Big deal.  I shrugged then stuffed them in my pocket.  Then I stuffed 
myself back into my pants and turned to leave the room.

Panama's ankle hooked mine.  "What are you doing? where do you think 
you're going?"

"The Pervert's crawling back to his cave."

She leaned over and got a good grip on my belt.  "_Unh uh!_  Come here 
and fuck me, you lousy bastard."  Panama dragged me within reach of both 
hands, and then did my pants drop!  She gave a little growl.  "No sense 
letting this stiff cock go to waste," she declared.

"Don't worry, Panama, I wasn't going to waste it."

"Come on, _cooperate_.  C'mon Ray, you know you want it."

"You know _you_ want it."

"Hell yea, I want it.  Come here and give it to me.

My underpants and slacks were barely below my knees.  They'd bunched up 
and snagged at my shins.  My shoes and socks were still firmly on and I 
didn't feel like dealing with the laces.  The perfect gentleman--at 
least I wasn't wearing a hat indoors.  After a forced hobbling, I stood 
firmly in the gulf between Panama's legs.

"Gotta see the tits, Panama, gotta see the tits."

She was out of her shirt in a flash.

Saw the tits.  Very nice tits.  Me and my t-shirt pressing down on those 
tits.  Panama hugging me down tight against her, one arm slung over my 
back, the other putting my cock right where she wanted it.

And that's exactly what I always do--give them what they want where they 
want it.  There are no complaints anywhere as I slide my cock into her 
cunt.  It's going to be a hot time in the old town tonight.

_Goddamn_ but the girl's got a hell of a pussy on her.  Panama's 
_banging_ that tambourine.  I'm beginning to understand that all that 
_bang-bang-banging_ going on in their room was something a bit more 
desperate than show.  On both sides.  I'm humping away like it's my job, 
that's my middle name, my _raison d'ętre_, the very reason why my man 
plopped me down on this little green and blue ball in the first place.  
That's how _glorified_ that girl's pussy felt.

Forget all that business about how tight it is.  I mean, Panama's cunt 
was _tugging_ on my cock.  She is just _squirting_ love juice all over 
us, bathing our crotches in her sweet sauce.  And by god, Panama's 
bucking back like she's the one who's got the cock.

Whoa, fuck, she's doing things to me no woman's ever done.  And then it 
struck me.  She wasn't moving a muscle for anyone other than herself.  
Never had; never will.

But what the hell--it was doing the trick for me, too.

And then I heard the full array of familiar sounds, the menagerie of 
voices announcing her pleasure.  The mewls and growls and whinnies and 
snorts and roars and _trumpetings_.  It was much louder directly in my 
ears.  I almost missed the wall between us.  Her body below mine was 
electrified.  Limbs thrashing, clawing, scratching, her head whipping 
side-to-side like an unruly horse, rolling in the dampness of her 
tossing mane.  The air all around us thick with the lovely scent of very 
wet cunt.

I wait for her breathing to level out before I say something but she 
beats me to it.  She doesn't speak, but her hips start swiveling again.

"So Panama, you sort of like this, too, huh?"

"Ray?--shut up and screw me."

And we're back at it like trains down the lines.  Steam engines 
screaming.  _Barreling_ down the tracks.  We're going so fast I have no 
notice before the sperm comes whistling out of me.  I'm not sure Panama 
noticed it at all.  She surely didn't even slow down a whistle.  She 
keeps churning.

I figure if she wants to get one more off what I got left, she's welcome 
to it.  I'm tucked inside safe and snug; as tight as her legs and arms 
crush me against her, I'm not going anywhere soon.  Panama's _abrading_ 
herself against me.  I feel fabric between us--silk or not--abrading us 
both.  That poor clit of hers is going to be raw in the morning.  

But then the funny thing happens.  We're about at that point where, 
given all the slipperiness and my shrinking condition, I'm going to pop 
out no matter what she wants.  Panama still hasn't managed to reclimb 
the magic mountain, and her cunt is sucking away at what's left of my 
cock.  Then suddenly I realize she's getting an increasingly better grip 
on the damn thing.  My muscle of love is flexing again.  Boastful 
bastard:  _feel how big and strong I am!_

Well, so we got a cunt and a cock both greedy for more.  Who am I to 
spoil the party?

"_ˇViva la revolución!_ baby."

I start plunging away.  There's some cloth slipping way down, almost 
getting in the way, but I'm not about to stop and investigate.  Panama's 
limbs loosen up, partly as a result of my thrusting, partly because all 
her concentration is elsewhere.  Her lids are fluttering, eyes rolling 
back; her little huffing noises start escalating into howls.  I shout 
through the roaring, "Hang on tight!  Force Ten hurricane blowing across 
the island!"

With orgasms like this, no wonder all she wants to do is fuck.

Then I pull out and sit back on my heels.  Sure enough, the crotch of 
Panama's skirt is tucked down between her legs, the material all 
wrinkled and cream stained.  Hope she brought the spot remover--I doubt 
there's a drycleaner on the island.  But nice view!  And as long as I 
have the opportunity, why limit myself to just the one?

"Come on," I waggle her knee, "roll over."

Panama gives a light grunt of assent, but leaves all the muscle work to 
me.  Then it's like she's napping on the couch, face down, knees tucked 
up under her.  Nice enough view, but I know it gets better.  I push her 
skirt back up to her waist.

"Hey!  I didn't say roll over and play dead."

Not much response down there.  So I lean over and begin rubbing that 
creamy bottom, my hands moving up to massage the small of her back.  
Like messing with a cat in heat.  Sure enough, her hips start to squirm.  
Panama's making little noises--murmurs and coos and whimpers.  And that 
rear end rises right up.  She snakes her arms beneath her, and her hands 
wind up between her legs, spreading her sex.

But I had a sudden inspiration, pushing down on her raised rear a 
little.  "I've sailed the Atlantic; now it's time for the Pacific."  I 
rubbed a finger around the rim of the puckered bud of her backdoor.

"_Oh my god_," she moaned.  Pushing back, though, not trying to squirm 
away.  Getting me all lined up.  I didn't think it would be too smooth 
just jumping right in like this.  But that seemed to be her idea.  My 
mistake.  

"My purse," she whined, "check it.  On the little table there.  Some lip 
stuff."

I reached around and found it, started rummaging through the contents.  
Shit spilling out all over the place.  There was everything in the world 
in there, if you only knew how to find it.

I pulled out a small jar thing, then contemplated it.  "The hell if I'm 
rubbing Tiger Balm on my dick!"

"You idiot," she heaved, "the little squeeze tube thing.  It's pure 
petrol _jam_.  So you can jam it in me and jam away until you jam."

Ah, that.

She was babbling.  I wanted her to stop.  So I squirted the whole 
goddamn tube right in her ass.  It didn't make her stop, just change 
subjects.

"What the fuck are you doing, Ray?"

"What Ray doing are the you fuck."  Really, my pecker was pig-slick with 
pussy juice already.  So I grabbed her hips and started sinking it on 
in.  Gave that asshole a helluva surprise.  But Panama barely had time 
to squeal before she was bent growling these throaty moans.

After a few minutes of slamming those sounds out of her, I began to 
worry that maybe Panama was having some sort of fit.  I started to slow 
down.  But then Panama's voice came back; in a strange automaton tone 
she informed me, "If you stop now, Ray, I will kill you."

My life is of course very precious to me; and hell, I hadn't wanted to 
stop in the first place.  So I sunk it all the way back in.  That put 
the cork back in her.  Her internal animal returned, communicating in 
nothing but grunts.

But that damn skirt keeps flapping down.  There's a zipper halfway down 
the back of it, but tugging on it does no good.  Fuck!  Either it's 
snagged or the tension on the material is too great.  I'm getting overly 
annoyed.  Disregarding the adage, I do my damnedest to force it.  
Finally it gives in a great ripping roar.  Oops--now the zipper goes all 
the way down the back.  The skirt flutters away.

"Damnit, Ray, that's silk!"

"The front's already ruined; just matching it up."

"It cost $300!"

"Don't worry, I'm sure Darren'll buy you another one just like it; I 
made him a rich man this week.  So shut up."

"How do you know?  What are you talking about?!"

Guess it was up to me to shut her up.  Give her something to take her 
mind off the stupid skirt.  I pulled nearly all the way out, then bored 
back fast.  That sucked the air out of her lungs!

What a wonderful rear end.  Panama had a great ass!  I could fan her 
cheeks out, giving her a very womanly flare, and a marvelous vantage of 
exactly what I was doing.  Or I could squeeze them together and nestle 
the hot-dog tightly in its bun.  The visual or the tactile, or a 
combination of both.  It was good this wasn't my first round; if it had 
been, Round One would have been _over_ for me.

Instead, I was able to plunge on ahead, full-steam, no quarter, without 
fear for the moment.  I reached around and under and started rubbing her 
nubbin.

"Quit playing with my pussy," she hissed.  "Your cock in my ass.  Just 
from that.  That's how I want to come."  

If that's the way she wants to play, so be it.  My hands were getting 
sort of fidgety, not sure what to do.  I was regretting having taken off 
my hat--I wanted to be waving it around like I was busting a bronc.  I 
felt like whooping and hollering.  I was Teddy Roosevelt and all the 
goddamn Rough Riders charging up San Juan Hill.  For lack of a hat I 
started _really_ squeezing her butt cheeks.  And it seemed the harder I 
did it, the more approving her noises.

I bring one of my hands up, held flat, studying it like it's the fucking 
Rosseta Stone.  How to translate the glyphs of desire.  What the hell, I 
think, swinging my arm back.

Smack!

Panama gasps.  Her ass quivers in the aftershock.  But then it keeps on 
quivering.  Panama is _quivering_ her ass.  No doubt what that implies.  

Smack!

Little love taps, really.  The pearlescent skin on her bottom barely 
reddens.

"Harder!" she shrieks.

SMACK!

"Faster!"

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!  _SMACK!!_

And over the edge we go, Panama in the lead. 

She's bucking back as hard as she can.  Then she's singing the song the 
whole world loves to sing--sing and hear sung.  I'm filling her to the 
rim, Jim.  My balls are _liquefying_.

Right at that point, of course, Darren walks in the room, returned 
early.

This ain't no fucking videotape; no rewind and no erasing.

So what the hell's he gonna do about it?  What's done is done.

He sort of stared down at Panama.  As if she gives a shit, the way her 
ass keeps twitching.

"I hear you've got your name spread all over _all_ of the papers," he 
turned to me.

I gave a snort.  "I doubt _I'm_ front-page news." 

"You know what papers."

"That's right!" I shot back with a grin.  What a guy I am!  Sassing him 
back while I've still got my dick in his girlfriend's ass.

He advanced on me; likely, I thought, coming to wipe the smile off my 
face.

But then he stopped and turned, facing away from me.  He fiddles at his 
front for a moment, then bends and drops his pants, pushing his 
underwear down all the way, too.  He splayed his hands into mitts, each 
grabbing a half, then spreading his cheeks.

"Okay.  Next you might as well butt-fuck me for real."

Great sense of humor on that guy though.

"For faster service," I intoned, "please take a number and have a seat."

An ass is an ass, I suppose, but I prefer mine without a sack of balls 
dangling below.  Besides, I'd already _unloaded_.  I stood up abruptly 
and popped right out.  Panama made a sound like a balloon losing air.

A slap on the ass to Darren.  "Okay, buddy, I'm hitting the showers."

Lovely tableau there as I glanced back from the hall.  Backwards or 
forwards, ready for more, it's all the same to Panama.  

"Looks like somebody missed you," I give a laugh.

Darren turning around with a stupefied look on his face, looking rather 
stupid with his pants pulled to his ankles, his poor pud unsure which 
way to go.

"C'mon, Darren," I called.  "I got the proceedings _initiated_.  Now why 
don't you jump in and _finalize the deal_."

=========================
Like? Yes? No? Comments welcome. losgud@hotmail.com
=========================
I am archived at DejaNews under "Author" name:  LUSHGOD@HOTNOMAIL.COM




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