Keeping in Practice : Wank Wednesday

Time for another boner-filled bedtime story to celebrate the occasion of Wank Wednesday as instituted by Ruby Kiddell. For most of us this is the middle of the work week, so let me tell you that, if you are reading this blog at work, your boss is right behind you. Ha ha, fooled you! Today's prompt word is #practice. To sample the full cornucopia of contributions visit The Erotic Notebook.

Keeping in Practice


There was no doubt that the danger involved in revealing the truth about myself was extreme, but sometimes you have to risk everything if you are going to realise a dream.

I sidled up to the dusky beauty Asaya and whispered, "Psssst!"

"Yes?" she asked, uncertainly. My own trepidation was reflected in her dark eyes.

"I have testicles," I told her.

"What are you trying to tell me?" she wanted to know. "That overnight Allah has returned you to wholeness?"

"No, no miracle has occurred," I assured her.

"Well you had no testicles yesterday," she insisted. "Marguerite exposed you so that we could all laugh at the place where your balls used to be."

"That wasn't me," I explained. "That was my twin brother Ahmed."

"Prove it," she insisted, so I exposed myself to her. My balls were hanging proudly and my cock was semi-stiff thinking about what was to come.

"Well fuck me sideways!" she exclaimed. Of course I'm translating for you. It sounded much more dignified in Bedouin.

"Ahmed wanted to experience springtime in Baghdad," I informed her. "Harem eunuchs don't normally get holidays, but he persuaded me to take his place. All going well, Sheikh Yah-TaelFetha will never know Ahmed's been gone."

"If he finds out you are not Ahmed, it won't just be your balls you lose," she warned. "It will be your head."

"I think I'm already losing my head over you," I told her, with my most debonair smile.

"You are a rascal," she scolded, as her ruby lips curled into a wicked grin. "What's your name?"

"My honourable father named me Wadi," I declared with a bow.

"Wadi Ya-Gunadu?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"You must love your brother very much to risk your life so that he can have a holiday in Baghdad," she said.

"Well, let's just say that he sold me on the fringe benefits of the arrangement," I told her.

"Fringe benefits?" she queried with mock innocence.

"You girls wouldn't turn me in now would you?" I appealed to her. "You can't tell me that that doddering old sheikh fulfils your true needs."

"Girls!" she yelled out, addressing the throng of 23 gossamer-clad beauties. "Looks like Ahmed has played the old switcheroo. This is actually his twin brother Wadi."

"Hey, Wadi!" called the girls, waving and giggling.

"Wadi is in possession of a working set of genitalia, ladies," she added.

"Yay! Wahoo! Get 'em off!" yelled the rowdy rabble of ravishers.

"We have approximately two weeks before the Sheikh returns from the camel races in Abu Dhabi," Asaya pointed out. "Wadi, rather arrogantly I must say, thinks that we will find him so irresistible that we will let him slake his lust on our poor defenceless bodies and not turn him in to meet the fate that all despoilers of other men's wives deserve at the blade of a scimitar. Is he right?"

"Bloody oath he's right!" cried Shiela, the Sheikh's mail-order bride from Sydney.

"Even when he is here, the Sheikh calls upon each of us but once a month," pointed out Inga, the daughter of the Swedish ambassador to Saudi Arabia who had agreed to marry the Sheikh in return for his agreement not to let the world press know what her father really got up to on his trips to Morocco.

"Oui, oui," put in Marianne, the ex-Parisian artist's model, "we will all be doing the Sheikh a very large service by keeping in practice, is it not so?"

"When the cat's away, the mice will play... usually with themselves," Asaya admitted. "We have to act decorous when our husband is around, but that is not very much of the time. I'm sure that Ahmed has told you what happens the rest of the time."

"You mean about all of the wanking and clit-licking and titty-nibbling you girls get up to in your extensive leisure time?" I asked.

"Ahmed never could keep a secret," she sighed. "Except from the Sheikh. After all, if the Sheikh knew that he couldn't control us, he'd get the chop - the big one. And, seriously, take a look. How could he control a bunch of sluts like us?"

In an instant the girl's clothing went from near non-existent to completely non-existent. All of them were laughing, some of them were fingering themselves and others were spanking nearby bottoms. And a hunger burned in every eye as they looked at me. By now my cock was so stiff that it was curved like the Sheikh's scimitar and dribbling a river of pre-cum down its length. I, too, shrugged off my remaining clothing.

Sheila came up beside me and kissed me on the cheek while she slid her chubby sweaty little hand up and down my proud prick.

"A wank's nice," she said, "but you can't beat a root. And I bet we all  have something to learn about rooting, because we get so little practice, and, let's be honest, the Sheikh isn't exactly crash hot at it."

"That you can say again!" agreed Brunhilda, the German ex-milkmaid.

"We must take our turns," said Asaya. "Over the next ten to twelve days we'll all get several fucks, but we mustn't wear him out or his balls might drop off, and then we would be back to square one."

"I bags first go!" cried Sheila.

"You're a greedy little bitch," Asaya told her. "But I know the only way to get you to let go of his dick would be to knock you out cold, and I'm not a violent woman."

The blonde sun-tanned Sheila pushed me down onto a divan and pressed her warm wet mouth onto mine. I grasped her arse cheeks and rubbed my cock against her luxuriant proliferation of pubic bush.

"Fuck the foreplay!" she cried. "Let's make like kangaroos and hop to the humping!"

She sat up on her haunches, grabbed my cock and sat down on it forcefully so that it slid to the hilt up her cunt. As she rode up and down she played feverishly with her clit and the rosy red nipples which decorated her massive bouncing breasts.

All around the room the other girls were lounging on divans or on cushions on the floor. All of them were watching us with rapt attention, all had their legs shamelessly spread and all were masturbating happily.

Asaya came up behind me and squatted down to stroke and kiss my face. Then she planted her warm lips on mine. Our mouths opened and our tongues met. I looked deeply into her dark, dark eyes and knew that I loved her. I felt Sheila's juicy vagina slurping up and down my sensitive stiff prick and I knew that I loved her too. I looked around at all the harem girls playfully pleasuring their pussies, and I knew that I loved every one of them.

"Mmmmmmm yum, here I cum!" shouted Sheila. As jism spurted out of my cock she fell back off of it and showered my balls with pussy juice.

"Let us wash you and pamper you while you recover from your exertion," said Asaya with a smile.

I let myself be led to the bathing pool and sank back into the warm water. The girls gathered around, soaping me and scenting me with rich fragrances and feeding me sweet grapes.

"Pew!" cried Inga. "Masturbating makes me so sweaty. My armpits smell like a camel's ball bag."

"I've got crusty cum in my arse crack!" pointed out Sheila.

"It sounds like it's my turn to administer the ablutions," I declared.

"Oh, goody!" exclaimed Abigail, ex-parlour maid to Lord Fotheringay, who had exchanged her for one of the Sheikh's race horses. "I've never had a spunky gentleman wash me all over, even right inside my rude places."

It took me three hours to thoroughly clean all 23 girls. I took my time. There was no hurry. And I was very thorough. I slid my soapy finger all the way up each of their assholes, much to their squealing delight. And I felt it was only fair to work over their clits and pussies until they quivered and squirted over my sudsy fingers.

Then we sat around all glowing from our bath, the girls all sitting cross-legged on cushions on the floor so that their pussies were shamelessly displayed, and we competed to see who could tell the dirtiest story. I couldn't possibly repeat some of the things those girls came up with. They weren't just sluts they were seriously sick and deranged individuals, and all the more delightful for it. We all collapsed in fits of laughter each time someone would invent some new obscenity. And some of them were so shocking that the girls responsible had to be soundly spanked, usually by Asaya.

I fucked two more girls before nightfall, and then we all climbed into the Sheikh's massive bed. Asaya pulled me close. I fondled her dusky bottom lovingly as we kissed, and then I slowly slid my hard cock into the happy home it longed for.

"I kept you until bedtime because I want to fall asleep in your arms with your hot seed dribbling out of my cunt," she whispered in my ear. It was a tender romantic moment, and one shared with the giggling girl-flesh mountain on top of us.

It was a chaotic night. There wasn't quite enough room for us to be fully comfortable. At some point someone would always role over and knock someone else onto the floor. Then the girl on the floor would dive back onto the pile and wake the rest of us up. If it wasn't that it was me waking up and finding my cock in some girl's mouth. But, though perhaps not restful, it was a good-natured evening.

The next day my brother Ahmed returned unexpectedly.

"Why are you back so early?" I asked, fearing the worst.

"Well, I have good news and bad news," he said.

"You better give me the bad news first," I told him.

"One of the Sheikh's friends saw me in Baghdad and I had to flee," he explained.

"Fuck!" I cried. "How long have we got?"

"Well, the answer to that question relates to the good news," he replied.

"And that is?" I wanted to know.

"The Sheikh was trampled to death by a rabid camel yesterday afternoon," he announced with a grin.

The girls took the news of their husband's death surprisingly well. It was a happy ending for everyone. Well, everyone but Ahmed. He still doesn't have any balls.

The End