Hallowdream

Image by tverdohlib

They first met on Halloween. They were just kids then. She was dressed as a pirate, with an eye patch and a hook and a papier-mâché parrot which kept falling off of her shoulder. He was a ghost. His mother would be furious when she learned that he had cut holes in a perfectly good bedsheet.

She was coming down the path from the Hinkle place as he was was walking up.

“Hardly worth the bother,” she informed him. “You’ll only get an apple.”

Her parrot fell off once again and hit the ground.

He bent down and picked it up and handed it back.

“I think you should keep it,” she said. “I think it’s as dead as you are.”

Later in the evening they ran into each other again and spent some time comparing notes on their takings. He thought she was strange. He liked strange people.

That was the Halloween of 1968. They were ten years old.

On Halloween of 1978 they took each other’s virginity.

It was after a costume party. By two in the morning they had had their fill of dancing and laughing with their crazily costumed comrades. Laura was dressed as a zombie – mask with greenish skin and one dangling eyeball, tattered dress and body paint to indicate decaying flesh and exposed bones. Sam was The Wolfman – hairy mask with built-in fangs, thick chest wig under a leather jacket, and torn jeans with hirsute and clawed feet which slipped easily over his own bare feet.

Sam drove them to the top of the hill overlooking the old Shepherd place, a farm where they loved to walk, to hold each other and to kiss.

“People have always told me to beware of the Big Bad Wolf,” Laura smiled, reaching over and burying her ghoul fingers in his fake chest hair.

“You should be afraid, very afraid, Little Red Rotting Flesh,” he purred. “I get very hungry when the moon is full.”

“So do I, “ she replied. “I think we are just going to have to eat each other,”

He pulled the mask off over his head and set it aside. Then he pulled Laura’s off too. With her disheveled hair and pale sweaty skin she looked unspeakably ravishing to him.

“Do werewolves have hairy boners?” she asked, unzipping his jeans and fishing out his rock hard cock.

“You’re awful hot for a corpse,” he growled, reaching up under her torn dress and hooking his fingers into her panties. “This body paint tastes terrible though.”

“I don’t have any paint on my pussy,” she pointed out.

On Halloween ten years later they were married and they owned the Shepherd Place. For eight years they had been living there and growing corn. It wasn’t enough to live on, so she had an on-line clothing business and he was a part-time mechanic in the nearby town.

Now they celebrated Halloween on their own, cuddling in front of a scary movie, eating pumpkin pie and ending the night with some appropriately-themed role-play.

“This movie is scaring me stiff,” he would always say at some stage while watching the movie.

“Good. Stiff is the way I like you best,” she would reply.

“Are you enjoying the movie?” he would ask.

“It’s scaring my pants off,” she would answer.

“Good. That’s the way I like you best,” he would respond.

By the end of the evening the lounge room had become Camp Crystal Lake. The fire crackling and  popping in the fireplace provided campfire vibes.

Sam crouched behind a chair wearing a hockey mask and holding a plastic replica of Rambo’s knife.

Laura lay naked and masturbating in a pool of moonlight. A perfect, sexually uninhibited, victim for Jason on this Halloween Friday the 13th. With her left hand she fondled her full soft breasts. She licked her lips and moaned softly. The moonlight glistened on her slick wet fingers and as they slid in and out between the soft swollen lips of her pussy.

Sam thought he’d never seen a sight so beautiful.

“When are you going to attack me?” she whispered, between moans.

“All in good time,” Sam whispered back. “God, I love watching you.”

“You’re supposed to be angry about what a slut I am,” she scolded. “You’re supposed to be more interested in my intestines than my pussy. If you don’t jump on me soon, I’m gonna cum.”

And she did. She started to quiver all over and then she squirted all over the rug.

Sam jumped out from behind the chair and straddled her, holding his knife aloft. He could feel her juices soaking into the seat of his pants.

“And so you fall into my trap, Jason,” she cried, swinging her right fist up to knock the knife out of Sam’s hands. Then she rolled him over onto his back and quickly tied his hands together with a piece of rope which had been lying near the fireplace.

“Let’s see what lies beneath the mask,” she mused, pulling it away and coming up close to look deep in his eyes. “Mmmmm. Kind of cute. Pity you are an unbelievably evil serial killer.”

Sam spat in her face, deciding he should play up to his characterisation and somewhat frustrated by his character’s inability to say anything.

“You cheeky sod!” she exclaimed. “I have a better use for your saliva.”

The soft silky globes of her bottom, glowing golden in the firelight, descended onto his face.

While Sam sucked the juices from her warm pussy lips, she unzipped his pants and pulled them down to free his stiff cock.

“This is the only thing I want to be stabbed with, Jason,” she purred, giving it a playful lick.

She stood up, turned around and then slowly lowered herself onto his manhood, carefully guiding it with one hand.

“Can you see now that there are some things which are even more fun than killing and disembowelling teenagers?” she asked.

Sam nodded vigorously and then they came together.

“Pity I can’t trust you,” Laura sighed. “I’m still going to have to keep you tied up in my cellar. But don’t worry. I’ll look after you well.”

Ten years later, Sam was dead and Laura was living in the farmhouse alone.

Strangely enough, it had happened on Halloween night three years previously.

For six months, Sam had been away working on an oil rig. They hated being apart, but the money was good. Halloween was their special time though and they were determined to spend it together.

It was a stormy afternoon as Sam drove home. All going well he should arrive in the early evening. The windshield wipers were barely up to the job of clearing the wall of water from in front of his eyes. The wind was shaking the trees. Every so often he had to drive around a fallen branch. There was the flash of lightning and the boom of thunder.

With a splintering crash a huge branch fell across the rode in front of his truck. There was no way he would be able to move it. But he was damned if he was going to spend Halloween night sitting in a truck in the rain.

It was only another half mile to get home. He would walk it. He thought about the warmth of the fire once he got there. That and the warmth of his wife’s love.

The rain drenched his clothes instantly. The rain blinded him. But he ploughed on.

He pictured his destination in his imagination. He pictured it on a sunny day. The blue sky, the green fields of wheat, the scarecrow Laura had dressed in some of his old clothes, the old-fashioned farm house, the old tree with the tire swing…

It happened just as he crested the hill and saw the light in the windows. It was just a blur to his rain sodden eyes but he knew were he was.

And then he was gone. He didn’t even see the flash of the lightning which took his life.

Laura had an anxious night. The following day was the worst of her life.

Now, three years later, she felt that the moments of joy in her life were respites from a larger sense of emptiness. And Halloween was hard to bear.

This year she went to bed early.

And she had a dream.

It began when she looked out the window of the farmhouse and saw something unusual. The scarecrow was waving at her. She waved back.

The next thing she knew, there was a knock on the front door. She opened it.

“Don’t be scared of me,” said the scarecrow.

“I’m not,” she replied. “I suppose you are just looking for directions to get to the yellow brick road.”

“I’ve been watching over you,” he explained.

“I’ve felt you,” she confessed, and now she didn’t feel like she was talking about the scarecrow.

“I came this way, because he was already wearing my clothes,” the straw man added.

“Sam…” she began, a tear falling from her eye. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I haven’t missed you at all, because I’ve never been away,” he told her. “I couldn’t let go. You’re supposed to let go. But you held me like a magnet. I flow in nature now, but I only flow in those places which are close to you. The frustration is that I can’t touch you. I can be the breeze that caresses your naked skin, but I can only be it, I can’t control it. I can’t make anything happen that would touch your life. Except this dream. Because it’s Halloween and Halloween is magic.”

And the more they talked the less he was a scarecrow and the more he was Sam. Eventually he was Sam as Sam had been and they were lying naked in each other’s arms. He made love to her with three solid years of hunger and she received it with three solid years of yearning.

In the morning, she awoke feeling satiated. No more did she long for Sam. To her it seemed that Sam was everywhere and always. She and Sam were one.

When she went out into the cornfield she saw that the scarecrow was gone. Where it had been was a newly sprouted pumpkin vine.

Scenes from the Class Struggle in Sherwood Forest

 

“We’ll be stealing from the rich and giving to the poor,” Robin Hood explained as he leant back against a large oak tree hidden deep within the forest.

“The Lord did forbid stealing,” replied Friar Tuck. “It’s one of the big ten no-noes!”

“Property is theft!” the green-clad leader of the Merry Men declared zealously.

“That being the case, I’ll just rescue this piece of ill-gotten loot,” the Friar laughed as he gobbled down the shepherd’s pie Robin had cooked for his lunch.

“Not my property, you pig!”

“I’m afraid I’m a slow learner in the ways of wickedness.”

“We’ll be helping the poor,” Robin started again. “That’s in your line of business, isn’t it?”

“To be sure. Feed the hungry, shelter the homeless and clothe the naked,” the holy man declared with satisfaction.

“Well the hungry now is me, since you ate my lunch!”

But the Friar’s mind was wondering.

“Of course a person can have too much of a good thing, as well,” he explained. “Some of my charming lady parishioners needed to be relieved of their clothes in order that they could have a divine blessing bestowed upon them…”

“Too much of a good thing!” Robin broke in excitedly. “Think of it as a favour we are doing for the rich to rescue them from the stagnation of sufficiency.”

Tuck grabbed Robin’s mug of mead and drained it.

“You’ve won me over!” he cried.

“Will you stop taking what’s not yours!” Robin complained.

“You are going to have to make up your mind, my son,” replied Tuck, and let out a resounding belch.

*     *     *

Bartholomew and Thaddeus were two of the Sheriff of Nottingham’s best men. It was their job to transport the big bags of tax money from the local towns to the Nottingham Bank. They did this in a horse drawn cart.

On the day in question, the cart was bumping along the rugged road through the forest, the bags of money dappled with the sunlight which penetrated the foliage above.

“Thud!” came the sound of a knife embedding itself in a tree trunk beside the road. There was a note attached.

Bartholomew jumped down from the cart and read the note aloud.

“Dear Bartholomew and Thaddeus (hey! it’s for us!), We are a pair of horny forest nymphs and we are just dying to fuck you! (oh, wow!) Take off all of your clothes and run, don’t walk, down to the riverbank where we are waiting. You’ll have to be quick as we can only linger in the material realm for another fifteen minutes.”

It was a matter of seconds before the Sheriff of Nottingham’s most trusted guards were running naked through the forest, leaving the money unguarded.

“Like stealing candy from a baby,” said Will Scarlet to Robin Hood as they dropped from the trees and dragged the bags of money to their campsite. Friar Tuck grabbed the guard’s clothes. It would be a long time before they showed their faces again in the city.

*     *     *

The next day, Robin Hood set off to give a share of the stolen money to a person of impoverished circumstances.

He chose Farmer Giles. Farmer Giles worked a farm owned by a wealthy nobleman. In return he received only food and lodging.

“I bring you good tidings!” Robin cried as he waved to the farmer, who was standing on the porch of the farm house.

“Good tidings would be most welcome,” replied the grey-bearded man who looked older than his years.

“You are now a man of wealth,” Robin returned with a grin.

“How can such a thing be?”

“I have a big bag of money for you,” he explained, holding it up.

“What do wish to purchase?” the farmer wanted to know. “I have nothing.”

At this moment, Melanie, the farmer’s auburn-haired daughter, walked out of the barn, having finished her task of milking the cows.

Robin’s eyes were drawn Melanie’s pretty rosy face and her impressive breasts which threatened to burst free from her simple peasant dress.

“Ah, I understand!” exclaimed the farmer. “You are willing to pay much money to fuck my daughter.”

“No! No!” cried Robin in frustration. “Maybe I could come inside for a moment or two and attempt to explain the concept of wealth redistribution.”

“What’s going on, father?” asked Melanie.

“This man wants to give us money, but he won’t say what he wants to buy,” he explained.

“We don’t have anything,” she put in.

“I thought he wanted to pay to fuck you,” the farmer told her. “But he said he doesn’t.”

“That’s a pity! I could do with a good seeing to,” she responded.

“It’s nothing personal,” stammered a flustered Robin. “I do find you attractive.”

“No shit!” Melanie guffawed. “Is that an arrow in your tights! I think I just saw it quiver.”

There was no alternative but to bow to the inevitable.

Robin Hood reached over and squeezed Melanie’s meaty thigh.

Melanie took him by the hand and led him towards the barn. Before they entered she bent down and grabbed the hem of her skirt and pulled it up over her body. She was stark naked as she dropped it in the dust beside her. Robin sighed deeply as he drank in the heaven of her massive breasts and wide thighs and the tangle of ginger pubes that hid her palace of pleasure. Her eyes had a naughty twinkle as she turned around and dragged Robin into the barn, her soft pink bottom wobbling before him.

“Look the other way, Bessy,” she told the cow.

When they arrived at the mound of hay in the corner, which seemed the ideal location on which to fuck, she pulled down Robin’s green tights. The amplitude of his ardour was demonstrated by the rigidity of his rod.

“I don’t know why you tried to deny that you want me,” she murmured, lightly running her fingers up and down his stiff prick. “Just shy I guess.”

She covered his cock with kisses and then began slurping on it like it was some sweet delight.

“I like this better than milking cows,” she sighed.

Soon Robin was naked and she was astride him in the hay. He loved the way her naked breasts pushed in soft warmth against his sweaty hairy chest, and she loved the way he spanked her bum as she rode his cock.

“Ooooooohhhhh!” Melanie quivered as she came, and a second later Robin spurted inside her.

*     *     *

“They wouldn’t take the money except as payment for something,” Robin explained to Will Scarlet and Friar Tuck. “I had to accept sexual services.”

“That’s a coincidence. Me too,” replied Will.

At that point, the ironically named Little John entered the campsite leading a very old skinny cow.

“They insisted that I take it,” he sighed.

“Who did you give your money to, Will?” asked Robin.

“Old Horace the Hobo,” Will informed him.

“But I thought you said you had to accept sexual services,” Robin queried.

“I’m trying not to the think about it,” he groaned.

*     *     *

“Let’s try a drop and run policy,” Robin suggested. “We can leave a bag of money outside people’s houses by night. They won’t know where it came from and so we can save ourselves from being ideologically compromised by commercial transactions.”

So that’s what they did. They delivered ten bags of money by the front doors of ten houses in the middle of the night.

The next morning there was a knock on the door of the Sheriff of Nottingham.

“Come in,” he said.

A peasant entered his office. He didn’t know his name. He didn’t pay much attention to peasants.

“Sir, a rich man has obviously been careless and lost a bag of money. I found it near my front door. I’m sure he will be missing it,” he explained.

“Hmmmm. And I suppose you are expecting a reward,” the Sheriff, grumbled.

“Only the reward that comes to all righteous souls when they act as their brother’s keeper,” he explained with a bow and a tug of the forelock.

Another face appeared around the door.

“Sir, I think this big bag of money must belong to a rich man…” the newcomer began.

Soon, there were ten bags of money in the Sheriff of Nottingham’s office.

The Arse Play's The Thing

This is the second of my stories inspired by a visit to the offices of legendary Australian porn site Girls Out West. Rosie is both a model and a photographer/videographer on the site, and she likes pegging, hence the story.

Rosie looking radiant

“It’s an incident which will go down in the annals (or should that be anals?) of the Melbourne University Dramatic Society,” Rosie declared decisively, as she gently stroked the soft and glorious globes of LuLu’s naked bottom.

“I was playing the male lead in a production of the ancient Greek classic Lysistrata…” she explained.

“The male lead?” asked LuLu.

“Yes, the male parts were all played by girls and the female parts by guys. And the best part was that I got to wear a huge cock. It’s traditional with this kind of play,” added Rosie with a cheeky smile.

Then she stuck her right index finger in her mouth and slobbered all over it. “The play is by a guy named Aristophanes,” she whispered conspiratorially in LuLu’s ear. “But I call him ARSE-STUFF-PHANES,” she giggled, as she slid her spit-slippery digit as deep as it would go into her lover’s tight but eagerly receptive rectum.

“Mmmm, I like Mr. Arse-Stuff-Phanes already,” moaned LuLu, wriggling around on Rosie’s finger in a way that just happened to cause her stiff clit to slide around deliciously on the silk sheets.

The glorious globes of LuLu's naked bottom

“We used modern costumes and realistic, but oversized cocks,” Rosie continued. “My phallus was attached strap-on style beneath my tight black jeans and it stuck out through the open fly.

“Lysistrata was played by Mark Phelps, captain of the University football team. A real spunk. Not your typical drama nerd. He wore a lovely flowery summer dress and a wig of luxuriant red hair. I can’t say he made a convincing woman, even with the fake boobs and the red lippy. But he lost none of his sex appeal.

“Now you have to understand that Mark was a bit of a  lady’s man. A cocky bastard. So the way he was acting around me while we were doing the play came as a bit of a surprise. I’d catch him giving me strange looks and when I did he’d blush as red as a beetroot. When we had cause to speak to each other backstage he seemed positively shy. You would have thought he was the campus virgin, not the Casanova of the football field.

“During the final performance, when we were sitting backstage at interval I noticed that he was staring at my cock, obviously lost in a dream of some kind.

“‘I like to call him Dick Dastardly,’ I chuckled, wrapping my hand around it and sliding it up and down in a wanking motion.’

“When I looked down at Mark’s lap he had a massive boner tenting his dress.

“‘Oh, ho!’ I cried, playfully. ‘I think you like girls with dicks.’

“He went bright red and started to stammer. Poor guy.

“‘It’s something we have in common,’ I confessed, sliding my hand up under his dress and onto the seven inches of rigid manhood which was sticking up through the fly of his boxers.

The frontispiece to Norman Lindsay's illustrated version of Lysistrata

“’What would you like a girl with a dick to do to you?’ I whispered the question seductively in his ear. ‘I bet you’d like to be Rosie’s bum slut, wouldn’t you?’ The way his cock twitched in my hand and the dribble of pre-cum over my fingers gave me my answer.

“‘You can’t go out on stage like that,’ I laughed. ‘We’ve got another ten minutes. Let’s go back in the flats where no-one can see us. It wouldn’t do for anyone to catch the leading man sucking the leading lady’s cock.’

“‘I’ll let you in on a little secret,’ I confided, as I knelt in front of Mark and pulled down his boxers while he held up his dress. ‘If I move my dick up and down like a lever the base of it rubs against me clit in the most delicious way. I can get off like that very easily.’ So that’s what I did while I slurped away on Mark’s hard prick. It wasn’t long before he filled my mouth with his salty jizz and I felt a warm quivery orgasm spread through my body.

“Now maybe I made a mistake by letting Mark in on my little secret, because, while we were on stage he kept finding excuses to grab my cock and pump it up and down. It didn’t fit with the action of the play and it made it very hard for me to remember my lines. In the end though, neither of us cared. We couldn’t stop giggling. I’m sure everyone thought we were on dope.

“This was the final performance. What did anything matter now? I’d already got a pretty bad review on opening night. Notorious critic Quentin Throsby gave the play overall a fair rating, but he said that my performance was an embarrassment. He said I seemed to be more interested in strutting around waving my phallus at the audience than I was in really trying to inhabit my role. O.K. He had a point. But I still think he would have gone easier on me if it weren’t for the fact that my cock was probably bigger than his.

“That evening Mark and I had a date in one of the upstairs bedrooms of the house where the end of season party was being held. Everyone was there, even Throsby had turned up to avail himself of the free booze.

“‘Not as realistic, but kinder on the sphincter,’ I explained to Mark as I strapped on a modestly-sized clear plastic dildo. Both of us were enjoying our first sight of the other completely naked. Out of his costume, Mark had the physique of a Greek statue, but with lots of hair on his chest and legs. From the stiffness of his cock, I could tell he liked the way I looked as well.

Rosie wearing a strap-on looks a little bit like Rosie holding a banana in front of her pussy

“‘First a little appetiser,” I declared, pushing him forcefully onto his hands and knees on the bed. Then I spread his butt cheeks and licked his wrinkled arse-hole. He wasn’t expecting that. But from his ecstatic sigh I could tell he loved it.

“‘Are you ready to be violated by a bottom-buggering little bitch?’” I asked. It was a rhetorical question.

“‘I want you in my arse, Rosie,’ he declared proudly. ‘Fuck me long and deep.’

“His bravery was impressive, but I eased him into this brave new world with a little lubed finger action. When I knew he was ready, I gave him the cock. Slowly his anus stretched over the lube-slippery plastic dick until all resistance was overcome. With a slurping sound it slid all the way in and my belly slapped against his hairy bottom.

“Mark really took to being buggered like a duck takes to water. An hour later we were back at it, only now, due to the heat we were out on the bedroom’s balcony with Mark leaning up against the railing, and me reaching around to wank his throbbing cock. What we didn’t notice was that many of the other party guests had also made their way outside into the garden to cool off. Our little anal orgy was not going unobserved.

“Quentin Throsby looked up at us dumbstruck. His mouth was open as it usually is. It was just like watching someone shoot a water pistol into a clown’s mouth at the carnival. Mark shot his load into the warm evening air and it arced through the twilight straight into Throsby’s gaping maw.”

“That’ll teach him for saying nasty things about you,” LuLu laughed.

“At first I felt sorry for him,” admitted Rosie. “But now I realise that his desire to be the centre of attention greatly outweighs any capacity he may have to feel humiliated.”

Rosie really has balls!!!!

“What happened to Mark?” asked LuLu.

“He was embarrassed that his peccadillo had been so publicly exposed,” she replied.

“His pecker?” LuLu queried.

“The fact that he was a bum slut,” Rosie explained.

“So it wasn’t a happy ending for him?”

“In the end it was. As is so often the way, embarrassment is but the rite of passage into an exciting new world. A significant number of the female guests at the party found themselves curiously aroused by what they had seen. As word spread, so did curiosity amongst the female student body about what it would be like to have a hunky guy bend over and take it from them. With a shortage of guys keen to take and a plethora of girls wanting to give, let’s just say that Mark’s “dance card” was full.”

“And so was his bum hole,” LuLu concluded the tale for her. “And now it’s my turn. Get your finger out. Give me a really big butt plug instead.”

Rosie likes a good yarn, especially if it is by Aussiescribbler

Darcy's Wet Dream

This is the first of two stories inspired by a visit to the offices of legendary Australian porn site Girls Out West, when I got to meet two of their staff/models, Darcy and Rosie.

Darcy from Girls Out West

“I wonder if I should bake her an apple pie?” wondered Darcy, as she luxuriated in the blue inflatable wading pool in her backyard. She was thinking about her neighbour Mrs. Jones, who had been watering the lemon tree in her front yard while Darcy was instructing the moving men where to put her furniture the day before. Mrs. Jones seemed very friendly, a warm smile lighting up her tanned face, strands of grey hair escaping the loosely formed bun.

But with the warm sun caressing her damp skin, it wasn’t long before Darcy’s mind wandered off in a different direction. She began thinking about a girl she really fancied at her work. Rosie was always getting up to mischief.

“If I were the boss, I’d give her a spanking,” Darcy grinned.

The thought of pulling Rosie over her knee and taking down her panties was all it took to drive Darcy over the edge.

“No-one’s around,” she told herself as she slid her right hand down the front of her full blue bikini bottoms and began rubbing her stiff clit.

Suddenly she was transported from the inflatable wading pool to a full-sized indoor swimming pool. And guess who was the lifesaver? None other than Rosie.

“Help! Help!” cried Darcy, pretending to drown. A very hammy performance, but it did the trick. Rosie, dressed in a tight blue one-piece with candy pink board shorts over the top, dived into the water and swam to her. The next thing she knew she was being dragged from the water. Rosie was stronger than she looked.

As soon as Rosie’s lips came down on hers to give her the kiss of life, Darcy slipped her tongue into her rescuer’s mouth.

“I don’t think you were drowning at all,” Rosie scolded her playfully. “I think you’re a horny little slut trying to take advantage of me.”

“No, really, I’m feeling faint,” Darcy insisted.

“Yes, you do look a little blue,” Rosie played along. “I think I better get you out of those tight restricting clothes.”

Back in the wading pool, Darcy untied her red bikini top and took it off. Then she slid off her bottoms and sat her nude bum down carefully on the plastic bottom of the pool. In her mind it was Rosie who had undressed her.

“What you need for your full recovery is pussy pleasure,” she declared, sucking on Darcy’s stiff pink nipples as she began running her finger lightly and teasingly across the little pink clit which stood up so proudly amongst Darcy’s curly red pubes. It wasn’t only pool water flowing from Darcy’s pussy.

Darcy wondered if they should be alone. Maybe not. What if there were a bunch of other hot girls there who couldn’t believe their luck to be witnessing such a sexy scene. Fifteen girls with their hands down their bikini bottoms - whimpering, wanting and wanking. Yes. Perfect. Darcy loved being watched.

Now Rosie needed to be naked. But how? Oh, let’s change the scenario. Now it’s a nudist swimming pool. Darcy’s been nude from the beginning and so has Rosie. And now all the wanking girls are nude too. Darcy can see their slim fingers sliding in and out of their juicy pussies. A definite improvement.

Rosie being silly

Darcy’s fantasies always began with a certain concern for realism, but the hornier she got and the faster she slid her fingers in and out of her quivering cunt, the more plot development and verisimilitude was washed away on a tide of nipple sucking, bum fingering and pussy juice showers all over her face.

By now Rosie had her bum pressed into Darcy’s face as she alternated between sucking on her clit and fucking her pussy with her tongue. With her mouth full of pussy, Rosie had to breath through her nose. It was a warm breeze that evaporated the wetness around Darcy’s sensitive arsehole. For her part, Darcy was licking Rosie’s hairy arsehole like it was a pink lollipop.

“I wonder if Rosie really does have a hairy arsehole that she likes having licked?” wondered Darcy. “Of course she does.”

Something about surrendering to the oncoming rush of orgasmic pleasure made Darcy feel like she was clairvoyant. She knew everybody’s secrets. And, by some strange coincidence, all of their secrets were really, really dirty.

Rosie brought Darcy to orgasm with her fingers and her tongue. As she quivered in an extended orgasm, each of the watching girls came over and squirted all over her face.

Back in the real world, Darcy opened her eyes and found herself looking into the eyes of another.

Apparently, when she’d shouted out “Help! Help!” in her dream, she had also done so in reality. And Mr. Jones, being a caring soul had leapt the fence to come to her aid. Instead he had spent the last ten minutes standing looking on in stunned silence, as his stark naked new neighbour played with her stiff pink nipples and fingered her juicy pussy. Understandably, he now had a very very hard cock.

“Oh, dear,” muttered Darcy, standing up and covering herself with a towel.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” he assured her. “We’re a very open-minded neighbourhood.”

“You must be Mr. Jones,” replied Darcy, remembering her manners and extending her hand.

Mr. Jones was too polite to mention that the hand Darcy had extend for him to shake was still wet with her pussy juice. By now he was so stiff that it was a wonder his cock wasn’t poking out over the top of his trousers.

That night, when Mr. Jones climbed into bed with his wife, she was in for quite a surprise. How long had it been? Seemed like ages. But now, as she felt her knickers come down, she wasn’t going to waste time wondering why. As her husband’s hands grasped the soft cheeks of her bottom and she felt the hardness of his cock slide home into her hot and hungry pussy, she was a happy woman.

Turns out Darcy had given her new neighbour something better than an apple pie.

Darcy thinks the story is funny

Getting to the Bottom of It All

Manifesto

If there is a cause worth standing for it is that of liberating the bottom. It has been sat upon for too long. Is it any wonder that the word "bum" is used to describe both the gluteus maximus and also those who have fallen to the lowest level of our society.

There are those who would try to excuse the lowly position of the bottom on biological determinism. After all, they will tell you, the bottom inherited the shitty end of  the digestive tract. One could only wish that the minds of such individuals were as broad as their backsides.

Bottoms are wearied neither by oppression nor derision. No matter how much abuse they may be subjected to, they cannot help but remain their cheeky selves.

The spanking of bottoms has long been a traditional punishment, which is somewhat peculiar when it is considered that it is rarely the bottom that has committed the offence. The brain is most often the source of evil doings, but the other end of the anatomy become the scapegoat.

Soft and warm and joyously wobbly, like love itself, the bottom will have its day. As it has borne, so shall it be bared. As the tides of the ocean are subject to the power of the moon, so shall the tides of social change by pushed by another kind of moon. If someone would oppress you, bare to them your nether cheeks.

Scribbler's Muse

Enid's bottom deserves to be showered with praise. You can see much more of here at Girls Out West.

Tinto Brass

Tinto Brass is the auteur of the derriere. While his most famous movie is Caligula (1979), the films which truly express his unique personality are his lower-budgeted erotic films, in which he fetishises women's bottoms to the same degree that Russ Meyer celebrated bosoms.

He is famous for saying that, while women often lie, their bottoms always tell the truth.

Frivolous Lola (1998) (aka Monella)

The gorgeous Anna Ammirati stars in this romp set in the countryside of 1950's Italy. Young baker Masetto (Max Parodi) is having trouble persuading his flirtatious fiancé that they should wait until marriage to have sex. If he won't give her what she wants, she just may find it elsewhere. Maybe even with her mother's debauched lover André (Patrick Mower), if only she could be sure he isn't her real father.

This film is full of life and colour. Whether bicycling madly, skirt flying and panties flashing at passing priests, causing Masetto to burn his loaves, or jiving with soldiers to juke box records, Lola is the very personification of joy de vivre. And much comedy comes from watching everyone else have to deal with the anarchy she spreads. But watch out for the theme song. You'll never get it out of your head.

Anna Ammirati

Pinup

Looks like Cupid has scored a direct hit on one of actress, pinup model and singer Jolee Blon's most attractive features. Check out her website for more.