The Spy Who Came : Wank Wednesday

It's Wank Wednesday once more, and today the prompt word is #recipe. To find out more about this writing challenge, and to read the other contributions, check out Ruby Kiddell's Erotic Notebook.

The Spy Who Came

The year was 1955. The place - Louisville, Kentucky. Natasha Suckyanobov was on her most important, and potentially dangerous, mission yet.

It was the height of the Cold War, and Natasha was devoted to the cause of global Communism. There was no reason, she had been led to believe, why her people - the people of the Soviet Union - could not enjoy all of the benefits which were enjoyed by the citizens of western nations like the United States. It was her job to use her powers of seduction to liberate the information which would make this possible.

She was particularly good with accents. As she sat in the Purple Parrot Lounge, sipping a strawberry daiquiri, she chatted with the barman in a perfect southern accent.

At 8.17 her target entered the bar.

"How's it going, Harland?" enquired the barman of the distinguished gentleman with white hair, glasses and goatee.

"Mighty fine! Mighty fine!" he replied. "Give me the usual."

The barman poured out a double bourbon.

"Perhaps I could buy something for the lady, too," he suggested, with a naughty twinkle in his eye.

"Why, thank you kindly, good sir," drawled Natasha, as he sat down on the next barstool.

Well, one thing led to another and an hour later Natasha and the man referred to in official Soviet documents as "H.S." were back in her hotel room.

"So, are you one of the Lexington Sackville's?" H.S. asked.

"I'm the one they don't talk about," purred Natasha.

"I wondered why I hadn't heard about you," he told her, as he removed his trousers, to reveal a pair of baggy boxer shorts draped around a massive erection.

"Well, you are glad to see me," she smiled.

"A gentleman always stands for a lady," he replied, pulling down his boxers and giving her an eyeful of his bountiful boner.

Natasha was now standing in just her black silk bra and panties. In her underwear she was the spitting image of Betty Page.

"So are you really a military man?" she asked. "Because that's quite a weapon you have there." She walked over and ran her finger tenderly down the length of his cock.

"No," he replied. "My title is purely an honorary one."

Natasha sank to her knees and took H.S.'s cock in her mouth, licking and sucking on it hungrily. "Mmmmm, mmmmm," she sighed, popping it back out again. "Taste's delicious."

She stripped off her last garments and lay back on the bed with her legs spread.

"Come and get it," she smiled.

H.S. climbed up onto the bed and slid a couple of fingers deep into her wet pussy. He rubbed her clit at the same time with his thumb. And he kissed her passionately as he wanked her off. His beard tickled her chin.

"Oh, God! I'm cumming!" she cried, almost losing her accent in her ecstasy.

He pulled his fingers out of her cunt and licked the juice from them.

"Mmmmmm. Mmmmmm. Finger lickin' good," he sighed.

Then he pressed her back onto the bed so that her full breasts were squashed against his manly chest as he slid his cock home into her lubricated love lounge. Her cunt juice basted his balls as he began to pound her pussy long and hard with his pulsating prick which was also long and hard.

"Oh, yeah," she sighed. "Fuck me like a good member of the proletariat."

"I beg your pardon?" queried H.S., as he continued to probe her pussy with his prodigious member.

"Errr, I just said, 'Don't you love that TV show Ozzie and Harriet'," she stammered.

"You're a strange, but very sexy, woman," he declared. "Oh, yeah, honey chile, here it comes!" And with that he spurted several jets of hot spunk deep within the pussy of his secretly sinister lover.

That night he fell asleep in her arms, but he awoke to find himself tied spread-eagled to the bed. She was approaching him threateningly with a feather. He could stand anything but tickling. How did she know?

An hour later Natasha was communicating by radio with her bosses in Moscow.

"I have the secret recipe," she informed them. "Yes, that's right. All eleven herbs and spices."

The End

Jolly Rogering! : Wank Wednesday

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Going Ape! : Wank Wednesday

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Rush : Fuck Me Friday

What is Fuck Me Friday? Apart from being a line of dialogue in the recently discovered uncensored version of Daniel Defoe's The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, it is another Twitter-based erotic writing challenge. This one is organised by Aisling Weaver. Here is how she explains it :

Twitterotica themes have been hanging around for some time, with various writers tackling weekly challenges such as #wankwednesday and so on, and writing challenges far and wide are abundant. This is another one.

The goal is two-fold; for writers, a weekly challenge to keep the, err, juices flowing. For readers, you'll find all the stories linked off at the bottom of each week's prompt. Are you game? Will you try your hand at some on the fly writing? Will you expose your work to new readers, will you read along and find new authors? I do hope so.

So, welcome to the linky love edition of Fuck Me Friday. All you have to do is this :

• Write a story with the prompt as your title. Today's will be : #Rush

• Tweet it with both the prompt and hashtag #FuckMeFriday

• And lastly add it to the links at the bottom of this post. (Note, if you don't want to tweet it or don't have a blog, I invite you to post your story in the comments section.

So here it goes :

Rush


It was 6.15 Friday evening. I tapped the fingers of my right hand restlessly on the dashboard of my Dodge as I crawled agonisingly slowly through the rush hour traffic.


After a hard week’s graft it was time for some rest and relaxation. I was on my way to visit Gwendoline. Gwendoline’s a hooker. But, as I always tell myself, commerce doesn’t preclude friendship. I may be a hard-boiled reporter. A reporter of the sleazest and most cynical kind - a gossip columnist. But the feelings I have for Gwendoline are something approximating a schoolboy crush.

With her rosy cheeks, flaxen hair and infectious grin, Gwendoline more closely resembles a wholesome country milkmaid, than the stereotypical lady of the night. I’m sure our early evening assignations each Friday night are as rewarding for her as for me, and not just in a financial sense. We fuck, but we also have a chance to kick back and relax in pleasant company. For me it is the calm after the storm, for her the calm before the weekend rush of clients.


Eventually the slow moving tributary of automobiles carried me to her door. I jumped out and ran up the stairs to her second storey flat. I pressed the buzzer.


As always, when I see her smiling face it gives me a rush.


“How’s my favourite sleazehound tonight?” she asked with a wink and a flash of the pearly whites. “Come on in. I was just playing L.A. Rush on my Playstation. When you pressed the buzzer you made me crash, you naughty man."


“Whose the football player?” I asked, seeing a new photograph on her dresser.


“That’s my brother,” she replied, “He lives in Rush City, Minnesota.”


Gwendoline was wearing a long t-shirt that reached to about six inches above her knees. It was bright orange and decorated with the poster design for the movie Endless Summer.


“How’s life treating you?” I asked as I stripped off.


“Much better now that I’m over that bad case of thrush,” she  replied. “I’ll put on some music.”


Gwendoline is a prog rock fan. Sometimes we make love to Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here, sometimes King Crimson’s In the Court of the Crimson King, or, if I’m really in the money and can afford a longer session, all four sides of Tales of Topographic Oceans by Yes. This night she put on Grace Under Pressure by Rush.


“So, business good for you?” she asked, pulling her t-shirt up so that I could see, first, the gold-bedecked pinkness of her pussy lips, then the fleshy swell of her belly with its exquisite little button, and her softly hanging breasts with their rosy nipples standing up stiffly in anticipation of what was to come.


“Lousy,” I sighed. “What a dirty business I’m in. Hoping that people will do shameful things, and that I can catch them at it. All for the entertainment of shits who can’t mind their own business.”


“Well,” she said softly, sitting down on the bed next to me and slowly stroking my semi-erect prick like it was a beloved pet, “You know what Oscar Wilde said, ‘We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.’”


“I’m afraid I’m only looking at the gutter,” I told her. “It’s my job. I’d love to be looking at the stars, but the job of writing the Daily Horoscope was taken.”


“I’m not sure a self-pitying sod like you deserves to have his cock sucked,” she teased.


“I’m looking at the stars, now,” I assured her. “When you smile like that I see the stars in your eyes.”


“That’s better,” she said, leaning down to take my cock in her mouth. As she slid her soft wet lips up and down my length and teased the head with her tongue, I became rock hard. Then she released me and stood up.

“You know what i like best about reporters?” she teased, turning her bottom towards me and wiggling it enticingly.


“What’s that?” I asked.


“You’re always so good at getting to the bottom of things,” she laughed, bending down, spreading her cheeks and winking at me with her cute pink little bottomhole.


Gwendoline loved to be fucked in the ass. It stimulated her in a deeper way than vaginal sex, and it also allowed her to masturbate herself while she was being fucked, thus doubling the sensation and leading to orgasms that made her shiver uncontrollably like a nude eskimo at the North Pole.


“Don’t rush me, you insolent little ‘ho,” I reprimanded her with a forceful smack to her delectible derriere.


“Oh, God, I wish there was time for you to spank me properly,” she bemoaned. “It seems like forever since I’ve felt the sting of my hair brush. But, we really don’t have as much time as usual. I forgot to tell you that I have an important client at eight.”


“An important client?” I said, feeling hurt.


“O.K. Another important client. Nowhere near as much fun as you, but one who pays well for special services,” she explained.


“Special services?” I queried.


“I can’t go into it,” she responded. “Client confidentiality. Now lets get that big boy of yours lubed up.”


Soon I was sliding my rigid member deep into the tight embrace of her bowels and feeling her soft warm bum cheeks slap against my thighs.


“You feel so good right up inside me like that,” she sighed, as she began fingering herself. I looked down over her shoulder, loving the intimacy of being able to watch her pleasure herself as she did when she was on her own. I kissed her on the side of her neck and gently pinched her nipples.


It wasn’t long before she began to quake and moan. When that happened I let go and felt the jism rush up through my cock and explode deep within the clinging walls of her back passage.


We had a quick shower together to wash off the cum and perspiration, and then it was nearly eight.


“Ah, well. All good things must pass,” I smiled resignedly. “Same time next week?”


“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she replied.


And so I walked out into the corridor.


The bulky figure waiting there was not unknown to me. When I saw his face I knew that fortune had once more smiled upon me. For it was the round face of a well-known arch-conservative radio commentator.


“Hello,” I said, giving him my warmest smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here, Rush!”