Pressed Together : Wank Wednesday

Today's Wank Wednesday prompt word is #echo. Today's Wank Wednesday prompt word is #echo.

For more information on this writing challenge, and to find links to the other stories visit Word Ejaculation.

Pressed Together

Did you ever see that film His Girl Friday? Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell. Very funny. All about a newspaper reporter who teams up with his ex-wife to break a big story? It's all a scheme to break up her new relationship and get her back for himself. I used to love that movie. Not anymore. Now it has bad associations for me.

I've been a reporter on the Daily Echo for twelve years now. My name is Charles Foster. For the first of those two years, Roberta Sullivan was my assistant. For the next five years, she was my assistant and my wife. We were a great team, until she discovered that, when I came home much later than she did, it was because I was putting more than just the paper to bed. Our divorce was a messy one. It was in all the papers, except the Echo.

Then, a month ago, three events occurred. They had no causal connection, but they were pre-requisites for an exquisite form of torture inflicted on me by what I can only term fate.

Roberta divorced for the second time. Intolerable Cruelty was the reason she gave in court. This comedy, starring George Clooney and Catherine Zeta-Jones, was her husband Charles Blanding's favourite movie. And he insisted on watching it at least once a week.

"If it had been The Big Lebowski or Fargo or pretty much any other Coen Brothers movie, I could have put up with it," she declared in court. After the jury were shown the film they voted unanimously in her favour.

For the four years when she'd been married to Blandings, film critic for the Senior Citizen's Gazette, Roberta had been happy to stay at home and work on her novel about a woman who spent two years working as the assistant to a reporter, fell in love with him, married him, continued to work with him for a number of years, and then caught him cheating on her.

The second thing which occurred was that Roberta received her 347th rejection slip. Reluctantly, she decided that she would have to return to work.

Since there were only two major newspapers in our town, the Echo and the Tribune, Roberta sought employment at the Tribune. The editor told her that he would normally have jumped at the chance to employ such a highly regarded research assistant, but, unfortunately, the combined influence of the financial crisis and competition from the internet mean that the paper would be folding in three days.

That was the third event. And it led to Roberta applying for her old job back at the Echo. Since I was the only reporter who didn't have his own research assistant, the editor assigned her to work with me once more. I tried to dissuade him, but, ever since that incident when I accidentally illustrated a story about a dirty old man who was exposing himself to young women in the park with a photo of prominent real estate developer Francis Fosdike, he has, perhaps understandably, been of the opinion that any favours are owed by me to him and not the other way around.

Let me tell you a little bit about Roberta. She is quite possibly the most infuriating woman on the face of the planet. This would not be the case if she didn't have her charms. In fact, what makes her so infuriating is that she is so desirable. A treasure you cannot surrender and yet with a price far too high to pay. That is Roberta in a nutshell.

Physically, she is still truly luscious. She's tipping forty now, but with her long red hair, pale skin with freckles, her large breasts (which just seem to get more enticing the further I know they must now hang down when she takes her bra off), her broad womanly hips and that round bottom which has a life of its own as it jiggles beneath her loose skirt and whatever conservative panties she is wearing.

Ah, conservative. There's the rub. When we were married and working together she was so beautiful and so sweetly affectionate, loving nothing more than kissing and cuddling, even in the office. But she was conservative. I won't say she was a prude. She liked sex as much as the next woman, as long as it was in the dark, under the bed covers. But I hardly ever saw her naked. I very much wanted to. Sometimes I'd walk in on her when she was in the shower, but that would put me in the shit with her for the rest of the day. And I definitely couldn't watch porn when she was around. What do you do when the light of your life cramps your style?

Now I could see that I was going to get the worst of both worlds. I wasn't going to get any nookie from her, but she would no doubt be as generous as ever with criticism of my imperfections.

"Neither of us want this," she said to me on the first day, "but let's not try to cut our noses off to spite our faces. I don't want to make it easy for you, I'll admit that. And I'm sure that you don't want to make it easy for me. But don't make it harder for yourself just so it will be harder for me."

"Oh, don't worry," I leered. "There are many women I'll make it harder for, and you are not one of them."

"Very funny," she replied sarcastically. "But it will take more than dick jokes to get under my skin. I'm not the shrinking violet I once was."

"We'll see," I mumbled.

The story I was working on was a big one involving political corruption of the worst kind. There were rumours that Mayor McLean was working hand in glove with mob boss Tony Margheriti, going light on law and order in return for drugs and prostitutes for the entertainment of important campaign supporters. To discover the truth we would have to go undercover in places where Margheriti hung out.

One of the places where he hung out, in more ways than one, was Dolphin Cove Nudist Beach.

For a while it seemed like everything might be going my way and this situation may not be so bad after all. There were two things which would give me great pleasure. One was to see my ex-wife's luscious nude body after all these years. The other was to totally humiliate her.

I would just tell her that we were going to Margheriti's favourite beach. I wouldn't tell her it was a nudist beach. In fact, I would act as if it were a surprise to me too. She would be horrified, but, her dedication to her job, not to mention financial desperation, would win out. She would have to strip completely naked. And I'd make her walk around that way in front of loads of strange men, all the time squirming with embarrassment inside and seething with anger at what I was doing to her. I was practically rubbing my hands with glee. And the idea made me so horny I had to nip quickly into the loo for a quick wank. It wouldn't do for me to get over-excited. I would have to keep at least a little of my mind on the job.

"You didn't tell me this was a nude beach," Roberta pointed out when we arrived. "This isn't my idea of going undercover."

"I'm as surprised as you," I declared. "One doesn't normally associate gangsters with nudism."

I quickly undressed.

"If you didn't know," Roberta asked, "then why didn't you bring any bathers?"

"That just goes to show how forgetful I can be when I'm chasing a big story," I pointed out. "It's a good thing I have such a perspicacious assistant. Now take all of your clothes off. We can't let your prudishness get in the way of our task."

"When was I prudish?" she asked, as she kicked off her shoes, unzipped the back of her white summer dress and let it drop to the sand. I wasn't wrong, she looked as good as she ever had in the few times she'd worn a bikini during our marriage. Then she unhooked her bra and let it drop. When I saw her full pale breasts with their nipples like strawberry-flavoured lollies dangle free, swaying loosely above her slightly rounded belly, I just wanted to grab them and bury my face in them and suck on those nipples. "Are you sure you are allowed to walk around like that?" she asked, looking down at my now rampant erection.

"Ah, this could be a problem," I conceded, as I watch her pull down her panties to bare her tangle of fiery pubes, which failed to entirely hide the pink slit of her tantalising cunt. She turned away from me and bent down to pick up her clothes. The sight almost caused me to cum on the spot. Her bum was a masterpiece and the way it was stretched before me like that filled my head with thoughts of fucking her in her pink puckered little asshole, something I'd never done before.

Girls Out West

"Oh, dear," she cried when she turned back around. And then she burst into hysterical laughter as she pointed at my stiff cock. "Did I do that?" she asked. "I didn't know you still cared."

This wasn't quite working out the way I'd hoped it would.

"Perhaps it would be a good idea if I keep a low profile," I suggested, trying to rescue some shred of dignity. "I'll observe from behind a palm tree. And take notes."

"O.K." she replied, trying to keep a straight face. "So can you see Margheriti?"

"Yes," I told her. "He's the tanned muscular gentleman wearing the fedora and smoking the cigar."

"Oh, he's cute!" she exclaimed, and trotted off across the sand towards his umbrella.

I hung back behind a large tree until I lost my hard-on and then followed the tree line down towards Margheriti's umbrella. Once there I again observed the situation from behind a tree.

"Ask that ravishing redhead if she would like to have a drink with me," he instructed one of his minions.

When Roberta was led over, Margheriti stood up to raise his hat to her. I swear his fat bronzed cock hung about half way to his knees.

"You have such lovely pale skin," he told her. "You mustn't allow yourself to get burned. I can see that you are not used to visiting nude beaches."

"No, I'm not," she admitted. "To tell you the truth, I'm a little embarrassed." And she was blushing, but whether from her exposure or the fact that she was having a hard job dragging her eyes away from the gangster's massive schlong, was a matter for conjecture.

"Protection is one of my specialties," he informed her. "Let me fortify you with 15+." And with that he picked up a bottle of sunscreen, squirted some in his hand, indicated for her to turn away from him, and began to rub it into her back.

She was certainly doing a good job of ingratiating herself with the man. As I watched, he continued to smear sunscreen over her body, moving progressively to more intimate regions. Damn, why hadn't I thought about the whole sunscreen issue. It could have been me fondling her big soft slippery breasts. My boner returned with a vengeance as I watched the gangster slide his hands all over her big bum.

"Hey, that's the place the sun doesn't shine!" she cried as he slid a big slippery finger all the way to the third knuckle up her tight pink arsehole.

She didn't complain though when he began fingering her hot hairy pussy.

"Cheeky boy," she said with a wink.

Could this be the same woman to whom I'd been married for so long? Surely it wasn't boring Blandings who had loosened her up?

The situation was serious though. At this rate, that lascivious Italian might rape her at any moment. He was a powerful muscular man and I wasn't sure she would have the strength or courage to fight back.

"You're not allowed to do that kind of thing in public!" I cried, bursting suddenly out of the underbrush.

The authorities were summoned. And I was arrested. After all, I was the one with an erection.

***

"That was very unprofessional of you," Roberta scolded me, after delivering my bail. "Threatening to report a gangster to the authorities is not the way to get close to him."

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," I reassured her. "I'm sure he won't recognise me with my clothes on. And he doesn't know that you and I are connected, so your... errr... good work has not been wasted."

"What's next on our list of his hang-outs to visit?" she wanted to know.

"I think I'll take care of this one on my own," I informed her. "There is a good chance I'll be able to strike up a conversation with him."

"Where is it?" she insisted.

"His strip club - The Punctured Pussy," I replied with a casually manufactured air of indifference.

"Yeah, I bet you want to go there alone," she sneered.

"Well, it makes sense. I'm less likely to draw attention to myself," I replied.

She grumbled, but I ended up walking into the neon-studded club alone. The music thumped out a primal beat as girls with too much silicone and too much tan swung around the poles.

I saw Margheriti sitting over in a corner with a blonde on either side. I took a booth right next to him in hopes that I could overhear his conversation if any of his men joined him. But the loud music made it impossible to hear anything.

"And tonight's a very special night," announced the M.C. "It's amateur night! We have a great selection of lovelies for you tonight, all of them showing their pussies off in public for the very first time. And the prize money I have to admit is not that substantial and you know what that means! It means they're performing for you tonight because it get's them wet!"

"Bunch of sluts!" I said to myself, turning around to get a better view of the stage.

"Put your hands together for Xenobia!" cried the M.C.

"Hey, she's a bit of alright!" I exclaimed, as a busty woman wearing a turban, a harlequin mask and a Chinese blue silk dress with a slit up the side strutted out onto the stage.

"Take it off! Take it off!" I yelled lustily.

She unzipped her dress as she swayed to the music, and then pealed it off. Underneath she wore a black bra and matching panties. She was much sexier than the professional strippers with her pale skin and fleshy form. I decided to postpone my attempts at surveillance and go down and get a closer look.

She turned her back and teased us by pulling her panties halfway down to reveal a few inches of buttcrack and then pulling them back up again. Then she unclipped her bra and threw it away, turning back to face the audience with her hands clasped coyly over her big soft freckly breasts.

"Shake those ta-tas!" I cried, as she threw wide her arms and let her luscious naked breasts swing free.

She when quickly unwound her turban to reveal her long red hair and pulled off her mask to reveal that she was, as you have no doubt guessed, my ex-wife Roberta.

"What do you think you are doing?" I cried, but there was no way she could hear me over the pounding beat of the music.

In desperation I pulled out a $20 note and waved it in her direction. She sauntered over to me with a shit-eating grin on her face and squatted down to let me shove the money down her panties.

"What's the idea?" I asked.

"You don't think I'd trust you to be able to do the job alone, do you?" she asked. "Anyway, that nude beach experience gave me quite a taste for being perved at." Then she stood back up and began gyrating around the stage once more.

"God, she's gorgeous," sighed a spotty youth sitting beside me. "I love older women."

"Don't judge the book by the cover," I grumbled.

I told myself that her attitude was just bravado. She just didn't want me to know how humiliated this whole scenario made her feel. But, as a clinical observer of factual evidence, I had to admit that the dampness of the crotch of her panties argued persuasively against this conclusion. And when she pulled them down and threw them into the audience, squatting down and spreading her legs so that we could all see the pink swollen lips of her pussy (which was now clean-shaven), the creamy liquid dribbling from it down her thigh was pretty much the clincher. My ex-wife was a dirty bitch, and it was too late for me to enjoy the fact.

Roberta didn't win the competition, but, as she wandered around the club in her bra and panties, the spotty youth approached her and asked for a lap dance.

"I don't actually work here," she pointed out.

"That's O.K.," he replied. "I'll give you $200."

Roberta looked over at Margheriti. He was deep in conversation with a tall blonde man. And then she looked at me sitting in the booth next to them, once more trying to hear their conversation. I looked at her, she looked at me. And the longer she looked at me the more her eyes narrowed and her lips set in a hard line.

"Sure, why not," she told the youth as she looked me steadily in the eye and allowed her lips to curl up into a cruel smile.

We were supposed to be working undercover to collect information, not giving lap-dances. This was insubordination from someone who was supposed to be working under me. I had to decide which was more important, the surveillance or keeping my assistant in line. I wasn't making much headway with the surveillance I had to admit. And, if I allowed Roberta to get the feeling that she didn't have to answer to me it could sabotage all future efforts. I had to get into the lap dancing lounge and observe Roberta's flagrantly unprofessional behaviour with my own eyes so that I could reprimand her about it later.

"How much for a lap-dance?" I asked a slim Asian girl named Lily as she walked past dressed in bra and g-string.

"Fifty dollars for ten minutes," she replied with an insincere smile.

By the time I'd paid my money and she'd led me by the hand out into the shadowy room full of padded armchairs and couches, Roberta was already completely naked and smothering the guy's face with her big soft breasts.

"You know that there is no touching, don't you?" asked Lily as she sat me down in a chair and planted her soft bottom on my knee.

"Yes, yes," I said absently as I watched Roberta bend over and spread her arse cheeks for her customer.

It didn't take long for Roberta to spot me there in the semi-darkness.

"Why don't you feel my tits," she said to the young man. "You know you want to."

"But that isn't allowed, is it?" he asked nervously.

"I don't work here, remember," she responded. "What are they going to do, fire me? Feel me up to your heart's content."

I felt like telling Margheriti about this flagrant flouting of the rules of his club, but I realised that that would tend to undermine our investigation.

"Feel how wet my cunt is?" purred Roberta as the walking advert for pimple cream blatantly wanked her off. Then she looked over at me and poked out her tongue.

Two can play at this game, I thought to myself. And so I roughly grabbed Lily's breasts.

Crack! The sound of Lily's palm coming into violent contact with my face echoed around the lap dance lounge. But she wasn't as violent as the two gorillas who roughed me up and hurled me out onto the street.

Half an hour later, Roberta exited the club, dressed once more in her silk dress.

"That was fun," she smiled, then, noticing my black eye, "I bet that smarts."

"You've got something running down your chin," I pointed out.

"Whoops!" she giggled, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"You sucked that pimply guy off, didn't you?" I accused.

"No... Well, yes I did... But it isn't his cum," she informed me.

"Then whose?" I wanted to know.

"Margheriti's," she said. "He recognised me and asked if I was stalking him. The only way to keep him from suspecting I'm a reporter was to say that I was stalking him because, after seeing his huge cock, all I could think about was sliding it right to the back of my throat and tickling his beautiful balls with my tongue until he flooded me with his hot creamy jism."

"You really are becoming an expert at deception," I admitted begrudgingly.

"And the best part is that he was so impressed with my oral abilities that he has invited me to an orgy next Saturday night at his mansion," she beamed proudly.

***

Now it was my turn to not trust Roberta. I was desperate to get to that orgy too. And, after a bit of thought I came up with the perfect way of getting an invite. I would disguise myself as... a reporter. It's the old "hide in plain sight" strategy. Margheriti would want nothing to do with a reporter from the Daily Echo, but if the non-existent Mobster's Monthly wanted to do a profile on him his ego would not allow him to refuse.

His mansion was enormous and it was filled with a multitude of beautiful men and women in various states of undress. It occurred to me that Roberta and I could both spend the evening wandering through this libidinous labyrinth without ever crossing paths.

"You have some hot chicks here," I commented to Margheriti, after we had concluded the interview.

"Ah, yes," he smiled. "But none like the suck monkey."

"The suck monkey?" I asked, in bewilderment.

"That is what we have nicknamed her," he replied. "She loves sucking cock. And she loves the idea of anonymous sex. She was disappointed when I said we had no glory holes. A Margheriti does not drill holes in the walls of his mansion. But she has taken up residence in my bedroom with the light off. Any man who enters the room will get his cock thoroughly sucked and his cum thirstily guzzled by the suck monkey."

Finding Roberta could wait. There was no way I was going to pass up a bit of suck monkey action. I ran up the stairs and into the master bedroom. A female figure was standing in the shadows. I said nothing. She said nothing. I threw off my clothes, lay down on the bed and waited.

Soon I felt the mattress sink as she sat beside me. Her soft hand tenderly stroked my cock to stiffness. And then I felt the caress of her hot breath on my rigid rod before it slid slowly into the warm wetness of her mouth.

She sucked my cock with all the uninhibited enthusiasm of a piglet sucking it's mother's teat. I could see why they called her the suck monkey, there was something gloriously subhuman about the way she surrendered herself to the sexual act.

Soon I was quivering and quaking and spurting my creamy load into her magnificent mouth.

"If my ex-wife had been able to suck cock like that I never would have cheated on her," I declared.

"Charles! What the hell are you doing here?" asked the suck monkey, sounding amazingly like Roberta.

Well, to cut a three column story down to a two column one, Roberta wrote the article without me and the editor was so impressed that now she is the head reporter and I'm her assistant. She even refers to me as "her boy Friday."

But I will get my revenge. I can see it now. We'll be doing an article on the bondage sub-culture. I'll trick her into letting me handcuff her to the bed. Then I'll strip her naked. She won't want to let me pleasure her body. She won't want to let me suck on her stiff nipples. She won't want me to flick my tongue over her oh-so-sensitive clit. She won't want these things because she will be humiliated by how they cause her to lose all control. She will beg me not to violate her vagina with my pulsating prick. But I won't be fooled. I'll know that is what she really wants, just like Brer Rabbit wanted to be thrown in the briar patch. So, instead, I'll jack off and squirt my cum all over her face. And then I'll laugh as I smear it all over her cheeks and her lips and her nose as she fumes in livid rage. It's going to be awesome.

But then reality intrudes.

"It doesn't take an hour to take a shit. I know what you are doing in there and it isn't appropriate in work time. Come out immediately and get back to the filing..."

The End

Romance Language : Wank Wednesday

In the beginning was the Word, and the word was #word.  That's right, today's Wank Wednesday prompt word is, in fact, #word. It comes from Ruby Kiddell at The Erotic Notebook. Go there to find out more about this writing challenge and to find links to other participant's stories.

Romance Language : Wank Wednesday

You may know her as Celeste Harrington, author of Rodeo Romeo, Infidelity in Istanbul and Passion in Paraguay. I know that her real name is Ida Scraggs and she's lived all of her forty-two years in Melbourne. She's my ex-wife.

We lived together for twelve years. We were good together too, but when she caught me with another woman it ended. I didn't blame her. Everyone has to chose what they want in life, and what she wanted was no longer me.

I moved to the U.S. and started up a men's magazine. That was ten years ago. It wasn't the right time for it. The internet had already eaten up most of the wank mag business. So I went bust. Ended up scraping a meagre existence writing porn paperbacks for Viscount Press. They'd been around since the fifties. Now they were releasing their range in ebooks as well as print so they were managing to stay afloat. There wasn't much money in it, but it paid for my burgers and beer.

Then my dad died and left me $5,000. I was homesick for Melbourne, so I decided to use the money to return there and look for a place to live. I could write smut anywhere. It might as well be somewhere I could get a decent beer.

At first I was hesitant about contacting Celeste. But she wasn't one to hold a grudge. It wasn't anything personal anymore. I'm sure she had someone new and my misdeeds of the past would be the least of her concerns. And she was the only person I could think of who might put me up while I looked for a flat.

I emailed her. She was happy to catch up. I was right and wrong about her having someone new. She'd had plenty of guys, but at the moment she was on her own.

She met me at the airport. To me it didn't seem like she had changed at all. She was wearing a light floral summer dress. Her brown hair was kind of a mess, pulled back behind her head but with strands hanging down the sides. I suppose there was a tinge of grey to it now, and maybe deeper laugh lines around her eyes, but I still wouldn't have kicked her out of bed for farting even after all these years.

"God," she said. "You look terrible. You obviously haven't been eating properly."

"You wouldn't know a real man if you tripped over him," I replied. "You live in romance land, populated by blokes in whose ripped muscular bodies beat hearts as soft as poofters."

"I don't know how a lady of my refinement ever ended up marrying such a Neanderthal," she scowled.

"I bet you haven't had a decent root since I left," I smiled.

"I never found out what a decent one was until I dumped you," she responded.

"So seriously, how is the old romance lark?" I asked her once we had got to her house and stowed my luggage in the guest bedroom.

"I'm doing well enough," she told me. "It's hard work though. No matter how good the writing is, you really need the quantity to make a living at it. What about you? What are you up to these days?"

"Thinking about getting into a new line of work," I admitted. "I've been writing porno novels. There's very little money in it. And hardly anyone is buying the stuff I write. The readers are just so jaded and only the kinkiest and sickest books sell. Nobody wants good clean wholesome smut anymore. I mean look at some of the other titles that Viscount are publishing," I said, calling up a list on the computer. "Tamed by the Torturer, Incest and Peppermints, Loving Lassie..."

"'Loving Lassie'?" she queried. "That sounds like a Scottish period romance."

I showed her the cover.

"Oh..." she said, looking a little pale.

"There must be something else I can write," I sighed.

One thing I'd always loved about Celeste was her cooking. That evening she made lasagne.

As she was preparing the ingredients, with an red and white checkered apron over her dress, I came up behind her and began fondling her buttocks. They were incredibly soft, but still shapely.

"Why don't I sleep in your bed tonight," I suggested. "We could both do with a bit of a clean out of the old pipes."

"You've really lost none of your debonair charm, have you?" she laughed, pushing my hands away.

I wasn't able to persuade her, so that night I slept in the guest bedroom.

"Why don't you try writing romance?" she asked the next morning at breakfast. She was sitting there drinking her coffee in a baggy pink tracksuit which had seen better days.

"You really think I could write that kind of stuff?" I queried.

"Well, it ends up with sex scenes," she pointed out. "You just have to be more subtle and long-winded about how you get there. More time describing the sea and the sky and less time describing the body parts."

"I've never thought of myself as a romantic," I pointed out.

"It's not up to you to supply the romance," she explained. "That's for the reader. You only have to learn to provide a framework for them to hang their dreams on."

So I decided to give it a go. Celeste agreed that I could stay on for a bit while she attempted to show me the ropes.

"How's this?" I asked later that day, showing her what I had written :

The sheikh swept her up in his arms beneath the desert moon. He made her his own with a passionate kiss on the lips, much as he might brand one of his camels with a hot iron. Her tender heart twitched liked a newborn rabbit, as he bore her to his tent. As the wind whipped the sand into eddies around their fragile shelter, he lay her down upon a pile of silken cushions and, with great relish, unwrapped the sweet delights of her soft form. Then he proudly threw off his robes, grasped his jizz-filled fuck stick in his hand and shoved it up her twat. 


"It's starts well," Celeste conceded. "But, you see, it's all a matter of the words you use. What's happening is just the same. It's all about fucking, but you have to make it sound like it is something different from what you see the animals doing at the zoo."

Half an hour later I showed her something new :

There in the woods, with the glittering gowns and whirling waltzes of the Grand Ball still swirling in our heads, we embraced with a heated passion that burned like the furnaces in the dark satanic mills. We transported each other to a rare etherial realm where fairy folk serenaded us on the pan pipes as we lost our raiments and our inhibitions. Our love was like a mighty wave that reached a foaming crescendo as my body melded to hers. And, then, when our ecstasy could reach no higher peak I bathed her visage in the excess of my adoration.

"What does that last bit even fucking mean?" asked Celeste.

"I came in her face," I said.

"Maybe I'm wrong," she sighed, shaking her head. "Maybe you really don't have it in you."

"Don't you ever want the real thing?" I asked.

"What do you mean?" she wanted to know.

"Well, you write about people making passionate love in glamorous places, but here you sit in a suburban home in Melbourne in a pair of trackie dacks that would give Casanova a soft-on," I explained.

"Sure, I'd love to sip champagne in Paris in a Yves St. Laurent dress while an Archduke kisses my hand," she admitted. "But it just isn't going to happen."

"But that isn't what romance is really all about," I told her. "It isn't about places or clothes or even good looks. It's about how you can make a person feel. Smile in the right way, open your heart to the one in your arms, show them that you treasure them for all that they are, and you can make them feel like a million dollars. You used to be able to do that to me. The last few years I've felt like a piece of shit, because that is all anyone took me for. But when I saw you there at the airport, I remembered that with you it was different."

"But I wasn't enough for you, was I?" she asked.

"No, you weren't," I admitted. "And I'm sure I wasn't enough for you. But romance is not about sufficiency, it's about electricity. And you can't keep lightning in a bottle."

"If you're a genius at anything," she said, "it's making excuses. But you're right. Having you around has put a spark back in my life too. I can laugh with you. And I can be myself. That counts for a lot, and I don't intend to take it for granted."

"He enveloped her in his manly arms," I began, fitting actions to words. "And pressed the hardness of his lips against the softness of hers."

Her mouth opened and I felt her tongue slide into my own.

"You're tracksuit may be of the finest silk, milady," I told her, "but it is no match for the silkiness of your pure white skin."

I unzipped her tracksuit top and pulled it off of her shoulders. Then I crouched in front of her and yanked  down the bottoms. She was wearing a sensible support bra and white cottontails.

"I, also, will divest myself of my vestments," I declared. "If we are bound for paradise then let us be clad as Adam and Eve before us."

I tore my t-shirt over my head, pulled off my shoes and socks, unzipped my jeans and pulled them down. I stood in just my underpants.

"My love for sweet Celeste grows inside my codpiece like a mighty oak," I soliloquized.

"You might be overselling it a bit there," she told me.

"Romantic hyperbole, my dear," I assured her. "Nothing more."

Then I slid off my last garment and twisted my hips so that my stiff cock swung proudly before her.

"I must feast my eyes upon my fair lady's bosom," I declared, "and upon the juicy cunt that soaketh through her panties."

"It's not exactly 'You had me at hello'," she laughed. "But I'll give you points for trying."

I unclipped her bra and set her soft pale boobs free to swing above her belly. Then I pulled down her panties and slapped her playfully on the bum.

"Let us away to the fuck chamber!" I cried, picking her up in my arms and carrying her to her bed.

I pulled her tight in my arms, her legs wrapped around my waist and my cock slid happily home into her warm wet pussy.

"You're my home, you know that, don't you?" I told her. "In your arms, and in your pussy, is the only place in this whole crazy fucked-up world where anything makes any sense."

"I know," she said, "I can tell. And I'd rather be here with you than with some hunky cowboy in Texas or some oil sheik in Bahrain."

And so, as the sun sank slowly over the western suburbs of Melbourne, glinting off of the chrome bumpers of half-dismantelled Holden cars in many a back yard, and as the blow-flys floated over the piles of canine excrement set like jewels in the green cloak of the kikuyu grass, Celeste and I drifted off into an erotic wonderland of pussy-twitching and jism-spurting exultation, and all was right with the world.

The End

Unbridalled (sic) : Wank Wednesday

At Aussiescribbler's, and at many another fine blog around the blogosphere, every Wednesday is Wank Wednesday. Today the prompt word is #bell. (You'll be glad to hear that I've resisted the temptation to write an erotic version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame.) For more about Wank Wednesday, and to find everyone else's contributions, check out Ruby Kiddell's The Erotic Notebook :

Unbridalled (sic)

"'Therefore, send not to know / For whom the bell tolls, / It tolls for thee' as John Donne once said," declared Teresa soberly.

"I remember him," said Cara. "He was the bartender down at the Tropicana Lounge."

"He was a poet," explained Teresa, shaking her head.

"I never knew that," Cara replied. "But he made a mean Cowboy Cocksucker."

"John Donne was a British poet from about four hundred years ago," pointed out an exasperated Teresa.

"But he was talking about death," added Fiona, "not wedding bells."

"Same difference," put in Brenda, lighting a cigar.

"I never thought that Alice would find a man," said Teresa. "Many men, yes, one in particular, never in a million years."

"Not just any man could make an honest woman of Alice," Fiona added. "It had to be a man with lots of money."

"A dishonest woman, you mean," Brenda corrected her. "Pretending that she only has eyes for her husband and doesn't actually want to be gang-banged by every hot guy in sight ; wearing designer dresses when she'd rather be rocking a boob tube and some super-tight Daisy Dukes ; staying home every night watching TV and bringing her hubby beers from the fridge instead of being out on the town with the Slut Pack fucking random guys in club toilets and waking up the next morning in the gutter covered in her own puke. That doesn't sound like honesty to me."

"That's the problem with the idea of marrying a rich guy like Manfred," explained Teresa. "It would give you the money you need to do anything you want, only you wouldn't be allowed to. It's a veritable Catch-22, as Joseph Heller would have said."

"I know," exclaimed Cara, "he was a famous baseball player, right?"

"American novelist," sighed Teresa. "One of the best."

Alice was off at a fitting for her wedding dress, and the rest of the famous Slut Pack were taking advantage of her absence to discuss how they really felt about her upcoming nuptials.

"You know the definition of a man?" asked Brenda, knocking the ash off of her cigar and taking a swig from her bottle of Jim Beam.

"I don't know," Fiona played along. "What is the definition of a man?"

"A life-support system for a cock," Brenda guffawed. She lifted the hem of her mini-dress to reveal she was wearing no panties. Then she scratched her labia as she took another swig of bourbon.

"A bit of cheese on the old taco?" queried Cara.

"No way," declared Brenda. "My cunt is in perfect health, but it is just itching to get fucked."

They all laughed.

And they laughed even harder when Fiona let out a loud fart. It was hard to believe such a loud sound could come out of someone so small. Fiona was only 3 1/2 feet tall. Her friends knew her affectionately as Mini-Fi. And she was given to flatulence.

"Are we going to allow Alice to split up the Slut Pack?" asked Brenda, tapping more cigar ash into the ashtray that she had now positioned between her massive breasts.

"What can we do about it?" asked Cara, whose blonde hair, according to scientists, had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that she was as thick as two short planks.

"Manfred's parents place a lot of importance on appearances," pointed out Fiona. "As Alice's bridesmaids, we are central to the decorum, or lack thereof, at the wedding."

"Are you suggesting sabotage?" asked Brenda, eagerly.

"We have to stop this marriage 'by any means necessary' - as Malcolm X put it," enthused Teresa.

"I remember Malcolm's ex," piped up Cara. "She was a super-bitch from Hell. I'm not surprised he dumped her."

*          *          *

"They weren't kidding about you being the best man!" exclaimed Fiona, as she unzipped the fly of Manfred's best friend Brad's formal trousers, only to be slapped in the face by his massive erection. She tenderly stroked his balls as she licked up and down the underside of his shaft.

"I've never been sucked off by a midget before," Brad told her.

"Little person," she corrected him.

"Oh, sorry," he said, tenderly stroking her hair as she slid her lips over the bell end of his cock.

"For a little person, you sure have a deep throat," he groaned.

Little did he know that as this was taking place, Brenda was behind him casually slipping her hand into his pants' pocket and stealing the wedding ring.

Fiona removed her mouth from Brad's cock.

"You probably want to shoot your load all over my pretty face," she explained, "but the wedding starts in just a few minutes so I can't have you messing up my make-up. I'll just have to keep you safe inside my mouth where I can suck out all your yummy jism and swallow it all down so that no-one will be any the wiser."

She smeared her ruby red lipstick all down the length of his already saliva-coated cock and tickled his balls with her gloved hands until he exploded a thick hot river of cum down her throat.

"Never has doing one's duty by a friend been so much fun," giggled Fiona, reapplying her lipstick as she approached Brenda. "Did you get the ring?"

"I sure did," smiled Brenda. "And I've found the perfect place to hide it."

"Where's that?" Fiona wanted to know.

"In my ring," laughed Brenda, lifting her dress and bending over. She was wearing no panties, and, as she pulled apart the cheeks of her sizeable arse, the diamond could be seen winking ostentatiously from her sphincter.

"Perfect," smiled Fiona. "Well, can't hang about here gabbing. There's another cock to be sucked."

*           *           *

"I had my doubts about this girl," Manfred's father Mr. Mann said to his wife as they sat in the front pew of the ornately decorated Catholic church, "but I am now beginning to understand that she was just a diamond in the rough. She can be our kind of people."

"Of course she can," replied his wife Eugenia. "All we have to make sure of is that nobody finds out about her past."

"Well, we all have one of those, don't we?" he reassured her. "Money can cover up a multitude of sins."

"Ah, here comes Father Dominic," Eugenia pointed out. "I've always thought he looked too sexy to be a priest. It seems such a waste. Is it naughty to think like that?"

"Where's the other bridesmaid?" asked Mr. Mann.

"You mean the Munchkin?" Eugenia wanted to know. "She's probably just standing behind someone. It's so easy to lose sight of her."

At that moment, their driver ran down the side aisle of the church with something hidden beneath his coat.

"I found this out on the lawn," he explained in an anxious tone, discreetly showing them Fiona's bridesmaid's dress. "Her panties and brassiere as well."

"My god!" exclaimed Eugenia. "There's a nude midget on the loose! I hope she's not in the church."

Mr. Mann did the best he could to hide the evidence beneath their pew.

Father Dominic was now standing behind the altar. He was preparing himself to begin the ceremony, when he felt a breeze up the back of his cassock. He was no longer alone under there. Someone small and nude was pulling down his y-fronts.

"Manfred, do you take Alice to be your wife?" he asked, a little nervously. "Do you promise to be true to her...oh, that feels so good... in good times and in bad... bad girl... , in sickness and in health, to love her... oh, Jeez, suck my balls!... and honour her... gobble my knob, you slut... all the days of your life? Oh, fuck that's good!"

"I know Alice has always been keen to help out the disabled," said a family friend of the Mann's, "but hiring a  priest with Tourette syndrome is going a bit far."

"What the hell's going on!" Mr. Mann wanted to know.

Once she had succeeded in depriving the spunky young priest of his virginity, Fiona let him finish the vows in peace.

"Now for the exchanging of rings," he said.

"Whoops!" cried Maid of Honour Teresa. "It's stuck on my finger!" She wiggled the middle finger of her right hand, which was, indeed, decorated with a man's gold wedding band. "It's stuck on my wanking finger! Does anyone have any lube?"

"Fuck!" cried Brad. "I can't find the ring! It was in my pocket!"

"Has anyone seen the bride's ring?" asked Father Dominic.

"Practically very guy on the East coast!" cried Cara.

"I see something down there!" exclaimed Brenda, bending down to look at something imaginary on the floor and simultaneously lifting her gown to bare her buttocks to the assembly.

"Oh, my God!" cried a male voice from the crowd. "The ring's in her ass!"

Federico, the videographer, zoomed in for a close-up.

"Has anyone seen my gown?" cried Fiona, running out from behind the altar, naked as the day she was born. "Oh, there it is."

She ran over to a bright red Mr. Mann and pulled her dress out from under his pew.

"Why are you hiding my clothes, you naughty man?" she scolded him, leaping up into his lap and kissing him on the lips. "If you wanted to fuck me, all you had to do was ask!"

Federico was getting it all on camera.

"Turn that camera off!" cried Eugenia. "The wedding's off and you're fired!"

"None of this is my doing," he pointed out in his own defence. "You hired me to record the event and that's what I'm doing."

"If you think you are going to get paid for putting this schmozzle on film you've got another thing coming," she told him.

"YouTube, here I come," he smiled.

"O.K., O.K.," she relented. "We'll pay."

"Come on, let's get to the reception before Mr. and Mrs. Mann get there to lock the gate!" cried Brenda, grabbing the arm of the bewildered Alice.

"You've completely fucked up my wedding!" she cried, as Brenda dragged her out of the church.

"You would have been miserable with those snobs," Brenda pointed out.

"Manfred's not like his parents," Alice told her.

"But you would have had to live by their rules to get their money," said Brenda. "And, while Manfred is super-cute and can fuck me any day of the week, do you really think you would have been satisfied with only one guy?"

"Mmmmmm, maybe not," she conceded. "But you still deserve to have your bottoms spanked, the lot of you."

"I tell you what," Brenda told her. "As soon as all this is over, you and Manfred can take turns spanking my bottom until it is red as a beetroot. And then Manfred can fuck it with his big stiff knob."

"How do you know he has a big knob?" Alice wanted to know.

"You think we don't take a peak at your emails?" Brenda asked.

"Quick, give me a piggy-back!" cried Fiona, leaping onto Brenda's back. She had her dress back on, but the buttons weren't done up. "They're after us!"

Teresa, who was a fan of the movie The Graduate, had stolen the crucifix off of the wall and she used it to bar the doors to the church, allowing the re-unified Slut Pack to get a head start on the rest of the congregation. They all hopped into one of the limousines, and Alice drove them to the Mann's mansion where a lavish reception had been laid on.

"It's cake farting time!" cried Brenda, lifting her dress and sitting her nude arse down into the sumptuous wedding cake. She ground it all around, and then stood up, bent down, spread her cheeks and broke wind. Cream, frosting, and a diamond wedding ring, sprayed from her butthole.

Alice, giving way to the euphoria which follows release from an anxiety-provoking situation, was next. She pulled off her lacy knickers, planted her delectable bare ass deep into the cake, and blew a rip-snorting rectal raspberry.

"You chicks are real pigs!" cried Brad, who, along with Manfred, had almost beaten them back to the party.

"I'm so sorry about all of this," Alice told Manfred. "I do love you. But the girl's are right. I could never live the kind of lifestyle your parent's would expect of me."

"Don't worry," he assured her. "I love you for who you are. And if who you are is a girl who likes farting in wedding cakes, so be it. After today my parents will probably disown me. But if I can't make my own way in the world then I'm not a real Mann, am I?"

"So what are you guys going to do to the cake?" asked Cara.

"I'm going to fuck it!" cried Brad, dropping his pants to reveal his prodigious nine inches in a state of rock hard erectness. He ran at the cake and shoved his stiff prick deep into the frosting.

"What made you stiff?" asked a cheeky Alice.

"Thinking about your cake-filled cunt," he confessed, as he slid his cock in and out of the confectionary.

"That's my would-be bride's cunt you are talking about!" cried Manfred in mock disapproval.

"You were that close to getting exclusive right's to my cunt," Alice pointed out, holding her finger's close together. "But you missed out. So if Brad wants to eat wedding cake out of it, he is welcome to."

It was too good an invitation for Brad to turn down.

When Manfred's parents arrived they found : Brad licking frosting clumps out of Alice's vagina ; Manfred fucking Brenda in the ass ; Teresa and Fiona both stark naked and engaged in an act of lesbian lust involving Fiona sucking on Teresa's clit while Teresa used the groom from the top of the wedding cake as a dildo in Fiona's pussy ; and Cara had her dress up and was squatting down on the table pissing into the punch bowl.

"We'll have to lock them up in the cellar and take away their mobiles," Teresa pointed out. "We don't want them cancelling the honeymoon before we even arrive."

"The honeymoon?" asked Alice.

"Well, there's a hotel room with a super large bed booked for the next week," Teresa explained. "We might as well use it. You go in as normal and then the rest of us will sneak our way in."

"Does that include me?" asked Brad.

"Of course it does," Teresa replied. "We all want to make things up to Manfred by being very nice to his cock. But one cock isn't enough for five women. Well, four and a half anyway."

"You watch it!" cried Fiona, biting her on the bum.

*          *          *

"Rudeness, crudeness, and, above all, nudeness, shall be the order of the day," declared Alice, once they had all snuck into the bridal suite.

"Strip for us!" cried Manfred and Brad in unison.

The girls all did slow elaborate strip routines out of their now rather soiled dresses. The guy's remained dressed, but unzipped their pants and pulled out their stiff cocks. The girl's kissed their cocks and gave them lap dances as they slowly lost their lingerie. Finally, the guys were so turned on that they wanked off and spurted cum all over their formal attire and had to remove it. Now everyone was naked and feeling very frisky.

It would take a while for the guys to get stiff again, so the girl's had to resort to pleasuring each other while the guys watched.

Since Alice was the girl of the moment, they lay her down on the bed and licked her all over. Cara and Teresa sucked on a stiff nipple each, Fiona was between her legs licking out her pussy, and Brenda was on the floor sucking on her toes. When she really started to moan and writhe around, they flipped her over. Fiona was still underneath her sucking on her clit, and now Brenda crawled up behind her, spread her bum cheeks and started licking her butthole. It wasn't long before she squirted all over Fiona's face.

All the girl's had a turn having their pussy licked, and the boys helped out too. They're tongues were up to the task of pussy-pleasing, even if their cocks were still at half-mast.

"Dwarf-tossing competition!" cried Brenda, when it was time for Fiona to get her pussy licked.

"Do I have a beard?" asked an exasperated Fiona. "Do I work in a diamond mine? Do I sing 'Hi Ho Hi Ho Hi Ho'?"

But Brenda just picked her up and threw her across to Manfred who began fucking her pussy with his tongue.

"Oooooo! Me! Me!" cried Cara. "Throw her to me!"

Manfred threw her in Cara's direction, but unfortunately he didn't know his own strength and she sailed straight out through the open window. A moment later there was the sound of a loud splash from far below.

"Whoops!" cried Manfred.

The phone rang and Brad answered it.

"There's a nude midget in the swimming pool," the desk clerk informed him. "Does she belong to your party?"

*           *          *

Half an hour later, Alice and Manfred were fucking on the bed as the others all watched and provided commentary. Fiona was sulking in the corner. She'd towelled off, but her hair was still damp.

"Nice cock, you dirty bastard," cried Brenda. "Now tease her stiff clitty with the pre-cum-slippery head of that beautiful boner."

"Cute butt!" exclaimed Cara, slapping Manfred's arse playfully.

"Fuck her! I did!" cried Brad, who had been hitting the room's mini-bar a little too heavily.

"And so the wedding that never was has been consummated!" yelled Teresa.

"That stuff looks a bit too thick to be consumé," quipped Brenda, grabbing a miniature bottle of vodka in one hand and Brad's stiff cock in the other.

"Let's have a masturbation contest," suggested Teresa.

"How does that work?" asked Brad.

"We all wank off and whoever can have the most orgasms wins," she explained.

"We guys will be at a bit of a disadvantage," put in Manfred. "Especially me."

"It's a contest for we girls," said Cara. "But if you guys feel like wanking your wieners while you watch, that is not against the rules."

"Close that window first," said Fiona, climbing up onto the bed and spreading her legs. She was the champion when it came to wanking contests, so she was beginning to forgive her friends for their previous behaviour towards her.

The girls all lay in a row along the bed, each with her legs thrown over the legs of the girls on either side. And then they all started fingering themselves. Some also played with their nipples. After about fifteen minutes Fiona began screaming with her first orgasm. The others followed. Soon the room was ringing to a veritable cacophony of cums. Wet cunts were puddling the bedspread, and the two guys were rock hard and stroking themselves in appreciation of what they were witnessing.

As expected Fiona was the winner, although Teresa got a special mention for squirting so hard at one stage that she showered cunt juice all over the guy's cocks fully a metre away.

"I'm hungry," declared Brenda. "Let's call for room service."

They ordered enough food to feed an army. And a short time later there was a knock on the door.

"Come in," cried Alice.

Nobody bothered to cover up as the waiter wheeled in the trolley full of food.

"He's cute," Fiona pointed out, pulling down his trousers. "Let's keep him."

*          *          *

"It was a case of mass demonic possession," Father Dominic told the Bishop. "I think we need to cleanse the church."

His explanation was accepted that time. But a year later, when the Bishop discovered that he had drilled a glory hole in his confessional and was asking for a very unusual form of penance from some of his lady parishioners, he was forced to retire and take up a position in the porn industry.

The End

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Pin : Fuck Me Friday

Fuck Me Friday 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 : #Pin 

• 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. 

Pin

Hypochondria is a complex problem at the best of times, but especially so when the sufferer is a member of the medical profession.

Montague Periwinkle was a successful Harley Street physician, but his practice took a serious toll on his emotional wellbeing as he had a tendency to become persuaded that he suffered from the same conditions he found in his patients. A large portion of the fees he collected were spent on consultations with his fellow practitioners. This could often be quite embarrassing, especially on the occasion when he believed himself to be suffering from an infection of the ovaries.

If he had lived in our day he could have simply chilled out on a self-proscribed dosage of Valium. But our story takes place in 1926.

One of his colleagues suggested that he take up a quiet practice far from the stress of the big city and Montague agreed. So when he was offered a position as private physician to the family of Francis Stryker, owner of a Haitian sugar plantation, he accepted. He would have only six patients to attend to so the number of imaginary illnesses to which he might fall victim would be limited, and the time spent lazing on the tropical beaches would ease his hypertension and resulting angina. He was pretty sure that he did actually suffer from angina as his attacks of chest pains were a regular occurrence which seemed to have no correlation with the treatment of patients with heart problems.

His wife Gertrude was rather less enthusiastic about the move as Haiti was, as she put it, "full of darkies."

"We won't have to mix with them socially," he assured her, "and I hear that they make very good servants if beaten regularly."

However, once he actually arrived on the island, he found that he came to share his wife's distrust of its dark-skinned inhabitants. Their warm smiles and unfailing friendliness could only be a sign of sinister intent, he told himself.

And when, on the morning of his third Wednesday on the island, he returned from a walk on the beach to find a crudely made palm fibre doll laying on his bed with a pin stuck in its chest, his suspicions were confirmed. He clutched at his own chest, the angina burning like a red hot spike through his heart.

Even leaving aside the unscientific nature of such a belief, there was a logical inconsistency in the idea that the voodoo doll was the cause of the pain in his chest. He'd been suffering from angina for a full year before his arrival in Haiti. But logic had never been much of a defence against Montague's psychosomatic ailments.

"You'd better go see Mama Loa," Stryker advised. "Of course it is all just superstitious nonsense, but if one of my servants has a grudge against you you want to find out who it is, and only Mama Loa has the connections to find that out."

"Who's Mama Loa?" asked Montague.

"She's the local Voodoo Queen," Stryker explained. "Toby will take you to her."

A full moon shone in the tropical night as he followed the gaunt old black man through the cane fields to the small shed in which Mama Loa saw her constituents.

He wasn't prepared for what he saw when he arrived at the clearing in front of Mama Loa's shed. There she stood, her wild raven hair piled up like storm clouds around a face of breathtaking beauty. A raging fire burned behind her dark eyes and in her sinewy limbs and proud stance Montague could tell that she embodied the wild majesty of the untamed island in a way which made her position as Queen something inevitable. She was dressed only in two strips of cloth, one tied across her swelling bosom, the other acting as a make-shift skirt, tied above one coffee-coloured hip and hanging down halfway to her knee on the other.

"What brings you to me?" she asked, her eyes searing into his soul.

"I... that is... Stryker... He said you could help me," he stuttered.

"In what way?" she wanted to know.

"I found this in my room," Montague told her, holding up the doll.

"Poor workmanship," she commented, taking the doll from him, "but sufficient to do the job for which it was intended."

"Do you know who might have... put it there?" he asked.

"Someone who wants power over you," she informed him.

"You couldn't give me a name?" he queried.

"What I can do is to make you invulnerable to this kind of spell," she told him. "If you trust me enough to put yourself into my hands."

He didn't feel he had any choice.

So it was that he found himself lying on his back, arms and legs stretched out on the ground, while three drummers, huge muscular men stripped to the waist, beat out a savage rhythm that seemed to invade his very being, causing his heart to race and his mind to spin as if in the grip of some powerful drug. He couldn't have moved if he wanted to. He felt like a butterfly mounted on a display board, a pin stuck through its thorax.

And out into the moon-bathed clearing came Mama Loa, now completely naked, dancing like a thing possessed, sweat pouring down her body as she shook and twitched like a convict in the electric chair, her breasts swinging, her pelvis thrusting, her buttocks gyrating wildly. Montague had never witnessed anything so insane, so intoxicating, so cock-stiffening.

The next thing he knew, she was on top of him, her slippery wet breasts slapping his face, the musky smell of her armpits intoxicating him, her hair-covered pubic bone rubbing insistently against the swollen length of his engorged member. She reached for something behind his head and then he saw the light of the moon reflected in the blade of a massive knife which she lifted high above his face.

When the knife came down it was to cut away his shirt. Mama Loa seemed possessed of inhuman strength. Flash, flash went the knife and his bare flesh was exposed to the light of the moon. She undid his belt and pulled it off, and then began cutting away his trousers.

His cock throbbed with the same electricity that shook her naked body, the head slippery with pre-cum slipping out from inside his shorts. She threw away the knife and tore his remaining garment down over his legs. He was naked.

She continued to dance, but now it was with a quiet intensity that she twisted her body like a limbo dancer, deliberately swaying back and forth over his body, never touching but sometimes as close as a millimetre from his aching cock. It was unbearably tantalising. How he longed for her touch. How, even more, he longed to plant his prick deep inside her warm body steaming with sweat. All he could feel were the drops of perspiration that fell from her dark flesh and splashed like a soothing rain on the burning skin of his cock, running down its length and dripping over his balls.

Then her face was between his thighs, her pink tongue was running wetly up the underside of his prick as he strained his neck to look directly into her hypnotic eyes. And she swallowed it, her lips pulling back, her pearly white teeth glistening in the moonlight, making his heart thunder as, for a moment, I feared he would be a victim of cannibalism. But he had nothing to worry about. The wet furnace of her mouth made tender love to his stiffness as her hands massaged the flesh of his thighs.

His ears numb from the thunder of drums, Montague watched as Mama Loa surrendered his cock and stood over him once more, swaying and slapping her thighs. Then she spread her legs and squatted over his belly letting him see the creamy juices that poured from the pink pussy that was framed by the darkness of her thighs, labia and pubes. He felt her pussy juice drip onto his belly as she brought her firm sweaty buttocks down onto his stomach. She wiped up some of her essence on her slim fingers and pushed them forcefully between his lips. He tasted her and it was good.

She teased him by dragging her buttocks down over his thighs so that his stiff cock was forced to push deep between the cheeks of her ass, rubbing against her tightly puckered anus, before being released to slap forcefully against his stomach. Then she grabbed it in her hand, lifted herself and then slid her wet cunt down decisively over his lusting cock.

Up until now he had felt paralysed by Mama Loa's divinity, but now he knew she wanted him to respond. He grabbed her slippery wet butt cheeks and thrust his thighs up to meet her. Her eyes were rolling up in her head and his were riveted to her bouncing brown breasts and the droplets of sweat that flew off her stiff nipples.

She quivered to an orgasm that climaxed her dance like the crescendo of a symphony. And Montague felt a fountain of boiling jism rocket up from his balls and explode into the cunt of the Voodoo Queen.

It was at that very moment that Gertrude's rolling pin came down with a sickening crack on Montague's head.

"I leave you alone for a couple of hours," she screamed, "and what do I find. I find you copulating with a jungle bunny!" And then she marched off in a huff.

"If you like," said Mama Loa to Montague, "I could turn her into a zombie."

"A zombie?" queried Montague, rubbing his concussed bonce.

"She'd still have the lower brain functions required to cook, clean and give you a blow job,"she explained, "but without the upper brain function necessary for complaining, criticising or gossiping."

"I'll think about it," said Montague, snuggling up to the sexy Voodoo Queen. She smiled and kissed him on the top of his head. He notice that his heart felt kind of strange, but it didn't hurt any more. The warm excited feeling which possessed it was decidedly pleasant.

"Do you want me to put the doll back in its box?" asked one of the muscular drummers.

"It was you!" exclaimed Montague.

"We all have our fetishes," explained Mama Loa. "When you live on an island with a 95% black population and your fetish is for nervous white guys sometimes you have to resort to special weapons and tactics."

The End