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

You Ought to See Her Box : Wank Wednesday

Wank Wednesday rolls around again and this time the prompt word is #box. For more info on Wank Wednesday check out Ruby Kiddell's Erotic Notebook. You'll find links to all the stories there. And don't forget to let the writers know if you liked their story.

I owe the title of my story to the classic rude novelty song of the same name by Faye Richmonde.

You Ought to See Her Box

Clara Bow

"I'm going to gut her grandparents!" growled Greta looking straight into the eye of the television camera. "When I've finished with her, Brandy will not only wish she'd never been born, she'll wish she'd never been conceived."

"So this time it's personal?" queried the commentator with great seriousness.

"It's been personal since our first fight," Greta replied. "There's a certain level of respect that's expected towards one's opponent in this sport, and making rabbit ears behind my head while the press are snapping photos is simply against the code."

"Some are saying that your transition from Flyweight to Light Bantamweight has left you feeling cocky," the commentator informed her.

"I'm heavier than I was," she replied. "It's all muscle. That means I can do more damage. And, believe me, I intend to."

The interview was over. Greta acknowledge the applause and met me back stage.

"Gut her grandparents?" I queried.

"A little too Tysonesque, you think," she smiled cheekily.

Greta's been boxing professionally for four years. I've been a trainer for fifteen. I used to train male boxers, but Greta's been getting my full attention since she hit the big time last year.

I can't say my motives for working exclusively with Greta are professional. She's no "million dollar baby". But money isn't everything.

My life changed on May 17 last year. I was all padded up and Greta was slamming her gloved fists into my chest and belly. The slap of leather on leather echoed around the empty gym. It was past midnight.

Perhaps I should explain that I've always had a thing for athletic women. Something about firm muscles and sweat. I'd fancied Greta since I first met her, but so far our relationship had been professional.

Then she landed that killer right hook to my head. I had the helmet on, but it still knocked me off my feet. I fell hard onto the canvass. It had been a long night, and I didn't feel like getting up right away. I looked up through bleary eyes to see Greta counting me out.

"And Greta wins the Flyweight Championship of the World!" she cried gleefully.

"That's enough for tonight," I panted.

"I'm too much for you, aren't I?" she crowed.

Clara Bow

"Right now you are," I agreed.

"All the time I am," she teased, pulling off her gloves. And then, to my surprise, she turned around, pulled down her shorts and panties and waved her bare bum at me. The glaring lights of the gym reflected off of the rivulets of sweat that ran down over her pale but muscular buttocks.

"What do you think you're doing!?!" I cried.

"Don't worry," she replied. "Tomorrow I'll be back to being the good little fighter, but right now I'm sick of all that discipline and taking orders. And now that you are down on the canvas, like one of my loser bitch opponents, you can kiss my ass, coach!"

With that she squatted down and rubbed her sweaty butt-cheeks against my face. They were clammy with the cooling perspiration.

She didn't know what she did to me. This wasn't an attempt at seduction, but playful humiliation, but it was too much for me. I grabbed her hips and pulled her down over my face, thrusting my tongue deep into her hairy warm snatch.

"Fuck! You dirty dog!" she exclaimed, surprised but not displeased by this turn of events. "Suck my sweaty cunt! I deserve it after such a hard workout. And it looks like that isn't the only thing that's hard!"

Soon my shorts were down and my raging hard-on was sliding in and out of Greta's warm wet mouth.

It was a frenzied exchange between two individuals whose inhibitions had disappeared with the late hour, leaking away in the sweat of strenuous exercise.

"Ahhhhhhhhh," I moaned as my cum coated Greta's attentive tongue. And then her thighs twitched in a shivering orgasm of her own. After that we lay on the canvas for about an hour, talking tenderly, sometimes laughing, sometimes gently teasing each others satiated erogenous zones. Then we showered and went to our separate homes.

From that time onwards our training sessions took on a sexual tone. Greta would do her exercises - jumping rope, stretching, etc. - naked, while I watched and jacked off. This always made her laugh. And Greta could always earn sexual forfeits from me by performing well against me in the ring.

Busty Ellen

*          *          *

"I want you to throw the match," I told Greta on the evening before she was to take on her arch enemy Brandy.

"No way!" she insisted. "How can you even suggest such a thing!"

"You don't want to stay in this business too long," I explained to her. "You don't want to end up with brain damage and cauliflower ears."

"But what about my integrity?" she insisted. "What about my loyalty to my fans?"

"Your fans!?!" I exclaimed. "Why should you feel any loyalty to them? To them you're just a piece of meat. They don't care if you bleed. Boxing's a mug's game, unless you pull a scam and get out early. And losing this match could make you a lot of money. The odds are heavily in your favour."

"How can I let Brandy win?" she wanted to know.

"You'll be the winner. You'll  have the cash," I pointed out.

She wasn't easy to convince. I had to organise a movie marathon at her place - The Harder They Come with Humphrey Bogart, Raging Bull, Tyson and, finally, Million Dollar Baby. That was the deciding factor.

"I don't want to die for my sport," she mused, "even if it does lead to an Oscar-winning movie."

*          *          *

"In the red corner, weighing in at 114.3 pounds, we have Brandy Alexander! And in the blue corner, weighing in at 115.1 pounds we have Greta Good, the reigning champion!" the announcer yelled into his microphone.

"I want a good clean fight. No punching below the belt. No taking a dive for the quick cash before you end up a punch drunk has-been living on the streets," insisted the referee.

When the bell went off, Greta and Brandy leapt out and then began to dance forward and back looking to get in an opening blow. I'd told Greta to put up a good fight until the third round and then go down.

Brandy dove in close, her arm swinging out, her fist smacking hard into Greta's temple. Greta staggered back. The bell for the round went. She returned to her corner and I handed her her water bottle.

"Get in some blows," I told her, "but make sure they aren't too hard."

Greta really made her presence felt in the second round, but I could tell she was holding herself back. She could have beaten Brandy by now.

I sponged the sweat off of her face and sent her in for the decisive round.

And then it happened. Greta swung at Brandy and Brandy went down hard.

"I never even hit her!" Greta cried to me.

"Shut up!" I yelled. "Everyone can hear you."

"Did I do good?" Brandy was asking her couch, as the referee continued to count her out.

"Shut up!" yelled Brandy's coach. "Everyone can hear you."

"And the winner is Greta Good!" announced the referee.

Clara Bow

*          *          *

"The mob's not going to take kindly to this," I explained to Greta, when we got back to her changing room.

"There was nothing I could do," she insisted.

"I know. I know," I assured her. "But we are going to have to find some place to hide out."

"For the time being you can hide out at our gym," suggested Brandy, whom we turned to discover listening in the doorway. "They'll never look for you there."

"Why should you help us, you cunt?" asked Greta.

"I'm gonna need to hide, too," she pointed out, "once I get my money."

"My money you mean!" yelled Greta.

"We can sort that out later," Brandy insisted. "But at the moment it is obvious to everybody that the fight was fixed and we were all involved. So, if we hang around here, we won't be alive to spend the money."

*          *          *

"My coach did a runner with the money," explained Brandy when we arrived at the gym where she trained.

"I'm going to kick you in the cunt, you fuckin' bitch!" screamed Greta, making a dive for her.

"Now! Now! No fighting," I insisted, throwing myself between them.

"Get out of the way!" shrieked Greta. "I'm going to gargle with her gizzards! And I'm going to do it right now!"

I was facing Brandy, holding my arms out to protect her from the banshee that was Greta.

The next thing I knew my pants and underpants where around my ankles and Brandy was laughing at my exposed cock and balls.

"Fuck it!" I declared. "You two deserve each other." And so I stepped aside, taking care not to over-balance with my pants around my ankles.

They may have been pretending in the ring, but they weren't now. They went at each other like mad dogs, fangs bared, tearing at each other's clothing until they stood scratched and bleeding and stark naked. And then things changed.

It happened in an instant. Their mouths came together in a passionate kiss. Their hands began forcefully fondling each other's naked buttocks and each began rubbing her pussy against the other's thigh.

"That's better," I told them, slipping out of my own clothes. "You two make up and be friends." I came up close and began running my hands over their sweaty bodies as my cock stiffened and insinuated itself between their bellies.

"Who said you could join in?" asked Greta, pulling her lips away from Brandy's. Then she turned to her and added, "He's such a perv. He even jacks off while I do my workouts."

"What a dirty old man," Brandy replied, running her fingers up and down my stiff cock.

"I'm not that old," I pointed out.

"Certainly not old enough to know better," huffed Greta.

"O.K.," I said, putting on my referee's voice, "I want a good dirty lezzyfest. I want plenty of licking below the belt. A plethora of pussy gouging. And may the biggest slut win."

I wanked off as I watched them writhing away on the mat on the floor for a full hour, licking and fingering each other's pussies, and having multiple orgasms, before, finally, Brandy lost consciousness.

"And the winner is Greta!" I cried, holding her arm aloft with one hand and using the other to point my cock and cover her with a celebratory coating of jism.

The End

Boxing Gloves by Jason Glasser

Just Go With It

Last night I went to the pictures, as I usually do on a Saturday night, and saw a double feature of The Green Hornet and Just Go With It. The Green Hornet was the better of the two films, but Just Go With It was the inspiration for this post, because the little girl in it is an acting student who talks about the rules of improvisation, and the whole movie is about characters improvising within a made-up framework. So lets forget that it is a typically predictable Adam Sandler comedy (although based loosely on the classic play Cactus Flower.) SPOILER ALERT : He ends up turning down the hot blonde for Jennifer Aniston (pretty hot herself) in the end. (Is it too much to ask that one of these Hollywood romantic comedies go for something different and have all of the characters deciding to live together in a polyamorous relationship?) Still, it has plenty of genuine laughs, two hot chicks in bikinis and a guy picking up a coconut with his butt cheeks. So it's not all bad. The important thing is that it provides a peg on which to hang a post about how the rules of theatrical improvisation can be a huge help to the creative writer.

Super hot Brookyn Decker (although Jennifer Aniston also looked hot in a bikini)

The key rule of theatrical improvisation explained by the little girl in the film is that you have to accept anything which another person says. You mustn't block the improvisation by saying something like "That's not true" or "It wasn't like that." You have to just go with it. Of course this leads to ridiculous situations in the film, for instance when a character is asked what he does for a living. He starts off by saying that he ships sheep, and then, when asked for more details he comes up with a convoluted story about how he sells sheep over the internet with purchasers choosing the one they want from photographs. And everybody has to accept it and play along, which becomes embarrassing when he says that Jennifer Anniston's character bought a sheep from him because of some kink that involved shaving it.

I've had an interest in the theory of theatrical improvisation ever since the late eighties when a friend of mine took part in Theatre Sports while studying acting. We had a team and I was the coach. This was really just a way of getting a bit of the glory without getting out on the stage. I did agree to fill in for a missing team member on a particularly important night - perhaps it was a final. I was shitting myself back stage, but, luckily, someone turned up to take my place. I read the book which inspired Theatre Sports - Impro : Improvisation and the Theatre by Keith Johnstone - to help me with the coaching. I'm sure they would have done fine without my help, but what I read in that book would pay off for me many years later.

Theatre Sports, in Adelaide, hit its peak while my friend was competing. The grand final packed out a 1,200 seat theatre, making it the biggest Theatre Sports audience in the Southern Hemisphere (at least up until that time). At that point Geoffrey Rush was the host. He would run out onto the stage wearing a helmet and make jokes about the flipping of the coin to begin the competition being "the first public toss of the evening" and he'd throw lollies out into the audience to keep the level of hysteria high. It was all down hill from there. Now he's starring in Pirates of the Caribbean movies.

Geoffrey Rush as smut-writing legend - The Marquis de Sade

Keith Johnstone's book should be read by all writers. Ostensibly it is a guide for actors wanting to learn to improvise on stage, but it also contains penetrating insights on topics ranging from education to obscenity to the psychology of repression. And, most importantly for writers, it explains in simple terms exactly how to go about making up a story and creating interesting dialogue. It contains scores of mental exercises for setting free the imagination. It is the ultimate cure for writer's block. And all of the principles I learned from it I started to put into practice when I began writing erotic stories.

Me writing erotic stories

One thing I learned is that anything that enters my brain could end up being the seed for a story. It's all a case of opening one's mind to the potential which exists in every tiny event or overheard comment.

I could be shopping at the supermarket, and an ugly old lady in front of me complains about the price of cucumbers. So I might think to myself, "What if she was a hot young woman who wanted the cucumber to masturbate with. She's too stingy to buy one at such a high price, so she has no choice but to go home and use the pretext of borrowing a cup of salad dressing to seduce her hot neighbour and satisfy her pussy with his meat-based cucumber substitute." Instant erotic story.

Lisa from Girls Out West discovers that cucumbers are good for more than one thing. They are also edible.

There are two big obstacles to creativity - self-criticism and self-censorship.

I've often said that the one thing which enables me to be imaginative in my writing is that I write trash. If I were to try to write a serious detective novel, I would, I'm sure, be hampered by self-criticism. I would want each aspect of my story to be scrupulously well-researched and believable. But because I write deliberately ludicrous smut, I'm practically free from this problem. No idea is too ridiculous, no gag too belaboured and if I've borrowed most of the plot from a movie I watched on television last night, that's O.K., it's a parody. I think that maybe even serious writers can benefit by convincing themselves that quality doesn't matter. If Shakespeare had known that students would be studying his work in 2011 he probably would have suffered terminal writer's block.

We may have many reasons for implementing self-censorship. An idea may be too crazy, too obscene, too kinky or too personal in what it reveals about us. But the best way to develop one's creativity is to allow all ideas to be expressed. This doesn't mean that all ideas need to be used in the final product. But if your mind gets used to being listened to it will keep feeding you the ideas.

No self-censorship here and I like her choice of  canvas

Let's say you have a character who is marooned on a desert island. There is no one else there and this is an erotic story which requires some sexual activity. At first you think you are stuck. But then you come up with the idea of having your Robinson Crusoe do the dirty with a dolphin. This gets you out of your bind, but, if you publish it as an ebook you will probably get banned for life from Amazon. So, having avoided writer's block by refusing to censor the perversity of your imagination, you now need to revise. Easy, you make the dolphin a mermaid and it is now Amazon-friendly. The important thing is that you didn't get stuck. (Though your character might have. I'm not sure how big dolphin's vaginas are.)

Perhaps the most important thing to remember about improvisation is that you can't find out where a path leads unless you go down it. And this is why it is important not to be too fussy about our ideas. A pretty mediocre idea, if allowed to develop in the mind, can lead to a great one. You'll never know if you reject it as mediocre. And, since writing is a private business, you have nothing to lose by giving ideas the benefit of the doubt. You don't have to show anyone the writing that you don't think works.

Sometimes it is the lateral thinking you have to do when you feel you've painted yourself into a corner which leads to the most effective plot ideas. I can't think of a good dramatic example from my own work, so I'll use an example from the career of Stephen King instead.

I don't actually know Stephen King. And I've only read one of his novels. So I'm going to engage in a bit of speculation here. All authors are alike, so imagining my way into Stephen King's thought processes shouldn't be too hard.

Always a master of horror, with Gerald's Game King decided that he was going to try his hand at writing an erotic novel. It begins well with the heroine handcuffed to a bed by her horny husband. "Wow!" thinks King, "this kinky sex play is seriously boner-popping stuff. A guy could get so excited by this that he'd have a heart attack. Hey, why not, that'll be a dramatic plot twist. The reader's won't see that coming." The only problem is that, having killed off Gerald, and with his wife still cuffed to the bed in a deserted wilderness area, there wasn't much opportunity for erotic activity. With her hands cuffed she couldn't even masturbate. He could have had a big muscly woodsman just happen by, but that would be cheating. It was only the first few pages of what was to be his great erotic novel, and Stephen King had painted himself into a corner. What to do? And then inspiration struck. A change of genre. Make it a horror story about a woman slowly starving to death and trying to free herself with acts of self-mutilation while reminiscing about having been molested as a child. He could even have her visited at night by a mysterious serial killer.

And so it was that a change of direction arising from a need to get out of the corner he painted himself into in the first few pages became the great idea which made his novel a success. Of course it was just another horror novel, and not the steamy lust epic he'd been planning, but he could always attempt that on another day.

And this example is itself an example of the same thing. I decided to write about how a creative leap when you get stuck can lead to some of the best ideas, and I wanted an example. I couldn't think of a good one from my own work, and, no matter how I wracked my brains, I couldn't come up with another off-the-cuff tale of cucumber or dolphin fucking. So I made a lateral leap and came up with an idea which will probably lead to me being sued by Stephen King for implying that, while an excellent writer of horror tales, he sucks at erotica.

Stephen King has never been one to let the grass grow over  him  when it comes to his choice of genres

One of the best ways of practising improvisation skills is to take part in the Twitterotica writing challenges - Wank Wednesday and Fuck Me Friday. In spirit these are very like the games that make up Theatre Sports. Also a lot of fun are multi-author stories. I've been involved in some of these in the past and intend to post some of my own contributions to them. And, who knows, maybe we can get something along those lines going here. Let's just go with it.

Blue : Fuck Me Friday

It’s another Fuck Me Friday. Here is how hostess Aisling Weaver describes it :

Welcome to another week of smut! Writing challenges can be found far and wide, and this one has just one goal – to inspire you to write!

We’ve been rolling around rather well here for a while, so I thought I’d mix it up a little.  Starting today, the prompts, while still being mostly random, are going to have some sort of tie between them for each month.  For instance, the rest of May will be colors, June will be sensations…essentially, the months will have a sort of theme to them.  This will allow those who enjoy working on a larger scale the option to do an overreaching arc of stories, if they like, while still offering up the differences that I’ve grown to enjoy in the offerings each week.

The result of all of this, I hope,  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, without further ado, let’s get this thing rolling!  To join in is as simply as this:

Write a story with the prompt as your title.  Today’s will be :

#Blue

Tweet it with both the prompt hashtag and the 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.

Blue

The answer came to Serena Moran out of the blue when she walked in on her flatmate Betty and found her sucking her boyfriend’s cock.

“Sorry,” she said, and was about to back out of the lounge room, where Betty was bending down stark naked with her pert pink bottom in the air and Matt’s stiff cock filling her mouth. Her fingers were between her thighs rubbing her slippery stiff clit.

“No need to apologise,” insisted Matt, with a cheeky smile and a twinkle in his eye, as he lay back with his muscular arms behind his head. “Come on in and watch if you like. You know you want to.”

“Yes,” agreed Betty, slipping Matt’s cock out of her mouth and stroking it sensuously with her right hand. “We wouldn’t be fucking in the lounge room if we didn’t like the idea of being watched. Doesn’t the sight of Matt’s burgeoning boner make you juicy in your panties?”

“Of course!” cried Serena.

“I thought so,” smiled Betty.

“No, not that,” Serena tried to explain. “I mean, yes, of course, seeing Matt like that gives me a happy little clit. But, more importantly, it gives me an idea about how to solve my cash flow problems and fund my next documentary.”

“How are you going to do that?” asked Betty impaling her pulsating pussy on Matt’s man meat, with a shivering moan which made her little belly jiggle.

“We’ll make a blue movie!” Serena announced triumphantly. “You and Matt wouldn’t mind being masturbation fodder for the masses, now would you?”

“Today the living room, tomorrow the world!” cried Betty, bouncing up and down joyously on Matt’s manhood.

Serena was a documentarian who specialised in films about artists. And there was something of the frustrated artist in her. Thus it was that she decided that her proposed porn directing career would take the form of a single conceptual artwork centred around the idea that her movies would be blue in more than one way. She would follow the porn cliche of parodying famous movies and television shows, but only ones which had something blue about them.


Of course she would have to begin modestly, as she had no money, but once her imagination was fired she imagined a glorious future which would lead up to her directing the world’s first 3D all CGI porn film. She would call it Pervitar for obvious reasons.

But for her first carnal creation she decided to go for something small but classic - a parody of Joseph Von Sternberg’s The Blue Angel. This would be cheap, but stylish, and would allow her to exploit Betty’s second talent - the fact that she could sing well enough to take part in Karaoke night at the local tavern. She might not sing as well as Marlene Dietrich, but, then, Marlene Dietrich couldn’t shoot ping pong balls out of her cunt.

It took a while to organise the costumes and a few props, but by the following Thursday evening Serena was bribing the night watchman at the local church hall to let them in for a midnight-to-dawn filming session. All they really needed was a stage and a dressing room and the hall had both.

“It’s kind of a depressing story,” pointed out a worried Betty, who had just watched the original film on DVD the night before.

“Don’t worry,” Serena assured her, “we won’t be sticking too closely to the Sternberg version. For a start, Matt’s not a pathetic fat middle-aged guy, and also we’re going to give the story a happy ending. We’re making a blue movie, but we don’t want to leave people feeling blue. Nobody wants to beat off to a movie that’s down-beat.”

“I don’t know the story,” pointed out Matt. “What’s my part?”

“You play the Professor,” Serena explained. “You’ve discovered that some of your students are fans of singer and live sex performer Lola, so you’ve come to the club to try to catch them out. But once you see Lola, you are lost. Cue a veritable Cabaret of copulation.”

“So this is my costume?” asked Matt, holding up an old-fashioned frock coat liberally coated with chalk dust.

“That’s right,” nodded Serena, “along with the baggy pants over there on the chair.”

Betty already had her costume on. She wore a pink silk top hat, a red bodice, pink high heels and purple stockings with suspenders attached to a suspender belt around her waist. The only difference between her costume and that of Marlene Dietrich is that she wasn’t wearing frilly white knickers. She wasn’t wearing any knickers at all.

“We’ll do your song first,” Serena explained. “You start with your leg up in the typical Dietrich pose, but as you sing you put your leg down and then spread your thighs apart so we can come in for a close up on your bare cunt.”

Betty looked at the lyric sheet once more.

“Are you sure about these lyrics?” she asked.


“O.K. So I’m no Bernie Taupin,” Serena responded defensively. “But you try fitting a feminist critique of porno movies to the tune of Falling in Love Again.”

“But they didn’t have porno movies back then,” Betty complained.

“Actually they did,” Serena pointed out. “But the lyrics are deliberately anachronistic. It’s an art movie thing. Think Ken Russell or Derek Jarman.”

“Think protentious twat, more like,” huffed Betty. She didn’t mind spreading her pussy lips for the camera, but she did have some dignity.

Serena plugged her I-Pod into the speaker system and the room filled with the sound of a lone pianist playing the melancholy song. Betty reluctantly began to sing the lyrics Serena had written :


Face full of cum again
It’s so de rigeur
Spunk all in my hair
Let’s change it


Porn’s always been the same
Laid the same old way
Every single day
Let’s change it


Men wack off to me like monkeys at the zoo
Let’s cast some hot guys, so girls can do it too


Arse full of cock again
Poking in my poo
When I need the loo
Let’s change it


Mouth full of meat again
I’m a vegan girl
Think I might just hurl
Let’s change it


Porn’s always been so lame
By the second take
All the cums are fake
Let’s change it


Men wack off to me like monkeys at the zoo
Let’s cast some hot guys, so girls can do it too.

“Cut!” cried Serena. “Perfect. Now on to the dressing room scene.”

Fifeen minutes later, Matt and Betty were in full swing acting out a scene they felt comfortable with.

“I came here as a teacher to save my students from the primrose path,” Matt declared in his best German accent. It wasn’t a good German accent, but it was his best. “But now it is I who am the student, and you, dearest Lola, are my teacher in the art of licentiosity.”

“I always wanted to be the teacher’s pet,” purred Betty, in a slow lazy voice which hung in the air like cigarette smoke. “Especially if he was into a little bestiality,” she added, stroking his stiff cock through the front of his trousers.

“What kind of pet do you want to be?” he asked, licentiously. “Shall I give my little puppy dog the bone? Or pamper my favourite pussy? Or maybe the beautiful little beaver wants a mouth full of wood.”

“Nobody has a pet beaver!” she scoffed. “Now before you get too excited, I want you to have a look at the new song I’ve been writing.” She handed him a lyric sheet.

“Not bad,” he replied reading it, “but how many times have I told you that clitoris is spelled with a C not a K?”

“We’re not in the class room now,” she sighed softly.

“Spelling is not just something which is important in the class room,” he pointed out. “The whole of our civilization depends on our ability to communicate and be understood. I think the only way to make you understand is to do to you what I do to the boys in my class when they don’t apply themselves to their lessons.”

With that he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her over his knee. Her bum was still bare.

“Don’t you dare spank me, you brute!” cried Betty, wriggling in just the right way to generate plenty of sexy bum wobble for Serena’s camera.

Matt began slapping her butt cheeks enthusiastically. She never let him spank her “in real life” so he was determined to make the most of the opportunity to turn her behind bright pink and feel the sexy heat of the injury he was inflicting radiated back from the silky skin to his sensitive palm.

Being spanked made Betty feel deeply humiliated. She loved it. When Matt tried to paddle her heinie at home she always told him to stop. She didn’t want him to think she was some kind of deviant. But now she was determined to soak up every sensation so she would be able to return to it later when masturbating.

Serena was glad she’d decided to use the tripod. That meant that she could point the camera with one hand and slide her other hand down inside her wet panties and play with herself.

The night watchman was glad he’d accepted the bribe and let these deviants in to make their art movie. These were the kind of people who wouldn’t object to the fact that he was standing in the wings with his cock out.

“I’m sorry, my love,” apologized Matt, gently stroking Betty’s sore bottom. “Can you forgive me for being such a schweinhund?”

“Only if you kiss it better,” she insisted, trying to maintain the smoky voice even though her clit was now quivering ecstatically like a tuning fork.

He stood her up and bent down to press his lips against her hot cheeks, raining down a shower of passionate kisses before parting them and beginning to lick his way down her crack towards the glistening wet lips of her pussy. She bent far forward and he stuck his tongue deep into her region of pleasure.

“Invade Poland! Invade Poland!” Betty cried. It was an improvisation, and one that Serena felt grossly cheapened the work of art she was going for. She was no Mel Brooks. But she was so caught up in her wanking that she couldn’t bring herself to yell, “Cut!”

Matt tore down his pants, pushed Betty over the couch and began slamming his cock hard into her sloppy pussy.

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” she cried, as Matt’s belly kept slapping against her spanked bottom.

“Do you want me to pull out for a money shot?” grunted Matt.

“No,” explained Serena, “this is feminist porn. No need for money shots.”

“I’ll give you a money shot!” cried the night watchman running in from the wings and shooting a huge stream of cum straight into the camera lense. At the same moment, Matt and Betty orgasmed loudly together and collapsed onto the sofa.

“I don’t know what we got there,” admitted Serena, scratching her head with pussy juice soaked fingers. “But I know it was unique.”

Half an hour later, they were wrapping up the film’s final scene.

“The Nazi’s are taking over,” said Betty. “Let’s go escape to a more egalitarian society.”

“Egalitarian?” queried Matt.

“Yes, a society were any woman, Jew or Gentile, can fuck her way to the top! Hollywood, here we come!” she cried.

“And... cut!” shouted Serena. “It’s a wrap.”

The film was a success. They set up a website from which they could sell it as an instant download, and soon it had a cult following as the worst porn movie ever made. Everyone wanted to see it.

“What’s next?” asked Betty.


“I was thinking of Blue Lagoon,” said Serena. “But we might have to work our way up to that. We haven’t got quite enough money for location work on a Pacific Island.”

“Might be some legal problems, too,” pointed out Matt. “Those kids were only about fifteen.”

“Easily fixed,” said Serena. “In our version they are so shy and repressed that they don’t discover sex until they are eighteen.”

“Porn about characters who are shy and repressed?” queried Betty.

“Sure,” pointed out Serena. “It’s super sexy when they finally do it. That’s the problem with most porn. It’s about studs and sex goddesses. So the sex doesn’t mean much. It’s like watching a Steven Seagal movie. That dude’s three times the size of all the bad guys. The outcome is a forgone conclusion. But shy characters... That way it’s a whole new adventure for them and we get to go along. And, anyway, everyone knows that shy and repressed characters are only like that because deep down they are total deviants.”

“We should get some more cast members for the next one though,” suggested Betty. “I’d love to be gangbanged by a whole bunch of guys.”

“Then you’ll love the project I’ve settled on,” said Serena. “You’ll be the only girl in the movie, and there will be lots of guys. I just hope you don’t mind all-over body make-up.”

“Nah, I’m easy,” Betty replied, stating the obvious. “What’s the title?”


“The Smurfs - An XXX Parody!” announced Serena triumphantly.

The End