Native Love : Wank Wednesday

Time to get back to a bit of Wank Wednesday wantonness. Today's prompt is #grace. For more info on this near legendary writing challenge and to read the rest of the entries, check out the Word Ejaculation blog.

Native Love

It was a bright summer's day in the Cotswolds, the daisies in full bloom, when news reached Prudence Butterworth that her husband had been mauled to death by a leopard.

The year was 1910 and Prudence, who had just turned fifty a few weeks earlier, was not particularly surprised at the news. Reverend Bartholomew Butterworth had been the Presbyterian pastor of Puddleby-on-the-Donk when she married him. She had been a good respectable pastor's wife and had born him a son, Archibald. But when Archibald graduated from college and took passage to Australia, Bartholomew found himself suddenly fired by missionary zeal. No longer could he content himself with a life of jumble sales, tea parties and organ repair fund-raisers when he knew that the Dark Continent was just chock full of naked heathens living a shamefully carefree existence in complete ignorance of the peril hanging over their eternal souls. He kissed his devoted wife goodbye and, armed with a trunk full of Bibles and a copy of Teach Yourself Swahili he headed off for the Congo.

He had been gone for six years when the grizzly news of his demise reached Prudence. She hadn't really missed him all that much. He'd always been a bit of a wet blanket, but he was a good provider. Prudence was a dreamer. She had always longed for a man who would take her in his strong arms, ravish her soft wet mouth with rough kisses and give her a long hard poke in the whiskers. She knew she shouldn't really think about these things, but she couldn't help herself. She was far more hot-blooded than her husband who seemed to view sex as some kind of regrettable necessity much like blowing one's nose. She paid close attention to the men of the village. She daren't flirt with them. That would not be proper. But if she saw a finely chiselled muscular workman with his shirt open spilling water down over his chest as he drank from the water pump in the town square, she would discreetly run her eyes over him and store up the image to be enjoyed in the realm of fancy when she was curled up in her warm bed. One reason she didn't mind her husband's absence was that it gave her the freedom to do what she wanted in her bedroom. One day, while unpacking a box of books for the jumble sale, she had discovered a copy of a magazine called The Oyster. My did that open up her imagination to new possibilities! The magazine was full of stories of wicked men and women engaging in every kind of debauchery. Prudence read it over and over again, and then she would lie in her bed naked (something she could never do with Bartholomew beside her) and she would recast the orgies from the magazine with herself and the men of the village as she fondled her stiff nipples and frigged her wet pussy, sailing away on a sea of salaciously saucy sluttiness. That, she was afraid, was the only word for her - a slut. Well, maybe not the only word - trollope, whore and jezebel would do just as nicely. But this was only what she was in spirit, not in deed. There was no reasonable opportunity for a secret slut to live out her desires when she was trapped in the body of a pastor's wife.

The letter which informed Prudence of the death of her husband also asked what she wanted done with his body. To send it back to England would be expensive, and she knew that he would prefer to be buried in the wild land that he had come to love.

"If he can travel to Africa, I don't see why I shouldn't do the same," she said to herself. "It is only right that I be there to put his body to rest."

And so this was how, three months later, after a long sea voyage and a long and dangerous trek into the dark interior she found herself in the village of Utambi.

Her husband had done an amazing job of civilizing the natives. She had to give him that. They all spoke perfect English. The men were all dressed in neatly pressed black suits with white bowties, and the women wore brightly coloured dresses which hung down straight over their bodies and reached to their ankles. They didn't seem troubled by the demise of their benefactor, in fact they were all smiles. The men grinned broadly and their eyes had a naughty twinkle, and the women giggled shyly and reaching out to touch Prudence.

"We are most honoured to meet the good Reverend's charming wife," announced Chief Ngobla with a deep bow.

"I can understand now why my husband was so in love with Africa," she replied. "Such a charming congregation."

"May I dare to suggest," put in Ngobla, "that he might be alive today if his love had not extended to the wildlife."

"Poor Bartholomew," sighed Prudence. "It must have been dreadful. But tomorrow we will bury him and have a proper funeral."

"A funeral we shall have," agreed the chief, "but we cannot bury him."

"Why not?" she asked.

"A week after the leopard killed him," he explained, "the Goona tribe from the next valley stole him for their cooking pot."

"That's terrible!" cried Prudence. "You can't mean that there are still cannibals in this area?"

"It is most regrettable," he nodded. "We too ate the first three missionaries sent to our village."

"But you have learned to be good Christians now, haven't you?" she replied, a bit nervously.

"Oh, yes," he reassured her, with a big toothy grin, "we are good Christians now. We no longer eat missionaries. Only athiests. And we say grace first."

"Oh, my!" cried Prudence, not sure if he was joking or not. It was so hard to tell when he grinned all the time and the women kept giggling.

"Now that the Reverend has been taken from us, what can we do for spiritual guidance?" asked Ngobla.

"I'm sure the church will send you another missionary," she said.

"Yes," he replied sadly, his grin suddenly gone, "but there are missionaries and missionaries."

"You stay and be our missionary," said one of the women enthusiastically, grabbing her by the arm.

"Yes!" cried Ngobla. "We like you! It is decided!"

"But I can't be a missionary!" exclaimed Prudence. "I haven't had any training."

"We'll train you," explained Ngobla. "The Reverend trained us so well, we can train you and then you can train us back again."

"Well, I must admit the prospect is much more appealing than going back to boring old England," she admitted. "I'll stay until a proper missionary turns up anyway."

So Prudence was shown to the Reverend's old hut where she stowed away her luggage, and then they sat around and ate a delicious zebra hot pot cooked by Ndooboo, a short chubby man who was Ngobla's chef as well as the village witch doctor. (The Reverend had had a hard time persuading him to stop telling people with various ailments to sacrifice two chickens and see him in the morning.)

Prudence had never felt so welcome anywhere before. It was as if she had instantly been adopted into the tribe.

That night as she lay in her tent, thinking about how handsome Ngobla and the other men of the tribe were, and quietly fingering her wet pussy, she began to hear the sounds of passionate love-making in the other huts. The growl of marauding lions, the laughing bark of the hyena and the crash of rhinoceroses through the undergrowth - these background noises were now drowned out by groans and grunts and feminine squeals as the flimsy walls of the village huts trembled and shook.

Prudence didn't sleep well that first night. She came about twenty times pleasuring herself to imaginings of what was going on just feet away from her, but she didn't sleep well. She awoke with a plan.

"Ngobla," she said, when she emerged from her hut shortly after dawn, "I've been thinking. I think perhaps my husband made a mistake."

"I would say so," replied Ngobla. "Stepping on a leopard cub when its mother is sitting on a tree branch over your head would generally be classified as a mistake."

"No, I don't mean that," she insisted. "I mean when it comes to cultural sensitivity. I'm sure he meant well by dressing you all in these fancy clothes, but it isn't really appropriate for the climate, and it shows insensitivity to your culture, which, in its own way, is just as legitimate as English culture."

Ngobla's face lit up with his trademark grin.

"You would not be embarrassed if we went naked?" he asked.

Prudence blushed.

"Well, off course, I might feel a bit embarrassed, but it is the right thing to do, to let you be comfortable," she responded, though she couldn't keep a cheeky grin of her own from creeping across her face.

"I think you want to be a bit embarrassed," Ngobla replied. "The Reverend was very embarrassed when he arrived in the village. He was so embarrassed when he saw the ladies of the tribe that the front of his trousers became insubordinate."

"I wish I'd been here to see that," she replied. "Now get out of those ridiculous clothes, all of you!"

Ngobla tore off his coat and shirt and yanked down his trousers and undergarment. In less than a minute he was nude. And what a fine figure of a man he was, tall and muscular, his ebony skin shining in the sun.

"Wow! I can see why you're the chief of the tribe!" cried Prudence, as her eyes fell upon his massive cock which hung about a third of the way to his knees.

The women, who were all now naked as well, giggled.

"You like it?" asked Ngobla with a wink as he fondled his big soft penis. "You can touch it if you like."

Prudence blushed a deep red, but she reached out as if in a trance and began stroking Ngobla's cock, which slowly began to stiffen.

"We love it best of all!" shouted Mboobla, the prettiest of the women, and all the rest giggled. "We love his big thing and we all like him to put it inside of us."

"Your English is very good," said Prudence, her voice quivering with passion as she stroked her soft hand up and down Ngobla's now rigidly erect rod, "but my husband left some gaps in your education. There are other words you need to know. Say it along with me - 'We love Ngobla's huge cock and we love it when he fucks us with it!"

"We love Ngobla's huge cock and we love it when he fucks us with it!" they giggled.

"'We want him to fill our juicy wet cunts with jets of juicy jism!'" she added, her head spinning as Ngobla's proud prick throbbed in her fist.

"'We want him to fill our juicy wet cunts with jets of juicy jism!'" they agreed.

Ngoba suddenly pushed her down onto her hands and knees in the dust and pulled up the back of her dress.

"No! No!" she cried. "That's not the way to do it. Didn't my husband teach you anything?"

"I never did this with your husband," replied Ngobla.

"He didn't teach you about the missionary position?" she gasped.

"Missionaries have their own position?" he wanted to know.

"No, its for everybody," she tried to explain. "Look, I'll show you." She rolled onto her back, pulled up her dress and pulled down her wet panties. "Now you lie on top of me this way and we fuck."

"OOOOooooh," replied Ngobla with a wink, "kinky!"

And then he slid his huge black cock deep into her pale pink grey-haired pussy.

"That's right," sighed Prudence.

"Do all women make such faces when they are being fucked?" asked the chief as one of Prudence's eye-lids began to flutter and her mouth hung open in an idiotic expression. "It is most amusing. I like this missionary position better."

The women giggled as they watched. Some were playing with themselves, some were playing with someone else.

"I love your pale skin," said Ngobla, tearing off the rest of her clothes. She felt embarrassed to be revealed in this way, especially since she was older than the rest, her breasts soft and droopy and her belly less than firm, but it was an exciting embarrassment. After all her years of hiding her true nature, here she was completely naked being fucked senseless by a black man with a massive cock as a whole tribe of horny savages looked on aroused by the novelty of her pale flesh.

"Oh, God! You don't know how I've longed to be properly fucked!" she sighed, running her fingers over Ngobla's sweaty chest as his cock slid deeper into her very being than she ever thought possible.

"Ahhhhhhhh!" groaned the chief as he spurted over and over, before collapsing on top of the missionary's wife.

"Did he fill your cunt with jets of juicy jism?" cried one of the women.

"He did! He did!" grinned a satisfied Prudence.

Later as they were laying beside the river after a swim, Ngobla covered her body in tender kisses.

"Your flesh is tender and pale," he sighed adoringly. "It makes my mouth water."

"Now, now," replied Prudence anxiously, "we'll have none of that."

"All the men adore you," he replied. "They all want to fuck you very much."

"I assure you the feeling is mutual," she smiled.

"There is also much mutual feeling going on amongst the women," Ngobla laughed, pointing towards a lesbian orgy that was taking place further up the bank.

"You have some very horny women in this tribe," she replied. "I feel very much at home."

"Yes, they were very troublesome for your husband. He was always having to scare away the poachers," Ngobla explained.

"There are tribes which poach women?" she asked.

"No, the elephant poachers," he said.

"What do they have to do with the women?" she wanted to know.

"These poachers, they were always trying to egg the women on to buy their ivory dildoes," he explained.

"Ah," she replied, pulling him close for a long slow kiss.

"Can I eat your pussy?" he asked, looking down at the spot were droplets of water clung to the silver hairs which crowned her tender pink slit.

"Only if you say grace first," she smiled.

"For what you are about to receive may the Lord make you truly thankful," laughed Ngobla.

The End

Dirty Deities : Wank Wednesday

Today's Wank Wednesday word is #blanket. For more information about this writing challenge, and to find links to the other stories, check out the Word Ejaculation website.


Dirty Deities

The Unpublished Manuscript


(These opening five paragraphs were written after the bulk of the rest of the manuscript. On the Skepticism Scale they occupy a position approaching 0. Make of that what you will.)

Once every two hundred years, out of the mist, come the Old Ones.

Now, when I say "Old Ones", I don't mean that they are all frail and wrinkly. They don't come clattering out of the fog on Zimmer frames. No, these are the Immortals. Those who, in Ancient Greece, were worshipped as gods.

The full moon bathed the earth in its eerie light, as I looked out of the high window of my isolated mansion, over the Yorkshire moors, and watched the blanket of fog slide across the dark earth as if some invisible giant were pulling up the bedclothes. How was I to know that there were figures hidden within that crawling mass of vapour that had the power to take me to the very edge of sanity?

Let me introduce myself. I'm sure you've heard of me. Professor Richard Gerkins, author of the best-selling book You'd Have to be Nuts to Believe in God. I live out here, alone except for my maid Clarabelle, my cook Constance, my secretary Charlotte, and Gareth the gardener. I don't like people very much. They are so irrational. Of course I do my book tours. One has to. You have no idea how tiresome it is travelling around the world telling people how stupid they are. It quite wears me out. My mansion is a haven from all that.

On that fateful night, as I stood rapt in contemplation of the clouded landscape, there was a knock at the front door on the floor beneath me.

The Diary of Clarabelle Jones

8th of January, 2012

Professor Poohface is working on a new book. That's a good thing. He stays locked up in his room most of the day so he isn't always running his fingers over the furniture and complaining that it needs dusting. It  isn't good for furniture to be dusted too often. It wears out quicker from all that friction of the duster moving over the leather. I tried telling him that, but you know what professors are like. Think they know everything.

When he's not around I can spend most of the day reading erotic romance novels. I can't get enough of them. My one complaint though is the that they usually feature young spunky heroes with six packs. I go for older men myself. You know, like George Clooney or even Sean Connery. I'm sure Freud would have had something to say about that. Freud, now there was a sexy guy. I'd have loved to lay down on his couch and feel that cute little grey beard of his tickling my twat.

12th of January, 2012

Dear diary, you'll never believe what happened last night! Well, you probably will because you're a book, and books aren't really capable of skepticism. (Damn, now I'm even sounding like Poohface.) It's been like an amazing dream, but I don't think I'm ever going to wake up from it.

Technically I was off-duty, up in my room watching Secret Diary of a Call-Girl, when there was a loud commanding knock on the front door.

Old Poohface doesn't like to answer the door himself. Sometimes it's his fans rambling on endlessly about how they have spent their whole life praying for someone to come along and rid the world of religion. Or religious people come to harass him. If you're a Mormon or a Jehovah's Witness, knocking on Richard Gerkins' door is an adrenalin rush equivalent to what bungee jumping is for the rest of us.

But none of these people were in the habit of knocking on the door at nine o'clock at night. Perhaps there had been an accident on one of the nearby roads. I didn't like missing any of my program, but it seemed like a good idea to see who it was.

I skipped down the steps in my baggy pink pyjamas - the ones with the teddy bears on them - and opened the door.

At first I didn't see anyone there, only a wall of fog, which flowed through the doorway and quickly filled up the passage.

"What the fuck!?!" I cried. Fog causes mildew, and mildew is a real pain in the arse.

But gradually the mist cleared to reveal two figures, a man and a woman. They were dressed in togas.

My eyes were instantly drawn to the man's face. His hair was wavy and grey, his eyes radiated the power to command and yet they also twinkled with mischief, his lips were full and sensual for a man who looked to be in his sixties, and surrounded by an immaculately groomed silver beard. As I gazed into his eyes a wave of ecstasy passed over me. My nipples stiffened, caressed by the soft fabric of my pyjama top. A quiver went through my chubby little belly. And I came. My knees wobbled, my clit stiffened and I squirted all down the leg of my pjs.

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry," I said. "I don't know what came over me."

"It looks like you did," smiled the lady, a radiant young beauty with long blonde hair piled up in some kind of complex arrangement on the back of her head. Her eyes were unnaturally blue. "I think you chose well, father," she said, addressing the man by her side.

The Unpublished Manuscript

"Who is it at this hour?" I demanded, as I descended the stairs.

Clarabelle was standing in the corridor accompanied by a man and woman dressed in togas.

"Don't tell me," I insisted, raising my hand, "I'm keen to guess. You were headed for a fancy dress party but your car has broken down."

"Hello, Professor," said the young woman with a mischievous smile. "We were once intimately acquainted, but it was long ago, and perhaps you have forgotten. Yes, I think you have forgotten."

"How could you have known the Professor long ago?" asked Clarabelle. For some reason she was nervously pulling down the bottom of her pyjama top over her crotch. "You don't look that old."

"I didn't know him," she replied, enigmatically, "but he knew me."

"If this is some attempt to make me look like a fool then you will find that it is in vain," I declared.

"Fear not," replied the woman's companion, an older man with a pointy beard, "you have been chosen as the recipients of a rare privilege."

"Yes, I know," I responded, waving my hand dismissively. "I've been chosen to go on a cruise to the Bahamas, and all I have to do to qualify is to run up a bill of three million dollars on my mobile phone."

The man smiled indulgently. "We are the Immortals," he said. "We have existed since the beginning of time. The names men use to talk about us change, but we do not. I have been Ra, Zeus, Jupiter, Odin... Personally, I've gone back to calling myself Zeus ever since I saw Clash of the Titans (the original, that is). Larry Olivier, now there was an actor...."

"Sorry about Dad," said the young blonde woman. "He can be a bit of a windbag."

"He's not the only one," muttered Clarabelle under her breath.

"I heard that," I told her.

"I didn't say I was talking about you," she replied, and poked her tongue out at me. You just can't get good help these days.

"I wasn't lying when I said you knew me long ago," she explained, stepping forward and touching my arm gently. Even through the cloth of my jacket and shirt I could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "I am Love. And, in your youth, you knew love. Do you remember?"

"You're Aphrodite!" cried Clarabelle excitedly.

"Don't be a fool!" I scolded her.

"Her heart is open," the young woman said. "She see's what you cannot."

"Every two hundred years we manifest ourselves on earth," explained the man who claimed to be Zeus. "More often than that and we would suffer the indignity of being lumped in with UFOs, the Loch Ness Monster and Bigfoot."

"You can't possibly imagine how boring it is to be a god," sighed the woman who claimed to be Aphrodite. "The value of anything is determined by its scarcity. Gold is valuable because there isn't much of it. The same is true with life and the experiences of life. For you, life is rich and exciting, because it is short. With immortality comes ennui."

"This applies especially to sex," added the man. "We've all fucked each other in every possible position. That really doesn't do it for us any more. But there is one form of kink that still turns us on, because we can only indulge once ever 200 years, and that is mortalphilia - having sex with someone who is going to die."

"You're going to fuck us and then we are going to die?" asked Clarabelle, panicking.

"Not immediately afterwards, no," the man reassured her. "Just eventually, in due course. What we do with you won't shorten your lives. Hell, it might even lengthen them. Sex relieves stress, and stress is the big killer."

I looked into the eyes of the young blonde woman and my head began to spin.

"Don't listen to them, Clarabelle," I warned. "Surely you've known me long enough to know that the universe is without a God let alone a bunch of the fuckers."

"I don't know," replied Clarabelle, with a goofy smile as "Zeus" fondled her buttocks and nibbled on her ear. "I'm willing to have an open mind."

"You need a holiday," purred "Aphrodite" in my ear as she unfastened her toga and let it fall to the floor. Underneath she was naked. She was also perfect, like the statues in her honour. That is in the honour of the fictional character she claimed to be. Damn, I have to keep my wits about me.

"I'm gonna open my mind and open my legs!" squealed Clarabelle, yanking down her pyjama bottoms and rubbing her pink pussy. Even from where I stood I could see that it was dripping wet.

"Has everyone gone insane!" I cried, as I tore down my pants and underpants to allow my erection some room to breath. (This, of course, is a figure of speach. Penises, having no lungs, are not capable of breathing.)

The Diary of Clarabelle Jones

12th of January, 2012 (continued)

They explained that they were gods who come to earth once every 200 years to fuck humans. And we were the lucky ones chosen. You can say that again. Of course Poohface didn't believe them at first. But I did. No ordinary man could make me cum in my pyjamas like Zeus did.

And the other one was Aphrodite, his daughter. She had the hots for the Professor. No accounting for taste, I suppose.

Poohface told me not to listen to them. Fuck that! The feel of Zeus' sexy hands fondling my bum was driving me wild. I just pulled down my pants and started fingering myself. It felt fantastic to do that right in front of my boss. 'Who cares if he gets to see my cunt?' I thought to myself. Actually, I wanted him to. Why should I slave away dusting the house and washing his underpants with nothing to amuse me but saucy novels? If he's not afraid of taking on the world's great religions in his writing, why should he be afraid to see my bare bum and my cunt squirting pussy-juice all over the place?

These were the questions I asked myself as Zeus threw off his toga and I sank to my knees to lick his balls.

At this point the door opened again and in came Gareth. He'd been out drinking at the local pub. He was accompanied by another toga-wearing man and woman.

"I said 'Hermes'!" insisted the woman. "Not herpes!"

"Oh, that's O.K. then," replied Gareth. "I mean you have to be careful."

Then he stopped aghast and stared at me, down on my knees giving a blow job to the King of the Gods.

"You never do that for me," he chided, with a fruity laugh.

"I prefer older men," I insisted.

"I've got you there," chuckled Zeus. "I'd like to write my age down on a piece of paper for you, but there isn't a piece of paper on the earth big enough to hold that many noughts."

The Unpublished Manuscript

O.K. For the sake of argument, lets just call her Aphrodite. What am I supposed to do, ask for ID? If someone tells you their name, it's polite to believe them, especially if they're really hot and stark naked.

Now she took me by the wrists and made me run my hands over her bare body. She made me fondle her soft, warm, perfectly-formed breasts and her round perky buttocks. And she told me to slide my finger into the warm wet depths of her excited pussy, with its adornment of golden hairs.

Then she kissed me, and all my attempts to cling to a last shred of sanity were at an end. I was hers.

"I think I do remember now," I admitted, looking deep into her chlorine-blue eyes. "I've never seen you before in my life. But I've felt you in me like you are in me now."

"That's nothing," she smiled. "Wait until you are in me." She began stroking my rock-hard cock.

I looked over at Clarabelle. She was now totally nude and slurping up and down Zeus's massive erection. Damn, she looked cute with no clothes on. And she was a slut! Who would have guessed.

At that point the front door opened and in walked Gareth and two more strangers, toga-clad like our fuck-mates. It was a bit too late to worry about being embarrassed.

The newcomers were introduced to us as Hermes and Artemis. Hermes had a hat with wings on and Artemis was holding a bow and had a quiver of arrows on her back.

"I've bagged my game for the evening," Artemis declared, tearing off Gareth's trousers forcefully and dragging him by his cock into the lounge room.

"There's got to be someone for me, surely," pleaded Hermes.

"Charlotte's still up in her room," panted Clarabelle. Zeus was holding her hips in his large powerful hands and bouncing her up and down on his prodigious prick.

"Charlotte's a sound sleeper," I added, as Aphrodite deep-throated me. "And she's a bit of a prude. She might not want to join in."

Hermes shot up the stairs like lightning, losing his toga in the process.

A moment later, Charlotte came stumbling down the stairs, wrapped in a blanket.

"Rape! Rape!" she cried.

"I never touched her," insisted Hermes, his concupiscent cock bouncing in front of him as he bounded down the stairs.

Then something clattered to the floor from under the blanket. It rolled across the carpet until it collided with my foot. It was the largest vibrator I've ever seen.

Charlotte's face went very pink.

"I can do better than that," smiled Hermes, stroking his cock.

"O.K." she said, shyly. "You can fuck me...."

"Atta girl, Charlotte!" cried Clarabelle as Zeus sprayed her smiling face with his nectar.

"You can fuck me..." repeated Charlotte, dropping the blanket to show that she was completely naked. "As  long as you fuck me right up my tight little arsehole!" Then she bent over and pulled her cheeks apart to expose that very anatomical locality.

At that moment, a small figure trotted in from the direction of the kitchen. He was quite hairy, with horns and cloven feet and he was carrying a musical instrument made of various tubes bound together.

"Pan!" cried Zeus. "I wondered where you'd got to."

He was closely followed by Constance, her portly figure decorated only with a few shreds of what had once been her clothes.

"I think I just got fucked by Gheorge Zamfir!" she cried. "And I liked it!"

"Come on," said Aphrodite, "we have only one night. Let's go somewhere where we can make the most of it." And so we left the others and climbed up the stairs to my bedroom.

"My pussy tastes of jasmine and wild honey," she told me as we lay back on the soft sheets. She didn't lie. She was a work of wonder from the gold of her hair to the daintiness of her toes. I licked her all over that night and the taste and feel of her flesh is still on my tongue as I write this.

She was love. She was the very essence of the erotic. She was the universal fuck. That night I shared my bed not with a woman but with Woman Herself.

A night in Paradise. That was the upside. The downside? My life is now a hollow sham. Sure I still collect the royalties from my books. What else can I do? If I tried to tell people that I'd changed my views, and why, I'd be treated like all those people who claim to have had a close encounter with fairies.

There are some compensations though. I just had a new king-sized bed installed, and Clarabelle managed to stitch together a truly mammoth blanket. It gets cold here in the foggy weather and you need plenty of warm bedclothes to cover a horny ex-athiest and three happy sluts (one of them kind of on the chubby side).

The End

Lara and the Real World : Fuck Me Friday

Fuck Me Friday time once again. Today the prompt word is #phase. Go to Aisling Weaver's site for more information on how the writing challenge works, and to find links to all the other stories.

Lara and the Real World

Lara Lindstrom's world was torn apart when she came home and found her husband Larry masturbating to a DVD of Deep Throat.

This might not seem such a cataclysmic event until you learn that Lara and Larry were stalwarts in the Flee from Filth crusade. When not praying for the souls of perennial perverts and maniacal masturbators they door-knocked to raise awareness of the threat of pornography.

Lara was very good at door-knocking. She was so sweet and charming. Women would listen patiently to what she had to say, whether they agreed with it or not, because they didn't want to be rude to someone so good-natured. And those men who didn't agree with what she had to say would still listen to her because she had rosy cheeks, a freckled nose, full pink lips, blonde pigtails and a shapely figure only partly hidden by her modest summer dress. They would nod in agreement as she told them that porn was the biggest problem in the world at the moment and they would shake their heads and tut as she explained that men who looked at porn sometimes demanded sex from their wives more than once a week, and all the time they were storing her up in their spank banks.

And Lara adored her husband Larry. Larry always wore suits and carried himself with great authority. It was he who had convinced her of the dangers of pornography and fired her up for the task of carrying this message to the world. She would often count her blessings that he had been there to save her from her base nature. For what else could explain the fact that she couldn't actually see anything wrong with sex? It had to be explained to her that God thought it was dirty, and God knew best.

But then she came home to their apartment in New York City to find Larry with his pants around his ankles and his hand wrapped around his stiff cock. On their big screen television Linda Lovelace was doing an impersonation of Godzilla swallowing a submarine. Her lips were sliding down over a huge fat penis until they rested on it's owner's pubic hair. Larry was groaning as he stroked his prick.

"I don't understand," said Lara. "Won't God be upset? Isn't that dirty?"

"Oh, Jesus!" exclaimed Larry, desperately trying to shove his hard-on back into his underpants and find the television remote.

"I must be a really bad person," Lara confessed. "Because that looks like fun to me. Both what she is doing and what you were doing."

"It is fun," Larry moaned. "That's what makes it all so hard."

"Yes," agreed Lara. "I saw that it was hard."

"I don't mean that," Larry tried to explain. "I had a lapse. One of the men on whose door I knocked repented of his sinful ways and insisted on handing over his pornography collection for me to destroy. But I couldn't resist looking at it. And the devil possessed my penis."

"Would it make you happy if I sucked on your penis like that lady was doing?" Lara wanted to know.

"Don't even speak of such a thing," Larry begged. "It would make me the happiest man in the world, for now, but I would burn in Hell later."

"I wouldn't want that," Lara whimpered. "I want everyone to be happy. Why does God have to be such a bastard telling us we can't enjoy sex as much as we want, like in those movies."

"Blasphemer!" cried Larry. "I will never win this battle with the sins of the flesh if I have to live with a wife who would be willing to suck my penis."

And so Lara, her mind a maelstrom of conflicting desires, ran off into the night. She walked and walked, all night long, and as the dawn rose the next day she realised that there was no alternative but to return to her home town of Pleasant Valley and the reassuring arms of her parents.

At first Clive and Karen Browne were happy to have their daughter back with them, even though they were unhappy to hear that her marriage was not going well. But, fairly soon after arriving back in Pleasant Valley, Lara began to exhibit some very strange and troubling behaviour.

One morning Gary Stewart, the owner of a the local bookstore, was distracted from his breakfast of bacon and eggs by a knock on the front door. When he opened it he found Lara standing there in jeans and a t-shirt and with a big smile on her face.

"Hey, Lara," he said. "I didn't know you were back in town. What can I do for you?"

"Gary," Lara began, her face turning suddenly serious. "There is a serious problem in this world of ours. Do you know what it is?"

"No," replied the mystified Gary. "What is it?"

"Not enough guys are getting their cocks sucked," Lara declared.

"I beg your pardon!?!" cried Gary, looking over his shoulder and hoping that his wife was not in earshot.

"Not having your cock sucked regularly can lead to nervous tension," Lara told him. "But don't worry, I'm here to suck your cock for you."

"You can't do that!" he exclaimed, now sure that his wife would appear any minute.

"What's the matter?" asked Lara, suddenly turning hostile. "Am I not good enough for you?" And then she slapped his face hard and kneed him in the nuts.

*          *          *

"This is just a phase she is going though," explained Doctor Zeitgeist, the expensive psychiatrist hired by Mr. and Mrs. Browne. "Catching her husband masturbating after having been indoctrinated by him into a sex-negative ideology put Lara in what we call a double bind. She didn't feel she could abandon what her husband had taught her to believe, and yet she couldn't continue to promote it if she doubted his sincerity. Their crusade gave her a meaning in her life, but her sexuality also demands to be expressed. So now she has found a delusional escape route by turning sex into a crusade."

"How can we get her to stop?" asked Mr. Browne.

"Oh, we mustn't do that," Doctor Zeitgeist warned him. "If we were to try to fight against her delusion she might become embattled and thus stuck in this phase of her recovery. For that is what it is, a process of working through her feelings as she moves towards a state of wholeness."

"But she's knocking on the doors of all of the men in town offering to s... er, orally service them," pointed out a distraught Mrs. Browne.

"How have the men responded to this?" asked the doctor.

"So far, thankfully, they've politely declined her services," Mr. Browne replied. "But she gets quite violent when they do."

"This won't do," declared the doctor, shaking his head. "Only if she is allowed to carry out what she sees as her mission will she be able to move to the next phase of her healing."

"Are you saying we should let our daughter suck the cocks of all the men in town!?!" cried Mrs. Browne, and then blushed a deep crimson when she realised what she had said.

"It's not so much a case of you letting her do it," Zeitgeist responded, "as of the men of the town being persuaded to let her do it to them. This is a caring town. I'm sure that when it is explained to these men that it is for the girl's own good they will be willing to surrender their penises into her mouth."

*          *          *

"Hush now, citizens of Pleasant Valley!" yelled Mayor Bradley, as the public assembly burst into noisy uproar. "I know that this is a most unusual request. At first it may conflict with what you feel to be good and right. But a young woman's mental health is at stake. You all know Lara, and I'm sure you care about her welfare as much as I. In the big cities people have become callous and cynical, but in small towns like Pleasant Valley the true spirit of community is still alive. And that is why I ask the men of this town, when offered an act of oral sex upon their persons from the charming Miss Lindstrom, to just say 'Yes.' And I would ask the wives and girlfriends of these men to remember that your men are not allowing Miss Lindstrom to gobble their seed because of any dissatisfaction with your own lovely selves but because they are true men of compassion who will not turn away from one in need, but rather open their pants, pull out their Johnsons and make a generous donation into her mouth."

There was much heated discussion, but over the course of the hour-long meeting everyone came to accept that what the Mayor said made sense. They could see that, if they humoured Lara, eventually she would come back to the real world and either repair her relationship with her husband or find someone new with whom she could develop a healthy bond.

*          *          *

Three days later there was a knock on the door at the Stewart house.

Mrs. Stewart opened the door to find Lara smiling sweetly at her.

"Have you come to suck my husband's cock?" she asked.

"Yes, Mrs. Stewart, I have," nodded Lara. "I'm so glad that everyone seems to have grown to understand how important this crusade is."

"I do suck my husband's cock myself, you know," Mrs. Stewart replied.

"And I'm sure you do a wonderful job," Lara enthused brightly. "But I'm equally sure Gary - I may call him that, may I not? - can never have too much of a good thing."

"Well, please do come in and make yourself at home," responded Mrs. Stewart, as her husband came up the hall.

"Who is it dear?" he asked.

"It's Lara Lindstrom, honey," she told him, "she's here to suck your cock."

FTV Girls

"I don't know about this," he whispered to her nervously. "Are you sure?"

"Now, don't you be a stick in the mud, sweetie," she scolded him gently. "You wouldn't want to be rude, would you? So drop your pants and let the nice girl get to work."

Nervously, Gary unzipped his trousers and let them fall to the floor. His cock was so stiff it was poking out over the top of his underpants.

"My, he is glad to see you," his wife commented, smiling at Lara but then turning to Gary with a surreptitious look of reproach.

Gary made a "what's a guy supposed to do when a hot chick demands to suck his cock" gesture to his wife as Lara pulled down his underpants and set his excited prick free.

"Gary's not used to having someone so young and attractive pleasuring his penis," his wife explained to Lara.

"Now, honey, you know I...oh, God...find you...oh, sweet Jesus...sexy," he panted, as Lara licked the pre-cum off of the head of his cock.

"He really likes having his balls licked," his wife told Lara.

"Oh, thank you," Lara smiled, dropping down towards Gary's scrotum. "I always love it when a man's wife and I can work as a team."

"And he likes it when I talk dirty to him," Mrs. Stewart added.

Lara stopped sucking on Gary's balls long enough to speak.

"I want you to screw my pretty little face with your man meat, you whore-fucking cunt," she said politely.

"She's good at this," Gary's wife commented.

"You join in too," suggested Lara as she once more took Gary's testicles into her mouth.

"Suck on my husband's hairy ball-bag you dirty, filthy, crazy-as-fuck little psycho whore!" she screamed.

"Don't overdo it," her husband warned her.

"Just a bit of role-play," she replied nervously, straightening her dress.

Lara slid her wet lips slowly down the length of Gary's throbbing boner, quivering with the ecstasy of being the deliverer of a divine message.

"I'll go and make us all a cup of coffee," suggested Mrs. Stewart. "Do you have cream, Lara?"

"I do now," Lara chuckled, allowing some of Gary's cum to dribble from between her lips.

"You did that very well," declared Gary, standing with a dopey smile on his face as his now flaccid cock dribbled semen onto the living room carpet.

"You were my number fifteen," Lara explained proudly. "Next I'm off to visit Mr. Kramer down the end of the street."

The three of them drank their cups of coffee and made polite chitchat. Lara waved goodbye to them cheerfully as they ushered her out the front door.

She knocked on the front door of No. 37, but it wasn't Mr. or Mrs. Kramer who answered. It was their nineteen-year-old son Jamie who was visiting them for the college break.

"I've come to suck your dad's cock," Lara told him.

"He'd probably like that," Jamie replied. "But he's out of town on business for a couple of days. You might have to come back another time."

"Oh," Lara responded. "I don't suppose you'd like to have your cock sucked?"

"Well, I don't know," Jamie hesitated. But then he remembered what his friends had told him about the extraordinary public meeting and the Mayor's advice to the town. "Come on in. We can give it a go."

"Shall we go to your bedroom?" Lara suggested. "You can lay down on the bed and be comfortable while I lick a really nice big jizz-spurt out of your prick. Sound good?"

"It sounds good," he said, doubtfully.

"Oh, you're a David Fincher fan!" cried Lara when she saw the big poster of a shirtless Brad Pitt in Fight Club that decorated Jamie's clothes cupboard door. "I used to love all those films - Fight Club, Seven, Alien 3 - back before I got married. But my husband didn't approve of anything but inspirational movies."

Jamie lay back on his bed while Lara unzipped his jeans and pulled them, as well as his underpants, down his muscular legs. His cock was large, but it was completely flaccid.

"Not happy to see me?" teased Lara, flopping it back and forth.

"I do like you," Jamie insisted. "Maybe it will come to life when you start sucking it."

Lara took the fat sausage into her mouth and tugged on it gently with her lips. She rolled it around her mouth with her tongue. She tried licking his balls, and then she tried holding it in her hand and flicking her tongue quickly back and forth over the head. No reaction.

"Perhaps you should try thinking of someone else while I do it," she suggested. "Or some fantasy, like being dragged into the girl's locker room at college for a soapy orgy with ten cheerleaders. Something like that."

"I'll try," he said, looking up at the Brad Pitt poster.

"Wow! That's more like it," Lara declared as his cock grew right under her nose. She happily wrapped her lips around it and began giving it a tongue bath.

"Mmmmmm, that's nice," sighed Jamie, patting her on the head. Now his eyes were closed and he was somewhere else.

Lara felt a great sense of satisfaction when she felt a shower of hot spunk bathe the back of her throat.

After that she and Jamie lay around talking and laughing

*          *          *

"A new phase?" Gary Stewart asked of his wife.

"Yes," she replied. "I kind of thought she would go from the cock sucking phase straight to normality, but apparently not. Mrs. Turner rang me a couple of days ago and said that Lara turned up on their doorstep in the middle of the night and said, 'I want to sleep in your bed tonight'. Of course they let her. Doctor Zeitgeist said we should go along with her regardless. She wouldn't tell me what happened. And then Sally rang yesterday with much the same story."

"Well, I suppose we'll all just have to weather it," Gary replied.

That night it was their turn.

"Is there room enough for three in your bed?" Lara asked as she stood on the doorstep in robe and slippers. "I feel kind of lonely."

"Sure, honey," replied Mrs. Stewart. "By the way, my name is Edith."

"Gary and Edith," sighed Lara. "My bestest friends in all the world."

"It's going to be a tight squeeze," Edith warned as they entered the bedroom. "We only have a regular double, not a queen or king-size."

"I'm sure we'll manage, though," Gary added.

"Let's all sleep nude!" cried Lara. "It's much more fun that way."

"If you insist," responded Edith, taking off her baggy pyjamas.

Lara slipped off her robe and lifted her nightie over her head, revealing her soft pale breasts with rosy pink nipples. Then down came her knickers to reveal a mass of blonde pubes between her chubby thighs.

Gary unbuttoned his pyjama top and shrugged it off, then pulled down his bottoms.

"Oh, surprise surprise," his wife said sarcastically. "It's Benny the Boner."

"It's biology," Gary replied defensively.

They all climbed into the bed and pulled the sheet over themselves. Flesh was pressed closely against flesh. Edith was by the wall, Lara was in the middle and Gary was pressed up against her with his stiff prick wedged into the soft warmth of her arse-crack.

"I've just discovered something I really love!" Lara enthused. "Sucking boobies!" She launched herself on Edith and began sucking enthusiastically on one of her nipples and then the other.

"Errrr, I've never had a girl do that to me before," Edith told her nervously. "I'm more into guys. Well, into my husband, that is."

"Doesn't it feel good?" Lara asked.

"Well, now that you mention it, it isn't exactly painful," she admitted.

"If you like that," Lara enthused. "You'll love this!" And she reached down and started twiddling with Edith's clit. Then she slid a couple of fingers into the older woman's pussy. "Liar! Liar! Pants on fire!" Lara cried. "If you didn't like me sucking your boobs, you wouldn't be so wet down there."

"You dirty little bitch," smiled a randy Gary. "I never thought you'd go for a bit of the old girl-on-girl action."

"Don't get so cocky," threatened his wife, "or I might turn you in for a saucy little slut."

"Fuck me, Gary!" insisted Lara. "Fill my horny little cunt with your hot spunk. Then we'll see if your wife wants to lick my pussy juice off of your cock."

*          *          *

It was only a week later that Lara turned up once more on Mr. Stewart's doorstep. She was carrying some items in a plastic carry bag.

"Hi, Mr. Stewart," she smiled. "I'm in a new phase now. I want you to drop your pants and bend over. Then I'm going to fuck you up the arse with this ten-inch strap-on while your wife takes a dump on the kitchen table."

"I'm getting sick of these phases," Mr. Stewart replied tiredly.

"Just kidding," Lara replied, giggling. "I'm all better now. I'm getting a divorce from my husband. And I've found a new guy."

"Really," replied Gary with obvious relief. "Do I know him?"

"Jamie Kramer," she sighed, romantically. "We really are a match made in heaven you know. We love so many of the same things...action movies...working out at the gym...Lisa Minnelli...cock-sucking...

The End

Default : Wank Wednesday

It's Wank Wednesday again as hosted by Ruby Kiddell at The Erotic Notebook. Here is how she explains it :

Welcome to week twelve of Wank Wednesday, your weekly festival of smut. 

With so many great writers of smut and erotica on Twitter and the web I thought it would be a nice idea to get a smutty blog carnival going. For writers or would be writers a weekly prompt will get you writing and as a reader well you’ll be able to get your fix of sexy stories all in one go.

To join in all you need to do is write a story with the weekly prompt as a title. This week’s prompt is #Default. Then:

• Blog it – post it on your blog then come back here and add it to the link list.

• Tweet it – write it on twitter using the prompt hashtag and the #wankwednesday hashtag

• Add it – if you don’t want to blog or tweet it then please do add it as comment to my post

• WE it – if you are a member at Word Ejaculation you can submit with them too, just remember to link back to me here and to add your entry to the link list.

Please link back to this page in your post and please also do take the time to read and comment on the other contributors, we’ll all keep on writing but it is so much nicer to do so with feedback.

Thank you for writing and reading.

Default

“Shit!” exclaimed Nigel. “It seems to be irretrievably fucked up.”

He was playing a game of Actual Earth. It wasn’t going well. He’d been playing now for 4.54 billion years. The avatars - who called themselves “human beings” - were not playing well together. Many of them were excelling at accumulating powers, but then they would squander them by fighting with each other or misdirecting resources from where they could be used most effectively by the system to places where they did no good at all, mostly within their own vicinity.

He’d tried lots of different approaches. He’d tried the non-interventionist approach and he’d tried laying down the law with appropriate carrot vs. the stick promises and threats. But, though he had the advantage of being able to watch how the whole game was playing out, he didn’t know how to win it. The “human beings” were better at asking him for things and saying they were sorry when things went wrong than they were at actually taking advice. This was true. But he couldn’t blame the state of the game on them. After all he’d created them.

He was glad that some of them had given up believing that he existed. It’s a lot of pressure when people start calling you “God” (he’d never tried to tell them that his name was actually Nigel) and think you can magically sort out all of their problems for them. Within the game, the ones who had stopped believing in him were behaving just as unhelpfully as the rest, but, they were leaving him alone to concentrate on where to set off the next population-controlling natural disaster, and that he appreciated.

He was beginning to wonder if he could blame his lack of success on a system malfunction. He thought he’d message his friend Cedric and compare notes.

“How’s your planet going?” he asked.

“Quite well,” Cedric told him. “I’ve reached the level of Utopia Second Class.”

“Fuck!” cried Nigel. “How do you do it. My planet’s a mess and it just seems to be getting worse. I’m wondering if it is a fault in the program.”

“What platform are you using,” asked Cedric.

“Portholes,” said Nigel wearily.

“That could be your problem,” theorised Cedric. “I’ve always been a Banana man myself.”

The Portholes platform had been invented by a geeky looking octopod from Alpha Centauri. He was a genius. Everyone agreed on that point. But when you called tech support, it wasn’t him you spoke to. It was someone from out the other side of the Horseshoe Nebula who couldn’t do much more than suggest you turn your system off at the power point and then turn it back on again.

As Nigel looked down sadly at the tiny creatures scurrying across the face of the Earth he realised that there was another course of action open to him, but the very thought of it made him feel sick to his stomach. There had to be some other way. There had to be a solution to his problem that didn’t involve reading the instruction manual.

Brad Stone was one of those tiny creatures, though, at six foot two inches tall, he was not as tiny as most. He was a man who felt about his own life, much the same way Nigel felt about the world. That it was profoundly fucked.

"How can you do this to us?" asked the old man tearfully, as Brad handed him the paperwork and held the door of what had, up until two minutes ago, been the man's legal domicile open so that his assistant Meredith Grouse could enter and begin orchestrating the removal of all of the furniture.

"If you don't keep up your payments, you default on your mortgage," Brad explained, giving the man and his traumatised wife his warmest and most sympathetic smile.

Brad hated his job with a passion. He thought it was perhaps the worst job in the world. Very far from that of bank manager which had been his highest ambition. The only way he was able to sleep at night, after spending every day turning families out onto the street, was to remind himself that, if he didn't do this job, someone else would, and, maybe they wouldn't bring to the job his own sympathetic touch. He was sure that his warm and friendly personality made it easier for people to take the bad news. What never occurred to him was that the slightly goofy smile that was so endearing at parties carried a very different message when he was at work. A smile on the face of someone who is throwing you and your family out of your home is generally interpreted not as warm friendliness, but as heartless sadism.

Brad's home life was similarly bleak. His wife was a nag and his kids were brats. He was sure it was his fault. Lacking the will to stand up for himself, his only way of getting back at his wife for her nagging was to do as little as possible for her and that badly, and so she nagged him more. The kids, being good judges of character, had no respect for either of them, and had reverted to nature's perennial fallback strategy - unrestrained barbarism.

The one bright spot in his life was getting to spend his working day with Meredith. She was a very pretty brunette with a warm personality and a cheeky sense of humour. It was true that he suspected her bright and sunny disposition was evidence of some form of low level retardation. How else to explain that she seemed untroubled by the decline of western civilization, but practically had an orgasm over a new handbag, photos of a celebrity wedding or the chance to play with a new born puppy. But her enthusiasm for life rubbed off on him, and, when he was with her, nothing else seemed to matter.

Meredith felt similarly about working with Brad. He never realised that a good deal of her bright disposition at such times was because of his company. Her home life wasn't bad, but she was bored. Gareth, her husband of three years, was very good looking, and he was never unkind to her. But, when they were courting he had found many imaginative and exciting ways to show his love for her. Now she felt as if she was a task achieved, and he had turned his attention to climbing the corporate ladder. She tried to talk to him about all the things which excited her, and he smiled indulgently, but she could see that he thought of such things as the stuff of a childhood left far behind.

"We have nowhere to go," said the old woman. "What will we do when the sun goes down and it gets cold?"

"Have you ever read Eckart Tolle?" asked Brad with a smile. "Unleash the power of the now! Don't spoil it by worrying about the future. You never know if there will be a future. Live for now."

"I'll tell you what I'm going to do now," the old man informed him. "I'm going to kick you in the nuts!" And he did so.

But sometimes prophetic words can come even out of the mouths of fools. The old couple didn't need to worry about accommodation, because, in fact, there would be no future. Not this time around anyway.

"I don't like to admit defeat," said Nigel, "but I'm afraid I'm just going to have to restore the default settings and start again."

But before he did that he had a bright idea. He backed up a couple of the avatars to his flash drive.

"Maybe if I introduce a couple of individuals at an earlier part of the game who know just how badly it can turn out, they'll make better choices," he told himself. It was a long shot, but what did he have to lose.

Brad felt funny, and he didn't think it was just from the kick in the balls. Everything around him had become insubstantial and was wobbling like bad reception on an old television set.

"I don't feel real," Meredith pointed out, as she stood in front of him. But from his perspective she seemed to be the only thing which was real. Buildings were coming down like packs of cards and people were falling to the ground and disintegrating into dust.

Then an incredible languor came over Brad and he slipped gently to the ground as darkness swept over him.

When he came to he was lying naked under a Baobab Tree somewhere in Africa. A parcel of warthogs trotted past on their way to the local water hole.

"Oh, my!" cried Meredith. "I haven't got any clothes on!"

Brad turned around to see Meredith standing next to him with one hand over her breasts and the other over her pubic region.

"No you don't," agreed Brad, a broad leering smile spreading across his features as his cock stiffened.

"I'm not sure I like it," whimpered Meredith.

"I do," Brad told her. "I think it suits you."

"Yes, I can tell you like it, you dirty pig," she complained, although her lips were trying to twitch into a smile in spite of her protest of disapproval. "The least you could do is to cover up your sign of appreciation."

"I've got nothing to be ashamed of," he pointed out (and, indeed, he was pointing quite far out), as he stood up and walked towards her. "I don't know how we got here, but, in the absence of any clothing shops, I think we are going to have to get used to being nudists. Just try to think of it in terms of nude being the new black."

"Does my bum look big in nothing at all?" she asked, entering into the spirit of the game by turning around and wagging her beautifully round and fleshy bottom cheeks in his general direction.

"I think I'm inside of some kind of wet dream, and I hope I never wake up," he sighed, as he turned her around and hugged her to him, letting his hands slip down to fondle her warm soft buttocks.

"You know we are being very very naughty," she whispered in his ear. "We're both married."

"Not any more," he pointed out. "You remember what happened. I have a feeling our spouses are either dead or they haven't been born yet. I'm not sure which, and to tell you the truth, I don't care."

"Neither do I," she admitted.

"I've always wanted you," Brad confessed. "You were the only thing in my life that wasn't shit."

"Well," she said. "Now you've got me and nothing else."

"Perfect," he smiled.

Vesper from Girls Out West

"It does feel awfully rude just standing out here in the open with no clothes on," she told him. "Not to mention seeing my co-worker's willy standing up all stiff and dribbly like that. Stop poking me in the belly with it."

"Maybe I should poke you somewhere else with it," he chuckled evilly.

"You're a dirty, nasty man!" she scolded him as she gave his stiff cock a playful slap. "And I'm fast becoming a dirty, filthy girl as I think about what comes next."

"There's no one around but us dirtbags," he pointed out. "So we can do what we like. Let's see if we can shock the warthogs!"

"No society. No rules. Nobody to judge us," she sighed.

"That's right," he agreed. "We're free."

"Does that mean I can be a total slut if I want to be?" she giggled.

"Is slutdom possible with only one slutee?" he queried.

"Well, I'm sure as fuck going to give it a go," she squealed, pushing him down into the soft grass under the Baobab Tree and starting to lick his balls.

"Now I know I'm in Heaven," he moaned.

"Ever watch David Attenborough?" she asked. "Well here is the rare East African Cock Gobbler going about its daily business in the shade of a Bust-A-Nut Tree." And then she slipped her soft warm lips over the head of his cock and drooled saliva all down its length, using it as lubricant to slide her right hand up and down his prick as she flickered her tongue over the head.

"I would have never expected you to be such an expert cock sucker," he murmured ecstatically.

"I haven't actually had much practice," she explained, pulling her mouth up from off of his cock. "Gareth wasn't much of one to practice on. Always too busy for anything other than a quick in and out. But my cousin ran a sex shop, so I used to study all the pornos when I went to visit her."

"Study?" he queried. "Purely academic?"

"O.K. I whacked off to them too, if you must know!" she exclaimed, sticking out her tongue.

"Enough talking, more gobbling," he insisted, pushing her head back down.

Soon he felt the waves of pleasure shoot through his belly as his balls tightened and spurted a fountain of hot cum into Meredith's hungry mouth.

"Am I a slut now?" she asked, deliberately allowing the jism to dribble out of her mouth and down her chin.

"You're laying back there with your cunt exposed, a mouth full of cock juice, your boobs jiggling provocatively and your big fat arse getting all covered in dirt. Of course you're a slut," he told her.

"My big fat arse!" she cried, eye's blazing. "You take that back!"

"I'll take your big fat arse anyway you care to offer it," he chuckled. "And I want the job of washing the dirt off of it. Not to mention spanking the circulation back into it when it goes to sleep from sitting on the ground."

"It'll look plenty fat when I'm sitting on your face, I'll tell you that much!" she exclaimed heatedly.

"Promises! Promises!" he chuckled. "Now it's time for Sheena the Jungle Slut to lay back and let the Bushman lick her bush until she cums."

"I don't know," she said, looking suddenly serious. "I've never cum before, except from wanking. Gareth tried going down on me a couple of times, but he gave up. He said it took too long."

"We have nothing but time," pointed out Brad. "The Iron Age won't be along for at least another thousand years. There's really nothing to do to pass the time but fucking and sucking and cunt licking. Unless you'd rather throw stones at the wart hogs."

"You wouldn't hurt the poor widdle wart hogs?" she cooed. "It's a sacrifice, but if I must I will selflessly sacrifice up my cunt to be licked to save God's noble creatures from mean-spirited molestation."

And so she lay back in the grass with her legs spread wide while Brad buried his nose in her curly pubes and  licked and sucked on her stiff clit. Meanwhile he reached up and rolled her stiff pink nipples between his thumbs and forefingers.

"What would your slut self do back in the old world if you could get away with anything?" he asked. And so, as he licked and sucked and finger-tweaked, Meredith elaborated all sorts of outrageous fantasies about sneaking into movie star's houses to molest them or getting gang banged by her favourite rock bands. By the time she was explaining her plans for the world's biggest outdoor masturbation festival called Wankstock, she was quivering and quaking and squirting her juices into Brad's mouth.

"You did it!" she cried.

"No," he insisted. "You did it. Now lets have a nap here in the shade. There'll be plenty of time when we wake up to gather some nuts and berries for dinner. And when night falls, if it is cold, we'll light a fire."

"We're going to be all right, aren't we?" Meredith smiled, cuddling up to him.

Nigel looked down at them and hoped she was right. So far they were doing fine. But this was the beginning, and the beginning was always good.