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

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

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

I, A Dick : Wank Wednesday

Today's Wank Wednesday prompt word is #shadow. For more info on this writing challenge and for links to the other stories visit the Word Ejaculation site.

I, A Dick

What horniness lurks in the panties of women? The Shadow knows.

I'm The Shadow. Not the one who was the subject of the radio show in the 30s. He died ages ago. It's one of those things like with The Phantom - a new one takes the place of the old when they get past it.

But, like the original Shadow, I have a prominent proboscis and I make my living by sticking it into other people's business. I'm a private eye - a dick. Unlike my predecessors though, I don't solve murders. Cheating wives are my specialty.

My name comes from my ability, using my dark cloak and dark hat, to fade into the shadows when tailing someone. I have a talent for virtual invisibility. Virtual invisibility comes through the combined effect of two talents :

1. Knowing where someone will be looking.

2. Being somewhere else.

This is the tale of what happened when I was hired to investigate famed erotic romance novelist Tamara Tingle (clearly not her real name). Her husband, publishing magnate Nigel Knobworthy (unfortunately his real name), suspected that not all of Tamara's libido surplus was being sublimated into her literary works. His instincts told him that other boners than his had been playing in what he considered his personal rumpus room.

First I followed her down to the post office around noontime. It was a small one-man post office. I slipped in inconspicuously and pretended to be looking at the funny birthday cards.

"I've got a package for you," Tamara said to Postman Pat (his real name and he gets so much shit about it), "do you have a package for me."

"Coooorrrrrrr!" replied the veteran stamp-licker, leering at Tamara's thoughtfully displayed cleavage. Clearly the two were on familiar terms.

Pat hurried over to the door. He closed it, locked it and turned outward the sign which read "Out to Lunch". Neither of them noticed my presence behind the display stand of discount-priced Andre Rieu DVDs.

"Mmmmm, you do have a package for me," sighed Tamara as they headed out into the back room. She was fondling Pat's erect penis through his regulation trousers.

Pat picked her up and lay her on the mail table.

"I'm afraid you'll have to stay here," he told her. "We aren't allowed to post anything that might catch fire, and you are way to hot."

Tamara giggled and unzipped his pants, pulling out his rock hard cock.

"Wow!" she exclaimed. "Your prick's gone postal!"

He quickly tore off the rest of his clothes, and then set about tenderly disrobing his lady love. He slid the straps of her dress down over her shoulders and reached under her to unclip her bra. He sighed with delight at the unveiling of her lush, creamy stiff-nippled boobs.

He grabbed a sheet of stamps and tore off two of them. Then he licked her pert pink nipples and slapped a picture of Queen Elizabeth's face on each of them.

"I hope your package isn't too big to fit in my slot," smiled Tamara, as he pulled off her dress and slid down her panties. He gave her stiff clit a good licking and decorated that too with the smiling face of the matriarch of the Windsor clan.

He then picked up a magic marker and wrote an address on her little round belly :

Tamara Tingle

1 Wet Pussy Way

Orgasmville 0000

Heaven

"Mmmmmmm, send me there... send me there..." pleaded the notorious novelist of naughtiness.

Pat grabbed her legs and slid his postman's prick deep into her hot horny hole.

"Your post and my box," she moaned, "the perfect team."

She came over and over again. Pat wanted to keep going, but he could hear people knocking on the door wanting to mail their letters. So he pulled out of her well-satisfied pussy and ejaculated all over the queen's face.

I recorded it all on my camera phone.

The pair dressed quickly, then Pat unlocked the door. I walked out backwards so that he would think I was walking in. So far so good.

That night I examined the evidence carefully, so carefully, in fact, that I used up a whole box of tissues.

The next day Tamara gave a lecture on genre writing at the local university.

After the lecture I stood nearby listening to her conversing with an under-graduate.

"How's our little charity organisation going?" she asked.

"If you are in the mood to give until it hurts," he replied, "there are fifteen poor unfortunates in need or your assistance."

I followed them to a deserted classroom. The fifteen unfortunates turned out to be the entire university Dungeons and Dragons Club and the dilemma from which they needed to be liberated was the state of virginity.

At first they were a little shy, but once they realised that they could role a dice to see who got to stick their cock into which hole, they took to this new group activity like ducks to water. [Or like a second-rate author of humorous erotica to a well-worn cliche. Ed.]

"You guys are going to do fine now you've lost your cherries," she reassured them, as she squeezed her bum-hole around a spotted youth's sizeable cock, while a fat hairy guy fucked her juicy cunt and the rest wanked off in the wings. She didn't just pay lip service to their carnal talents, she used her luscious lips on their cocks and balls as well.

Half way through the orgy a hot girl walked in on them.

"Wow!" she cried. "Can girls join the Dungeons and Dragons Club?"

"Sure!" cried the guys in unison.

"If I'd known you got nude and played for fuck forfeits," she informed them, pulling off her t-shirt to reveal her massive bra-less boobs, "I would have applied ages ago."

"Much has been achieved here today," Tamara's friend told her, giving her a kiss on her way out.

"Who's that dude with the cloak and black hat?" asked the fat hairy guy. But by the time the others looked I was gone.

I can't give you the name of the guy Tamara visited on the following day, because he is a famous best-selling horror novelist. They had met up during the filming of a documentary on the creative process a few months before.

Now he was back in town and he invited Tamara to join him in his hotel room that evening.

I disguised myself as room service in a tear-away velcro-fastened uniform like strippers use. While the pair were hoeing into their grub, I whipped off the white uniform and merged with the bedroom curtains.

After their meal, Tamara had a shower and came back to lie naked on the bed while her Stephen-King-competing companion attended to his own ablutions.

The lights were off in the room. A slice of light shone through the door, illuminating the wall facing the bed. Suddenly, Tamara screamed as a sinister shadow fell across the wall. It was the shadow of a massive erect cock and it was coming to get her.

The cock which threw the shadow, of course, was not really that big. It was an optical illusion. But it was big enough. Tamara lit a candle beside the bed. In the flickering light she watched the figure that approached the bed. It was naked except for a hockey mask. And its cock clearly had evil intentions.

"Jab me, Jason!" cried Tamara, enthusiastically. "Fuck me, Freddy! Leatherface, be my lover! Choose me, Chucky!"

"Chucky?" queried the masked maniac.

"I like Chucky," she replied, defensively. "He's cute."

"Stab! Stab! Stab! Stab! Stab!" he cried, as he punished her pussy by pounding it with his prick.

"Oh, yeah!" she moaned. "Kill me more! Kill me more!" And she quivered through several orgasms.

"You really are my little scream queen," he smiled evilly, as he sat back on his heals brandishing his still rampant weapon.

"A pity I'm not having my period," she laughed. "Then it would really be a gore-fest."

For a horror author, he appeared to be a bit squeamish at this suggestion and moved on to the next scenario.

"After emerging from the steamy swamp the hideous beast proceeded to terrorise the gorgeous village maiden," he intoned as he slid his hard cock up over Tamara's belly and between her boobs heading for her face.

"Oh, God!" she screamed, "surely this is the spawn of Hell itself. I've never seen anything so hideous... all purple and veiny, and with one horrible lifeless eye staring at me..."

"The monster gave a spasming twitch," groaned the scribe of scariness, as his cock gave in to the delicious sensation of sliding up over the soft flesh of her chin, "and drenched the poor maiden with it's ectoplasm." With this he shot spurt after spurt of his creamy cum all over her face.

Tamara giggled.

"I got slimed!" she cried, smearing his jism all over her cheeks and blowing cum-bubbles with it.

"I was trying for Cthulu mythos and you turned it into Ghostbusters!" he cried in exasperation.

"I like Ghostbusters," replied Tamara. "It has Bill Murray in it. I wish I had Bill Murray in me."

I couldn't help it. I laughed. The number one thing you are supposed to not do when being invisible.

"Who are you?" they wanted to know.

"The Shadow. Private Dick. Hired by Mr. Knobworthy," I introduced myself.

"My husband's jealous?" she asked. "That's sweet. Really it is."

"I'm afraid I'll have to present him with the evidence I've gathered," I explained. "I don't like to do it, but its my job."

"I love my husband," Tamara replied. "That's why I fuck other men. It would be cruel to drain such an important man with all of my sexual needs. We have a good sex life within its limits. But I need more and he doesn't. I don't love any of these other men I have sex with. They love me, of course. How could they not. But its just sex for me."

"I think I'll step out and get some air," said the horror author. "This is getting a bit too personal. Feel free to make yourselves at home until you've sorted this all out."

"Give me all the evidence," suggested Tamara when we were alone, "and I'll suck your cock like it's never been sucked before."

"When you say 'like it's never been sucked before' are we just talking about some kind of weird technique, which might even be painful?" I asked.

"No, I mean your cock will be Romeo and my tongue will be Juliet, only this time they'll get the happy ending they so richly deserve," she explained.

"Oh, O.K.," I replied.

All of my cases have ended pretty much the same way. One of these days I'll learn to resist the wiles of women. Until then I'll just have to keep up my second job as a parking inspector.

The End