West

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Babes

Fiction is titillating to write, but when remembering the author believes. Imagination is infinite possibility that I cannot control and my mind rebels, scoffing: now it’s just masturbation, you know that. And so my flights of fancy are ended with the abrupt report of a not-so-distant shotgun blast: my equally uncontrolled skepticism has thus spoken, and has had the final word. Here is a tear. I weep for my innocence.

But I still believe in these other fictions, you see. I call them memories, and have fabricated them in a somewhat different manner. That is neither here nor there but everywhere, since I am no psychologist or stamp collector and cannot point and discern and name. Instead I feel myself enveloped in the somewhat intangible non-substance of me, another fiction, but a noble one, and one which, despite my best efforts, I continue to take for granite. But I am of that very same stuff, itty-bitty bits of carbon. Hm. And then some.

So while my imagination may swell like a wave or a cock or a balloon, it is deflated just as easily (as the balloon). (Portions of the simile worked better than others, admittedly.) But my rock-solid ego knows no erosion, no matter how vigorously it is stroked and sucked and…oh, my. In short: I share my memories instead of some ill-begotten fantasy because it’s how I get my rocks off.

Maybe things aren’t entirely true. Does it matter? Were they true to begin with? Who am I talking to, really? Stumble into this knowing that all this happened, however, even if I’m not being entirely honest.

Like all stories with an undercurrent of eroticism this yarn begins with: nothing. Nothing but a nondescript yearning for something new — not so simple: something that has been estranged from us, torn from our flanks like a rib or a pound of flesh; something that was once ours but for which we now find ourselves longing. This was that, then. We wanted sex and a nice day away from the troubles of our past and present and wanted the freedom to shriek orgasmically or at least tremble and groan amidst the heat of each other’s desperate embrace. And we wanted sex.

Henceforth, we headed west.

I forgot a few details. We (my Molly and me) awoke that morning with deceptively simple plans. Drive to the coast, we would, spend a late-January’s day there, and have some sort of fun, whatever sort of fun we could lay our greedy hands on.

Now please picture Molly with me: she’s just my sort of wet dream. A red hot pixie of a girl, five-foot three who looks remarkably good in thongs. Her tits are full and just more than a handful, oh, reader, you’ve not experienced ecstasy to the fullest, not like I have: I’ve seen my cock buried in between those beautiful breasts, my huge purple head emerging from its lair with each thrust, her tongue giving me little licks of encouragement until I shoot my load all over her chest and face. How can you possibly compete? Yet that’s not all; her mouth works wonders every time she goes down on me, sucking and jerking me off and oh god knows what else, I’m always too far gone to tell what, exactly, is going on. Touching every bit of her smooth skin is sensuality in its highest of forms, but once I’m inside her —

In any case, we had a little toy we would be playing with throughout the day, and I helped Molly as she adjusted the straps of her Christmas present: a little butterfly-shaped vibrator, worn like underwear, its business end held securely over her clit by the elastic bands I was now fooling with. Best of all, I held the on/off switch, a little remote control kept discretely in my pocket. The little slut loved it.

Am I missing anything? Perhaps — if I remember I shall fill it in later. But for now we were off, horny teenagers in search of the ocean and whatever pleasure we could find on the way.

Yet we were not quite so free, and had to contend with traffic before leaving the city, as all mortals must. Errant honking horns, demons hiding in blind spots, overpasses and concrete paths that ascend into heaven; enough to make a man go mad. But at a red light or a lull in activity, I had our toy to help time pass more quickly: I would toggle the switch (sometimes covertly so Molly would not see it coming), and, a second later, would watch my darling, beside me, begin to coo and moan in pleasure and in pleasant surprise. “Oh, Mark,” she would say, breathing heavily, and I would smile — but not for too long. I of course had some driving to attend to; and, furthermore, did not want Molly to have too much fun, no, not yet.

Before we got out of the city, we had several such moments. Molly would pout after each bout, sighing “aw, just a little longer?” and maybe place a hand over the bulge in my jeans, licking her lips suggestively. Oh, how I wanted it — but just then the light would always change, or a hummer would pull up beside me, and I had no tinted windows to hide myself from prying eyes.

So when we hit the open road, as you can imagine, I was almost bursting out of güvenilir canlı bahis siteleri my pants. But Molly — though she could hardly restrain herself better than I — took her sweet time, a type of cruel vengeance, I thought. Eventually, however, after maybe five torturous minutes of barreling down a straight, level, and almost-empty highway, Molly’s little hands began crawling towards my crotch. Soon enough, she was rubbing my cock through the fabric of my pants, tracing titillating circles over the head, then running the width of four fingers up :::: then down :::: then up again along the length of my shaft. Amidst incoherent murmurs of ecstasy I manage to enunciate: “Stop teasing me you slut it’s time you got down to business.”

And that she did, unbuttoning and unzipping my jeans in a few deft movements. My cock sprang free from its prison, but no sooner had it done so when it was gripped swiftly by the throat.

“Now who’s in charge, huh?” she said somewhat coyly as she began to jerk me off. I groaned and did all I could to keep from flying off the road.

Molly was encouraged: she bent towards me and began licking the tip of my cock, almost imperceptibly at first and then with increasing pressure until she was circling the circumference with her hot, wet tongue. And then, without warning, she bobbed her entire head down, taking almost the full length of my cock into her mouth.

She stopped with her mouth full, and I could feel her tongue going to work. It’s impossible to tell what she was doing, exactly: it was a flurry of movement that was hidden from my view. But I could certainly feel its effects, on all sides of my cock; it seemed impossible, as if two or three women were going to work at once, licking and rubbing and swirling and sucking all simultaneously. Not content with this, however, her head began moving again, and continued, bobbing up and down with steadily increasing speed as a free hand held the base of my cock tightly — keeping her divine tongue in frenzied motion all the while. I gripped the wheel tightly, trying to keep from cumming immediately, yes, but also trying to keep my eyes from rolling up into the back of my skull, a somewhat hazardous state to be in while still going sixty.

Molly must’ve sensed this; she checked her pace and tamed her tongue, taking as much of my cock into her mouth as she could, oh-so-slowly, sucking hard as her head moved back up at the same speed. This went on for a while; I felt the head swell on each movement upward as the suction forced blood to the end, and a sudden release each time she took the length back into her mouth, rubbing the underside of the engorged mass with her tongue as she went down again. So while this still felt incredible, it allowed me a much-needed opportunity to catch my breath, so to speak.

No sooner had I recovered, however, when she was at it again with renewed vigor. This time, her tongue went to work solely on the head, while her hand — hitherto inactive save for its grip — began to jerk me off wildly.

All I could manage was “fuck” and a few more such expletives.

She paused. “You like that, baby?” she said teasingly, kissing the tip lovingly.

“Oh God yes, you know I do.”

She did indeed know, and needed no further encouragement. At first, she resumed what she had been doing — but then, for further variation, began twisting her hand as she stroked me, her hand gliding effortlessly over the skin, nicely lubricated by a combination of her saliva and my pre-cum.

It drove me wild, and very near the edge. Oh, how I wanted to cum; my cock felt dangerously near to exploding, and there I was, teetering, longing desperately for release.

“Fuck, Molly, keep sucking, baby, I want to cum in your mouth.”

As a reply, she began a vicious alternation: swallowing my cock for a moment, still stroking what little remained at the base; head now bobbing frantically, her hand moving in rhythm with her lips; her tongue, as always, everywhere at once.

It was not long before I came, spurting hot jets of semen into her throat. It overwhelmed her for a moment and a few drops escaped her lips and dribbled down unto my pubic hair, but she recovered and voraciously devoured the rest. She kept sucking as my cock kept throbbing in the throes of ejaculation, endlessly, it seemed. When my organ had lost its impetus, she sucked some more, and then licked my still semi-hard cock clean.

“Mmm,” she moaned when her face reemerged, licking her lips. “Was that…satisfactory?”

“Perhaps,” I said, taking understatement to an extreme.

“Perhaps?” she asked as she reached over swiftly cupped my balls, not unpleasantly.

“Yes,” I reconsidered. “Quite satisfactory.”

“Good!” she said as she carefully zipped up my jeans. “Because I had fun too.”

“And why’s that?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Because I’m a cum-hungry slut, that’s — oooh.”

At the words “cum-hungry slut” I had reached over güvenilir illegal bahis siteleri and toggled the switch, which had been resting in the door handle beside me for easy access.

“And I bet you like that too, don’t you? You cum-hungry slut.”

“Ohh, yesss,” she whimpered as she grasped her nipples through her top — which was, incidentally, a more or less demure piece of lingerie (as far as lingerie goes, that is). “Oh God, Mark,” she continued: “You have no idea how wet I am!”

I decided to find out, reaching over with my right hand and slipping it up her long skirt, which she had already partly hitched-up so that one milky thigh was exposed. I cupped the toy lightly, feeling its vibrations course through my hand, then moved my fingers down, running one along the length of her dripping slit. It was no lie: she was soaking wet. As the vibrator kept running, I penetrated her with just a fingertip. She yelped: “Oh I love that baby, I love that soo much.” I thrust in and out slightly — not too deeply, mind you, but maintained a quick constant rhythm. “Fuck!” she yelled and began mumbling incoherently, adding after not long: “oh keep going, please, please ohh god…”

I stopped, both my finger and the vibrator at the same time.

“What…? Hey!”

“Nah-uh-uh,” I said tauntingly.

“But I was so close!”

“Oh, I know that. But you can’t cum, not yet.”

“Aww,” she pouted, betraying a smile. “Why not?”

“Because cum-hungry sluts like you need to be taught a lesson, that’s why.”

“Pleeeeease?” she begged in her best little-girl voice.

“No, not until I decide you’ve earned it.”

“But…”

“Nope. And any more complaints from you,” I added, knowing what she wanted, “and I’ll have to spank you.”

“Really??” She asked excitedly, with a twinkle in her eye.

So of course, she kept pestering me, and I vowed retribution — but later (you’ll see, patience please).

“I’ll await my punishment submissively,” she promised with a grin, and then began licking my ear, with occasional sharp little nibbles.

But a roadtrip cannot keep up such a feverish pitch for long (or can it?): soon our conversation turned to matters more mundane. It was, nonetheless, becoming a beautiful drive. After not long, the straight highway reached the forest and the mountains, snaking back and forth in serpentine switchbacks amidst the green as it ascended. Molly gazed out the window, enchanted by the scenery whenever the trees cleared enough to allow an unobstructed view of the valley we were leaving behind, and keeping an eye out for roadside signs that might suggest anything of interest along the way.

“Hey Mark,” she said after a while, “there’s a ‘scenic viewpoint’ in half a mile.”

“With a view of what?”

“I don’t know that’s all the sign said.”

I figured it’d be nice to feel the ground again. We had not been driving for long, and could easily keep going, but this was our vacation, and we were in no rush.

“Would you like to stop?”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” Doubtlessly she felt the same. I know this because we know each other. Suspend your doubt, dear reader, set aside your nihilism and believe, and if you refuse to allow room in your philosophy for something that surpasses solipsism, then, if for no other reason, merely respect the author’s authority: we are soulmates. Question it not.

Soon enough, I saw the viewpoint, which was little more than an enlarged and graveled shoulder. The view, admittedly, was not spectacular: but it gave as an excuse to stretch our legs.

We had no company there. The few cars that were on the road this time of year passed by with no hint of stopping, and, admittedly, the weather was not the most inviting. But we were there; and I had made sure to slip the remote into my jacket pocket discreetly as we stepped out.

The edge resembled a cliff, though to be fair if one were to fall it would be more of a violent tumble than some sort of spectacular final flight. And on that cliff we held each other, not taking in the sight of the scenery but focused instead on each other, I looked at her eyes intently and neither of us said a word. We kissed wildly, arms wrapped around our better half’s bodies, pelvises desperately trying to connect.

I grabbed her ass with one hand and patted it not-so-softly. She might have moaned to express pleasure, but we were kissing, so she bit my lip instead. While she was distracted, however, I flipped the switch that I had so carefully carried out with me; here, she gasped, but as our lips were locked she drew her air from my lungs instead of the atmosphere, literally taking my breath away. We kept kissing all the while, Molly occasionally emitting little whimpers, my hands at times her caressing her tits as well. Molly’s hand, of course, was grabbing and massaging my cock through my pants: but need I even add this, at this point?

But, as I said, nothing lasts for too long, and I would not let sweet güvenilir bahis şirketleri Molly cum, not yet. So I braved her disappointment once again when her panting began to betray the extent of her excitement. We re-entered the car and got back on the road most traveled. The highway didn’t change much but we fancied the pacific was not far off now.

It would not, however, be our last stop. We had advanced for less than half an hour before we caught sight of another opportunity to stop: a sign informed us we approached Oregon’s tallest tree. Like the scenic viewpoint, it served as more of an excuse than anything else, a site for us to stop and have our fun.

And have our fun we did. We noticed, of course, that there were no cars parked nearby as we drove up to it, set apart from the highway by a short road and a narrow bridge. I parked the car within sight of the tree, which had a wooden-floor area around it along with one of those information boards you often see at state monuments and whatnot. It was a short walk away, maybe a hundred feet or so.

We got out of the car and did some touristy type things, looking up at the tree and maybe reading a bit about it, taking pictures of ourselves in front of it, sitting on a bench for a while gazing up at it and talking. But we soon grew listless, particularly upon noticing a path than began from the other side of the tree, leading us even farther from our car. We decided to follow it for a while.

It did not take us long to notice that we were utterly alone, and here, feeling almost lost in the woods (although we had, in truth, not wandered that far, but the foliage was dense enough to make us feel isolated) we came to the silent conclusion that there was little chance of us being disturbed.

We began kissing, softly at first amidst the cool moisture in the air, our bodies pressed gently together, but as you might expect things did not, could not stop there. Our sexual energy seems to feed on each other’s, making restraint, of course, somewhat difficult. And so I began fondling her tits, feeling them soft through the lace of the lingerie she was wearing; but I could not be satisfied. I greedily slipped a hand under, wanting to feel her naked skin and feel her shiver as my cold skin touched her eager nipples.

She shuddered just as I had expected, and then kept shuddering when I turned on the vibrator some more. By now it was an old trick but she could nevertheless not see it coming, and I couldn’t help myself, I had to hear her moan. This time, however, I was not content with kissing her; I pushed her down, forcing her to sit on the large trunk of a fallen tree. She knew what I was doing, and parted her legs almost immediately.

“You little slut!” I shouted, laughing, but then got an idea. “Actually,” I said, “let me sit there.” She must have thought I wanted my cock sucked again and so complied (she had not been lying when she had described herself as ‘cum-hungry’). However, she must have guessed at my actual intentions when, instead of asking her to kneel, I told her to lie, face down, on my lap, with her ass in the air.

“Mmm, yes, Master,” she said, and then complied.

I stopped the vibrator and pulled up her skirt so that her cheeks were exposed. “This, you slut,” I said, “is your promised punishment for pestering me earlier.”

“Oh, God, I can’t wait!” And no sooner had she said the words than WHAP! my hand came down hard upon her tender ass, and she gasped and then squealed in delight. Soon I saw my handprint emerge, left in red upon her pale skin.

With every slap she moaned louder, and I would occasionally turn on the vibrator in short bursts for an added surprise. Her sweet cunt was glistening with moisture; I would sometimes sneak peeks of it after spanking her, and sometimes, if I felt generous, slipping in half a finger. Soon she was begging to be fucked.

God knows I wanted it too; nothing would have pleased me more than bending her over the fallen log and taking her from behind like an animal while the spanking continued. But just as I was about to succumb and give us what we both wanted, we heard the sound of voices from the direction of the nearby tree. Hurriedly and somewhat frantically, we composed ourselves. Molly’s skirt had aided greatly to our continued discretion; but the flush proved impossible to remove from our faces. After a quick kiss, we walked in silence back to the car, past a family that had just arrived in a light-blue minivan.

“Holy shit that was hot!” Molly blurted out once we had gotten inside the car and could talk with the assurance of not being overheard.

“Oh I know. How’s your ass?”

“Sore and I’m loving it.”

“You deserve it.”

“I know, Mark. Thank you for giving a little slut like me exactly what she deserves…and exactly what she wants.”

“Oh, no thank-yous necessary. I was about five seconds away from fucking you, you know.”

“Aw! If only those people hadn’t showed up!”

“I know, baby…but we’ll get the chance soon enough.”

“Yes we will, and it’ll be that much sweeter when we do.”

“Exactly.”

Like that, we were off again, still breathing heavily from our cut-short experience. The ocean still loomed in front of us, growing closer with every bend, it could not be long now.

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