The obligatory disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. As such, all characters are figments of the author's twisted and deliciously dirty mind. Any resemblance to actual people is strictly an unintentional coincidence. If you are under eighteen or are offended by things of a decidedly sexual nature, you shouldn"t be reading this. For those under eighteen, experience has taught me, as it will teach you, that life will mess with your mind enough after you reach adulthood. You really don't need a head start.
A Brief Note for the Continuing Reader: This next part has a lot of charactor stuff in it, mainly concerning the Good Reverend. It is important, in fact, essential for the progress of the story. Sadly, however, there isn't a whole lot of sex. Since I am aware that many (if not most) of you are reading this for its masturbatory possibilities, I have included a totally unconnected little story at the end of this installment. It has nothing whatsoever to do the ongoing Adventures, but I believe in rewarding loyalty. Enjoy!
Now, without further delay, back to the story!
11
Hardon at the Clinic
The next afternoon, following my American History class, where I spent most of my time playing Let's-See-How-Many-Fingers-I-Can-Get-in-There-Before-You-Squeal with a delectable little sophomore whose name I can't recall at the moment, I sat in the waiting room of the local clinic, awaiting the results of my blood test. Trepidation sat with me. Understandable though this may be, it did not help to have a dirty mind looping sloppy wet blowjobs within my frontal lobe.
Serious business took place there, people's lives and sexuality and the future propagation of the human race hung in the balance. Needing a copy of Mother Jones to conceal the bulge in my trousers from the potentially judgmental eyes of my fellow waiters did not keep with the serious nature of the establishment in which I waited. I should have been ashamed of myself, but I wasn't.
Instead, my perverse mind busied itself with images of phallic symbols and mushroom heads and the taste and feel of hardened flesh between my moist lips. There could be no denying it: I had an oral fixation. Ever since the early feverish days of kissing Karen Swenson while hiding from her father in the alley behind her house, my mouth had craved sensation.
Freudian psychoanalysts could make careers of writing about the disappearance of my mother and the premature ripping away of the psychological tit. It changed nothing, and neither did the ongoing physical exploration of my burgeoning cocksucking talents, nor my desire to carry it onward. And so, as I waited to discover whether or not I had contracted some horrible disease, a phantasmagorical, multi-orgasmic, cum-splattered suck-fest played over and over again inside my head, sending blood and electrons to my pulsating vas deferens.
??
A dirty mind may be a terrible thing to waste, but did it have to rear its ugly head in the middle of a VD clinic waiting room?
??
I attempted the Hillary Clinton gambit with no success. This might have had something to do with the large cock my imagination kept putting in her mouth (or possibly the lingering aroma of sophomore – and yes I washed my hands after) but I could be wrong. One can never tell about such things, and in any event, it had failed, and so I chose instead to concentrate on the décor of my surroundings.
The Johnstone Clinic had been decorated with understated taste and elegance. Okay... That's bullshit. The place looked like one of Abby Hoffman's old crash pads. Rather than the typical vision-neutral tones ordinarily found in medical offices, this one appeared to have been the victim of a radical graffiti artist. Posters and painted slogans adorned the multi-colored tie-died walls: Choice is Your Constitutional Right; Censorship and Discrimination – The Choice of the Stupid and Ignorant; If You Haven't Pissed off a Conservative Today, You're Not Trying, along with safe-sex axioms such as: Don't be Stupid, Use a Condom.
Shocking though this may be to accept, the clinic had been the sight of numerous protests and anonymous bomb threats. The fact these remained only threats may have had something to do with the presence of the rather large (and reportedly armed) individual named Bob who stationed himself outside the front door during operating hours. This of course is speculation. I could be mistaken.
None of which helped with either the pressure inside my pants or the inappropriate nature of a public erection. Something needed to be done. As if proving the ironic nature of Life, television – the soul-sucking idiot box I generally detested – provided the answer.
In one corner, beneath a blood-red banner extolling viewers to "Know Thy Enemy," the local Conservative network shoved its biased propaganda down the willing throats of its ignorant demographic, thus confirming the not-unwise belief in the radical liberal leanings of the Clinic's proprietors.
At the moment, the screen showed a properly coiffed and thoroughly rectal Talking Head standing outside the City Hall, apparently awaiting the start of a news conference. The person in question bore a physical resemblance to a woman, but this distinction hardly mattered. Everyone involved with the local bullshit factory carried the same uniform cookie-cutter-ness required by a belief in their own moral superiority.
If they were right then everyone else was wrong, and how could one tell the wrong from the right unless the right all looked (and talked and acted) the same? This, in any case, appeared to be the edict from up on high to the Human Resources personnel responsible for hiring on-screen talent.
But none of this helped with either the throbbing problem between my legs or the self-made porno movie playing across the widescreen of my brain. I needed something drastic, something cold and ugly and not-at-all erotic.
Again, television provided the answer.
Through the muffled (but not silent) tones of the broadcast, I could discern the beginning of the press conference. Background chatter ceased and the clicking and clacking of photographic shutters rose to a cacophony as no less a personage than the Mayor of our fair community took the stand. He shuffled the papers of his speech like a deck of Bicycle cards and smiled his best politician's smile for the cameras as the rat-tat-tat of photographers began to ebb and die like the waters of the Columbia River Bar at slack tide. All stood in readiness, waiting for the breaking news as an expectant father (or a horny bastard who'd engaged in less-than wise anonymous sex) might wait for results in a medical office quite like the one in which I now sat watching – out of desperation – the about-to-be televised malarkey-fest.
It started thusly: "My friends," the Mayor opened, utilizing the tried-and true greeting of politicos everywhere, "Our Community has long been known for its permissive attitudes. We were the first city of our size to offer free AIDS testing," he proffered an example which the receipt for one-hundred twenty-five dollars in my wallet might justifiably call a liar. "We have cared for the Homeless," (in cockroach-infested shelters), "We have seen to the needs of the Addicted," (perhaps because the Mayor's own wife had been hooked on pain killers and Peppermint Schnapps for the past twelve years), "And we have embraced the Gay Community and the annual Pride Parade," (amidst a Mount St. Helens of bureaucratic paperwork, permits, fees and the requirement for privately-funded event security).
Having trumpeted the Good much like the person who says "He's a great guy," right before ripping into some poor, unfortunate and not-present individual, he set his mirror-practiced expression into a mask of serious solemnity and launched into the Bad.
"But this attitude has allowed an undesirable undercurrent to grow and threaten our city and our families and the welfare of our children," he ripped, playing the "It's for the children" card, as lying sack of shit pseudo-statesmen who have proven time and time again that they couldn't care less for your kids if they were so many of the afore-mentioned roaches always seem to do whenever faced with a hard-sell idea. And like a sugar pill to a hypochondriac, the collective societal We, the People have bought it hook, line, and politically correct sinker.
And from all indications, this time proved to be no exception as the collected City Hall crowd broke into a resounding cheer as he finished his public pronouncement with a "NO MORE" flourish.
And then, having declared the problem and having placed the unstated, yet certain blame squarely upon those enlightened souls with liberal views of how we should treat each other, His Honor performed the obligatory political two-step and passed the baton of actual legislation away from himself and his responsibility and toward the Conservative-dominated City Council. "I am proud and honored to present the Good Reverend Artemis Collingswood."
And there, upon the stage, arrived the cure for my trouser problem in the ironic form of the very person who'd played a significant role in creating it: the distinguished gentleman who had so recently cum in my mouth.
12
Cautionary Tale of a Hypocritical Bastard
AUTHOR'S WARNING: The following description of my principal opponent in this tale of hypocracy and moral turpitude and sloppy wet blowjobs should be taken with a grain of salt. Some of it of course is fact, but no small amount is pure supposition, colored by my distinct dislike for the useless piece of shit.
They say writers are supposed to remain objective. I suppose that's all fine and good when discussing biochemistry or animal husbandry or the inner workings of the internal combustion engine. People, life, and most particularly sexual relations are decidedly subjective. Masters and Johnson notwithstanding, attempting to remain dispassionate when discussing the mating rituals of human beings is quite a bit of like showering with your clothes on.
In any event:
The Right Reverend Artemis Collingswood was born in 1952 to (presumably) a motherand a father in some backwards-ass country-fuck town in the Midwest. I actually have no idea where he was born and could care less, but the date is correct, as (I believe) is the general location within the Bible Belt. The fact of the matter is: I just like the idea of his being a backwards-ass country-fuck, which should in no way be construed as a condemnation or pejorative statement concerning the good and kind and most importantly human people who hail from either the "country" or the Midwest. It should only be construed as a condemnation and pejorative statement about him.
Grain of salt.
His early academic career could best be described as parochial, in that he attended a series of religion-based elementary, primary and secondary schools prior to matriculating to the University of Who-Gives-A-Rat's-Ass in 1970, where he majored in religious studies and minored in political science. Achieving his Master of Fine Arts degree in 1976, he became ordained as a Baptist minister this same year, and got involved with a certain church group out of Topeka, Kansas, who would later become famous for creating the ever-so enlightened website "God Hates Fags."
That this had little or nothing to do with the teachings of Jesus Christ (you know, the guy they named the religion after) and his philosophy of tolerance, was, I am sure, an accident. They didn't mean to go in diametric opposition to what the man from Nazareth had preached. They didn't intend to bypass Jesus' edict to Judge not, lest ye be judged. I'm sure this could be passed off as a simple oversight - a blooper, if you will; an ecumenical faux pas.
Could've happened to anybody, right?
Be that as it may, the ecclesiastical hate and ignorance propounded by this church had apparently been insufficient to meet the Good Reverend's needs, and so he moved on in 1985, and proceeded to drift from one psycho wing-nut religious order to another, until finally discovering what the author Tom Robbins has called the politics of the Divine in the little town of Anaheim, California.
The nature of politics - its point, its purpose - is not to better serve the people. It is, quite simply, the acquisition and maintenance of power. Consider, for a moment, the constituency our elected representatives actually represent. Is it average people? Or is it the Special Interests and lobbyists and big money donors who help keep them in office and in power? The answer, I would submit, is obvious.
The politics of the Divine, then, is the use of religion to acquire and maintain political power. This is an old, old, old, old story. It is possible a case could be made to suggest the history of the Christian Church is also the history of the politics of the Divine, but this, perhaps, would be taking things a bit far afield from our tale of questionable morality and sloppy wet blowjobs.
Nestled in the heart of Orange County, the California bastion of Conservatism, Anaheim proved to be an excellent training ground for the young, impressionable and ambitious Artemis Collingswood, providing him with both the knowledge to bring his ambitions to life and the political contacts to help make it happen. And although not the first place he'd ever explored his latent homosexuality, it was the first place he got caught doing it.
This information didn't come out until much later, having been handily covered up by some of those political contacts. And like (though far less extreme than) John Wayne Gacy and the shenanigans he got up to in Iowa before moving to Illinois and starting his little body farm in the crawlspace beneath his house, had it been made public, what happened later might have been avoided. Such "what-ifs" are pointless, however.
What happened was this: On October 22nd, 1991, Reverend Collingswood, then an up-and-coming politico with not-unrealistic designs on the California State Legislature, picked up a young man named Charles Goodenow at a bus station in a section of town known for its homosexual prostitution. They went to a nondescript, out-of-the-way hotel and proceeded to have sex.
Up to this point, everything about the scenario was just peachy, as far as I am concerned. The guy wanted to have sex with a man, decided he would pay for the pleasure, a transaction was made, and a reportedly good time was had by all - just good, clean, thoroughly gay American fun. But then Mister Goodenow (from all later indications, a greedy little prick) decided to open his mouth.
It seems he wanted money; specifically, money from the Good Reverend for the service of keeping his mouth shut in the future. Collingswood, perhaps seeing his aspirations fly away on gossamer and sequined and politically destructive wings, paid him.
It should have ended there. It did not.
Two weeks later, Chucky decided he needed a hot tub for his bungalow and so he went to his old pal, Artemis for funding.
The tit, however, had run dry.
Three days after that, when Mister Goodenow awoke from his coma in a strange hospital bed, he began to sing like a Cher impersonator. Unfortunately for him, the person to whom he performed his aria of alleged aggravated battery happened to be an equally ambitious Assistant District Attorney and friend of the person accused of beating the shit out of the greedy little bastard. No charges were filed against Reverend Artemis Collingswood.
The fact Charles Goodenow was shortly thereafter arrested for prostitution and possession of narcotics he claimed were not his, and subsequently sentenced to a twelve-to-twenty-five-year prison term must, I'm sure, be another one of those coincidental incidents.
I am in no way, shape, or form condoning what Charlie did. If he wanted to sell his body, fine. Most of us do, in one way or another. A professional athlete sells his athletic ability; musicians, artists, actors and (dare I say) writers sell their talent; soldiers, firefighters and police officers sell the potentiality of their lives; to suggest models sell their bodies is like saying birds fly or the sky is blue. But to sell information about a moment of what should have been nothing but pleasure was, I think, reprehensible.
Should he have been beaten into a coma? No. Should he have been (in all probability) framed and sent to prison? Doubtful. Okay I'm hedging on that one. Point being, he deserved a penalty. What he got was admittedly extreme and probably unjustifiable, which brings us back to the Good Reverend.
Old Artie, from all indications, vowed he would never again be put in such a position.
Please note, this says nothing about him never again having sexual relations with another man; it simply suggests he would never be caught doing it, or if he were would maintain sufficient political cover to make it all go away. His preferred method for executing this regimen of guilt- free (or at the very least plausibly deniable) gay sex was to initiate a tried and tested, historically precedent procedure of blaming the cause of his temptation, rather than his inability to control his libido and keep his cylindrical traitor in check.
Since Biblical times, when male dominated society suppressed the Goddess and placed the female of the species firmly beneath their societal thumbs, women have taken the blame for men's inability to control their urges. The concept of Original Sin places the entire mantle of responsibility for all the evils of the world squarely on the shoulders of the half of the population who, historically, has had no control over it.
Eve - that little slut - screwed up and disobeyed God (a masculine figure, if ever there was one) there in the Garden with the snake and the apple; and poor, dumb, Adam, with his previously innocent penis, allowed himself to be duped by the brazen hussy, and so found himself - through no fault of his own - kicked out into the Bad Old World right square on hisblameless keester. That this shifted responsibility from those who had taken charge and dropped it at the feet (so sore and tired from being in the kitchen barefoot, pregnant, and rattling those pots and pans) of those who had no control was, once again, pure coincidence.
Funny how it keeps happening.
The problem with this scenario in regard to the Good Reverend was that since gay male sex indicates the absence of women, it leaves no room for the historically convenient patsy. Luckily for our dear friend Artemis, however, our Western penchant for slapping labels on pretty much everything provided him with the necessary scapegoat: those pesky homosexuals.
You see, it wasn't that Artie was gay - after all, he had a wife and three children by the time he enters our tale of woe and strange sucking noises. It's that those damned homos, those fags, those rump-ranger butt-pirates, with their cute bottoms and pretty mouths and flaunted sexuality caught him at a vulnerable moment and manipulated the situation, leaving poor, unfortunate, blameless Artemis Collingswood unable to resist the temptation. It was all their fault.
It is of course (and again) coincidental that these vulnerable moments kept happening every few days. Damn the luck! And damn the gay people!
And since it was all their fault, and since the Right Reverend Artemis Collingswood was nothing, if not civic-minded, he decided to devote his life to eradicating the source of his temptation so that those other poor, unfortunate (and male) citizens in similar dire straits would never have to face the same dilemma.
Naturally, of course, he did this on the Q-T, the down- low, the hush-hush, and the discretion-is-the-better-part-of-valor; because true charity and civic-mindedness are to be performed with discretion and anonymity, never trumpeting one's own accomplishments, unless doing so would allow a person of humble and unselfish nature to achieve and maintain elected office, so that said person could continue the Good Work.
This posed a problem - a bit of a sticky-wicket, as it were because no entirely male political constituency existed. At least half (and in many places, more than half) of the voting population had ovaries, rather than testicles, and so focusing on male homosexuality to the exclusion of all else, simply would not do. Since sex (in his and his ilk's twisted minds) was the problem, the culprit, the cause, and the smoking gun at the center of our societal ills, sex itself would need to be addressed. But not just any sex.
Propagation of the species needed to be maintained, after all, provided it could be restricted to the white bread, non-offensive and thoroughly vanilla missionary variety. All other forms would need to be stamped out, crushed, and shoved back into the foul pits of Hell from whence they came.
And so Reverend Artemis Collingswood had himself a genuine, Capital-P Purpose, a calling, a vocation; he was on a mission from God.
Unfortunately for him (and perhaps fortunately for the good people of Anaheim) the Goodenow incident had been a bit too public. And so, while he had not been charged, his aspirations in the area were pretty much toast. He headed north, which is where he enters and we continue Our Story.
13
Municipal Moral Codes
As I sat there with shocked and open (and formerly blowjob-giving) orifice, the man whose cum I'd tasted launched into an attack upon the people who, according to him and his narrow-minded, sexually-repressed, morally superior friends, would be the very sort to allow the wet and orgasmic expulsion of bodily fluids into willing oral cavities to which he, himself had been privy just the previous night. The bald-faced audacity of it stunned me into flaccid repose, proving that silver linings come in all shapes and sizes and hypocritical viewpoints.
"Fellow citizens," he greeted, using the alternate version of the standard politico hello, "A deviant element has been allowed to flourish in our city. Pornography and prostitution and homosexual activity and drag queens and gay bars have filled our streets and pushed their filth onto the good, God-fearing people whose only sin has been to be permissive. Why just the other day, I saw two men French-kissing on a street corner not three blocks from an elementary school," (and just last night he'd had his hypocritical dick in my mouth). "There are drag-queen shows on the Lord's Day and sex movies available twenty-four hours. There are women of ill-repute plying their wares right out in the open and stores selling leather and whips and chains right in amongst our antique shops and restaurants and tourist destinations."
He paused to fix the assemblage with a stare daring anyone to dispute his claim. None did. This may have had something to do with the police-cordon around City Hall and the page they took from Dubya's playbook regarding non-partisan crowds at political events, but I could be wrong.
"My friends, this must stop," he declared with righteous indignation. "And starting tomorrow, it shall!"
A cheer rose from the throng and a chill raced up and down my spine until it came to rest in the general vicinity of my scrotum.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and a growing horror in my recently-porno-presenting brain, I listened as The Good Reverend laid out what became known as The Municipal Moral Codes: a list of public ordinances dictating behavior which would no longer be tolerated. Among them were such repressive gems as open displays of same-sex affection, the sale of retail items deemed objectionable by the panel which would be convening that very night, the showing or transmission of material designated by said panel (who would, like the Meese Commission, be empowered to pick and choose based on arbitrary criteria they made up on the spot) as pornographic (I can't define it, but I know it when I see it). They would put an end to prostitution and sex-based (in other words, Gay) night clubs. There would be no more Drag Queen Breakfast at the Orpheum, no more lingerie shops at the mall, no more Zebulon.
This, in any event, was the proposal on the table. None of these things had been approved by the City Council or signed by The Mayor (who had conveniently disappeared from the scene, and thus remained safely unavailable for comment). At the moment, they did not have the legal authority to do what they claimed they were going to do, but this hardly seemed to matter to Reverend Collingswood.
Obvious constitutional questions were asked by the assembled press and cast aside like so much superfluous frippery. The recent recipient of my first completed blowjob cared not in the least for such things. He and his morally questionable, yet superior cronies were going forward – Damn the Constitution and full steam ahead!
??
At this point, the beleaguered and overworked receptionist called my name and beckoned me to receive the written results of my test for potentially life-threatening illnesses. This should have been a good thing. This should have lifted my spirits and removed a fear-filled weight from my chest. Bad news would have come in the form of a solemn and stern-faced physician in the privacy and seclusion of one of the offices in back. Paper meant I had been declared germ-free. Yippee!
But none of this registered; none of it got past the great big You've Gotta be Fucking Kidding Me going on in my brain. I stumbled out into the warm afternoon air and headed for my lesbian.
...To Be Continued...
...But not before...
Smoking
Suzie had been a bad little girl. The principal at her school said she'd been caught smoking, but I knew what was going on. She didn't smoke and never had. She'd done it simply to get in trouble. She knew what a call from the principal would get her.
She was waiting when I got home, wearing skintight Lycra sweat pants, a sports bra and an impish smile. She was ready and she wanted me to know it.
"I guess Mrs. Dean called," she said, looking me right in the eye.
"Yes, she did," I said, beginning to feel the sweet anticipation between my legs, but wanting to play along. The game was part of the fun.
Technically we were cousins, her mother and my father having been siblings, but our roles were a little bit different than usual. I, at age twenty, became her defacto guardian after her mom skipped town with a rock musician that was about three seconds older than her eighteen year-old daughter. Legally, Suzie was an adult, but she still had about two months left to go in high school.
Staying in school had been her decision, and I had to hand it to her for that. But I suspect part of the reason was that it provided her with a series of excellent excuses to get into trouble, the results of which were always the same.
She'd come to live with me about six months ago because my apartment was only a few blocks from school. She'd stayed because I gave very good spankings.
"What do you think I should do about it?" I asked, knowing the answer.
"I promise I'll never do it again."
"Why do I have a hard time believing that?"
"A hard time?" she asked innocently. She was looking at my crotch.
"Enough small talk," I said. "You know what's coming. Assume the position."
She smiled, slid her hand into the folds of tight fabric between her legs, then turned around and bent over the arm of the couch. I stood there admiring her teenaged ass and she knew it and gave it a wiggle.
"You're getting to like this a bit too much," I said. "So today I think we're going to have to do something more."
"Like what?" she asked, looking at me over her shoulder.
I reached out and ran my hand between her butt cheeks. Her cunt was warm and gave a little twitch. "Spread your legs," I commanded.
She did not at first comply, so I gave her a resounding swat to compel obedience. The lower half of her body jumped and she gave a little squeal. But she still didn't open her legs. Four or five more swats in rapid succession did the trick.
I ran my hand down and across her pussy, giving it a nice squeeze. "I'm not just going to work on your ass this time," I said and gave her mound a good whack. She moaned, arched her back and raised her rear end. This was going to be fun.
I slapped her pussy a half-dozen times, each harder than the one before, then stopped and lightly tapped the fabric over her clit. "You like this, don't you?" I asked, more than able to answer the question for myself. She let out a lusty "Ohh," and opened her legs a bit wider.
"Do you want more?"
"Yes," she breathed.
"Too bad," I said and pulled my hand away.
She started to protest but I silenced her right quick with several well-placed blows to her ass. She squirmed, her perfect posterior undulating across the arm of the couch. The tight sweat pants revealed every contour, but it wasn't good enough. I couldn't see my handy work. I reached out, grabbed the waistband on either side of her hips and pulled. She wasn't wearing any panties.
The cheeks were pink and the area between them glistened with delicious moisture. Her sweats were bunched up around her upper thighs, forcing her legs closed, but that was okay. My cock began to protest the restriction of my own clothing, but I ignored it and instead began to spank her in earnest.
"Yes," she cried out. "Spank me. Spank my ass. I've been so naughty." I was happy to comply.
The flesh of her globes began to glow red. She whimpered and squealed and screamed with each contact of my bare hand – half pain / half ecstasy. But I wanted more. So did she.
"Stand up and take off your pants," I ordered.
She propelled herself off the arm of the couch, spun around and did as I told her, then just as quickly resumed the position, spreading her legs as far as she could. Her hand thrust between them and I saw her finger disappear into the glistening folds of her quim. She let out another long low moan as her digit moved in and out, the sweet nectar flowing over her hand. But I had other plans.
"No one said you could do that. Stop it right now or I'll fuck your ass with no lube." She paused, looking at me over her shoulder as if considering the alternative, then slowly moved her hand away.
The moment her pussy was no longer obstructed, I began to slap it as hard and as fast as I could, without actually hurting her. She let out a yelling moan, her juices splashing out of her hole and coating my hand. Now it was ready.
I stepped back, undid my belt and dropped my pants. "You want my cock, don't you?"
"Yes!" she cried. "God yes!"
"That's not good enough. You need to beg."
"Please," she whined. "Give me your cock. Fuck me. Oh please fuck me."
How could I refuse?
I grasped my rock hard member at the base, positioned myself between her legs and began to slap her clit with the mushroom head. Her knees buckled and she would have crumpled to the ground had the couch not been there. Her juices flowed across my dick like a flooding river, dripping her essence onto the carpet. Her orgasm ripped through her like an earthquake, her body vibrating, her hips thrusting uncontrollably. It was time.
I moved the tip to the mouth of her pussy and jammed my cock inside her. She grunted. In and out, in and out, I slammed against her, the hole warm and slippery, her muscles gripping me like a vice. My balls felt like they'd swollen to twice their normal size as I sped toward my own orgasm. All it took was a few more thrusts before I went off like a nuclear bomb, my cock spurting its creamy love into her sopping wet pussy.
I stumbled back, slipping out of her, my head dizzy, my heart thumping. I nearly fell. I stood there with the world spinning around me. The only thing that kept me from fainting was staring at her ass, red and hot, jutting out from the couch like a dripping prize. It felt like victory. My senses came back, albeit slowly, and I bent down and returned my pants to their normal position. I was still breathless, still swooning from the power of my orgasm. She lay there bent over the arm of the couch in a delectable heap, softly moaning.
"Did you learn your lesson?" I asked, finally.
"Yes," she mumbled.
"Are you ever going to smoke in school again?"
"No," she replied, glancing back at me. Her eyes smoldered with lust.
I believed her, too, believed she would behave. Until, that is, the next time.
The End
...I hope you enjoyed that little tidbit. The rest of Jack's story continues next time without further interruption.
As always, I look forward to your comments. Thanks, keep reading, and by all means, Support Nifty!
-Ian Wylde-