Subject: Lushstories Feedback
I’m sure you thought there was only a slight chance that you would hear from me again someday. “Slight” is sometimes enough. I have to believe, however, that you never expected to hear from me via this venue, an erotic story Web site, nor that I would somehow stumble across this little trio of stories about us: “Tell Me A Story,” “Talk to Me,” and “Listen.” I do hope, however, that on the wildly remote chance I did
stumble across them, that you did not think that I’d fail to recognize myself, our sexual affair, or the sentiments and psychologies at lusty play therein.
Of course, I never thought that there would be a time when we didn’t hear from one another. Life takes us in strange directions, no?
You were always so meticulous at drawing from life, you sweet selfish motherfucker. No, not just drawing from life: the broad strokes in these stories are scrupulously altered. No one else in our circle of acquaintances from that time, familiar with the general framework of our lives, would spot “you” or “me.” You’ve elided those clues nicely. No, it’s the seemingly throwaway details that tip your hand and reveal your muse: the naked, striding woman briefly reflected in the mirror; her idle speculation, after she’s enjoyed yet another intimate mouthful of his cum, about the quantity she’s swallowed over the years of their affair. You recall that I just didn’t think
that thought, but rather mentioned it to you in bed one afternoon. You claimed to find it an odd thing to wonder about. Yet, when I gave you a rough estimate of my calculations to date, you were plainly turned on enough to straddle me and fuck my mouth then and there to add to your total.
(Just for your information, regarding the final tally: counting the times I either sucked you off, or jacked you off into my mouth, or just asked you to shoot your cum there after a good, meaty fuck, I swallowed the ejaculations of 471 of your orgasms, love. I kept a coded journal, you see, tabulating All Things Us. I could never get enough of All Things Us. Your loads were impressive, darling, especially in those first years when we were all so much younger, but as I’m sure you vividly recall, I sometimes took in two or even three money shots a lovemaking session, each of subsequently diminished volume. Still, it’s safe to say—and my pussy is throbbing just from saying it—that I drank down about one and a quarter gallons of your hot, thick cream.)
Oh, there are plenty of other little revealing trills and grace notes to your steamy tales. And I must admit, it does give them the shimmer of naturalism, the throb of authenticity. You son of a bitch. And I couldn’t help but be amused by “your” character. I take some pleasure in knowing that you thought those things about me, about us… I only wished you had expressed them as willingly and lovingly as your fictional stand-in managed to. Or did you not really think them at the time, only make them up later, in the dizzying hothouse of fuckstory writing? Did you really find me beautiful? Did you really lust after me in that way, and so constantly?
Well, I’m sure there are plenty of things and ways I felt about you that I never managed to communicate properly, though after reading your stories, I have the reassuring sense that perhaps you intuited much of it anyway. Or perhaps that’s just you wielding art in an attempt to perfect life. With the exception of the first tale in the triptych, the titles “Talk to Me” and “Listen” indeed seem to be a fervent, two-pronged request? A plea? A melancholy wish? Had we done those things, or done them a bit more—talked and listened to one another—I’d most likely be mouthing that lovely, generous cock of yours right this minute, rather than tapping out a pale e-mail. But maybe that was the point of airing this laundry.
A Muse Amused
Subject: Re: Lushstories Feedback
Thank you for the kind feedback. Your letter was wonderfully articulate and beautifully written—so much so that I almost wish I was indeed whoever it is you think I am. That I managed to capture or characterize something in such a way that leads you to believe that I’m drawing on your (or someone’s) actual experience is a compliment of sorts, and I appreciate it. But I assure you, all of my stories on this Web site, including this little triptych, are the products of my imagination. Fiction. Make-believe. Fantasy. The work of idle hands, someone trying to spell the tedium of the workday. Sorry, but thanks for your note anyway.
Subject: Your charadeCher
I suppose I should at least find some solace, if not take some pleasure, in your compliments regarding my prose style. But after reading your stories and then so recently seeing your reply hit my inbox, I guess was hoping for recollections and fondnesses more carnal in utterance if not scope than what you offered. The appearance of the e-mail aroused that familiar rush of heat to my cheeks and sudden lush, tropical feeling in my loins; I was looking at least for more clues or interpretable euphemisms on my laptop screen to read and read again as I worked fingers over clitoris and cunt. Do I need to ask you to forgive my frank talk? No, that was our language, as we used to say; that was our principle form of communication. Sex, and its hard, consonantal cries: fuck, suck, cum, cunt, cock, jack, spurt.
We learned to talk like that together. I never knew I liked it until I heard it, and then never knew I needed to hear it until I heard it from my own mouth. Some might find that just coarse or (and here’s a word I simply hate) raunchy. And in any other setting, I would wholeheartedly agree. After Us, they were never again natural utterances for any other situation or partner (now don’t be shocked by that; I couldn’t go chastely cold turkey after being fucked stupid by you for seven years. I had to at least try to find another cock to whisper those words to. But it was never the same, neither the words nor the cock).
But you and I, darling, had stripped away all the layers of identity in the bedroom when we hit our stride. You said it yourself: we’d achieved the most intimate, unvarnished, fundamental level of mutual desire and lust. Maybe a professional headshrinker would say that we’d simply fetishized each other. Maybe a professional headshrinker should go fuck himself.
Trust me, Gray, you are precisely whoever it is I think you are. I appreciate the politeness and dignity of your authorial disclaimer. But I know you, or the you I think is you, and only the literate, married gentleman who fucked my greedy, cum-famished mouth in the Evergreen Borough Library late one sunny winter morning would make sure he noted, almost as an aside, where we were in the stacks: the gloriously profane detail of that public cocksucking taking place in “the 200s,” as you wrote—“Religion,” according to the Dewey decimal system.
And only that same gentleman could not resist all the other little coded bits: the name of the woman’s husband, “Ray,” for my Sonny; the use of the phrase “marital bed”—I remember noting to you how quaint I thought it when you said it during that actual afternoon of fucking when we reminisced about that torrid evening of fucking, so carefully described in “Listen.” There is, of course, the detail in your profile of your “location.” Your nom de plume, a bit of hiding-in-plain-sight, masquerading as a description. And of course, the whole story-within-a-story aspect of your trilogy connects the dots. You could never resist the storytelling, or storytold, nature of our lives.
I know your response to my first e-mail was merely caution on your part. But I hope that the details I’ve provided demonstrate that not only are you who you say you’re not, but that I am also who you say I can’t be. The cyber tide has brought your message in a bottle to my ragged little shore. (And it is a shore; I inhabit something like an island these days, T. Right now I’m cross-legged on the very same big “marital” bed where you fucked me so often, so thoroughly, so nastily. Shot your cum on me. Soaked the sheets with our sweat and the copious fluids from my ready cunt. Whispered drowsy obscenities to me while you pounded my pussy. The kids are nearly grown and mostly gone, immersed in their own first, moist fantasies. Sonny travels constantly on business and has more or less given up on our congress. I sit here, the candlelight warm, the vodka cold, my books and magazines like breakers around me, and this laptop now like my lookout tower onto the wide world.)
I wish you would do me the courtesy of finishing this story for me. I know how
it ended, but I still don’t know exactly why
Subject: My Charade
I felt that the best way to convince about who I am, or who I am not
, would be simply to not respond at all to your last message. But that seemed to me unkind.
Here is the truth of the matter. I am not the male protagonist of the stories. I am not even a male. I’m afraid I bear more similarities to you, if what you’ve been writing about yourself is genuine, than I do to your former paramour. I’m a 47-year-old woman. I’ve been married for 25 years to the same man. By next October I should be a grandmother. I’ve never had sex outside of my marriage, however much over these last ten years I would have liked to. I’m not even “located” in Pennsylvania as my profile states, but rather Bath, Maine. And it’s beautiful here, by the way. After my third child was born, 20 years ago, I thought that I’d lost all need for, not to mention interest in, in sex. After ten years, however, I realized that I hadn’t lost all interest in sex, just all interest in sex with my husband. I’ve never done anything about it. I mean, I’ve never done anything that would qualify as infidelity. I’ve been pretty effective sublimating my need for sex by writing about it. As for love, well… I feel an abundance of love for my children, for books, for writing, for sailing, for Maine ’s rocky shore, for playing tennis, for cooking…
This is boring. Not the kind of thing I’d expect someone writing to someone else on an erotic story Web site would care to hear. I’m sorry to disappoint you, and I’m sure now that when you read any subsequent stories I manage to publish, you just won’t find them stimulating at all, knowing the truth about me. But I couldn’t let you labor any longer under the wrong impression, let alone a patently wrong belief. I’m also sorry that you still seem desirous of this particular person that you mistook me for, but who apparently left you without some proper conclusion or explanation.
There is such a thing as erotic pain, and it sounds to me that, in each our own unique ways, we have both suffered.
Subject: Erotic Pain
I’m having a difficult time grasping all of this. Can it really be true? You’re really, truly not him? How can this be? How can you have written these stories and not be him? I think I find it harder to comprehend that you have such a filthy, evocative imagination (and writing style), than that you’re not my Gray, with whose filth and powers of evocation I am intimately acquainted. So you just made all this up
, you dirty bitch? You’ve never, ever
, been fucked like this?
Well, let me tell you, as off as you may have gotten yourself, the tale is still in the tale. The telling pales next to a good, wet, carnivorous fuck. Not that the telling in and of itself was pale. I’ll give credit where credit is due. You write a mean fuck story. They have depth. They have the kind of context and nuance that make the eventual climaxes vibrate and quaver like a harp in my cunt. But all that you imagine, luv, is twelvefold less potent than the great unbridled rut.
Here, let me help you. Feel free to put this in your own words. I got pregnant shortly after we’d begun our affair, but not by him (you). We’d already had the “Night of the Triple,” as you artfully labeled it in your story and that we had coincidentally (how can this be?!) and equally artfully had called it ourselves. I was a ripe eight months gone, and just returning from visiting my sister Daisy in West Egg. Sonny, my husband, was to fetch me from the airport, but as typical for that time in our lives, was tied up drafting a legal brief and called instructing me to take a cab. From the Pittsburgh airport to our little town was easily a $30 cab ride, and while at any other juncture in our married life I would have told him to get his ass out to the airport to pick up his pregnant wife or the only activity his prick would enjoy was a long, slow shriveling from extended disuse, I realized that this was an opportunity for me to see my Gray, however briefly.
We were neighbors, you see, and his wife and I were “friends” of a sort in the local circle, youngish educated couples all starting families, still on our first spouses, surrounded by that slightly fetid John Updike-ish suburbanite air of marriages growing inexorably tepid and lust incubating like a virus. As far as I knew then, however, only Gray and I had crossed over to the dark-red bliss realm of extramarital intrigue within that crowd. (Gray, of course, already had a rap sheet of forbidden cunt, only beknownst to me after
he’d laid me good and made me come out of my bloody fucking mind enough times that the knowledge of his other infidelities lost their overall import.)
I called Gray and Lynn’s house. Oh, I feel terrible, I hate to ask. Sonny can’t come, I guess I could get a cab but…
No, no, don’t you worry. Sweetie, you’re eight months pregnant! For heaven’s sake. Just sit tight. Gray will pick you up.
Twenty minutes, enough time for me to claim my bag and waddle out to the curb, and my Gray pulls up in his Acura. Five o’clock shadow. Hair tousled. T-shirt and jeans packing that available cock. I couldn’t have planned it, only wished for it, and even that would have been a vain and wild wish.
He seemed sheepish. Maybe it was nerves. He kissed me like a spouse, had been tentative around me since I’d entered the latter stages of my condition—Gray and Lynn had no children just yet and both treated me as if I was brittle, as if I was turning to crystal rather than bulking with flesh and blood. He swung my bag and carryon into the trunk, helped me to the passenger side, and ferried me home. My hormones had been raging throughout my trip. I needed sex, I needed cock. During that time I have to it admit that it almost felt like any cock would do. I did ponder the what-ifs of sucking off the middle-ager next to me in business class on my flight home, especially if it would have gotten him to stop snoring.
When we exited the freeway, left, right, left, and embarked on the long, dark two-lane that squinnied us down to our little hamlet, I turned to him and said, “Can I touch you?”
“Of course,” he said.
I first put my fingers to his cheek, leaned across the console and kissed it, and then smoothed my hand down over his chest, down, down to the thick cynosure between his legs.
“Can I touch you,” I said again, coquettishly, softly. I think he gulped. He thought I’d meant only his cheek, the innocent.
First I undid his seatbelt. “Drive very safely,” I whispered, unbuckling his belt, and then twisting and wrenching his trouser button until it passed begrudgingly through its attendant slit. That was tricky, even though he obligingly sucked in his gut. The zipper, however, parted its teeth with delicious ease despite the outward-pressing bulge. The inside of the car smelled like leather, paper, rubber, pine cones. I molded my hand over the hardened cock in his undershorts. Gloriously hard cock. O yes, I do believe he liked me.
“Mmm,” I hummed. “I love… your cock
.” But I said it slowly, hungrily, as if I’d just popped a bon-bon or a truffle into my mouth, and it came out more like “caulk,” like Julie Christie in “Shampoo”—if I hadn’t been squeezing said rod, he might have thought I was talking about his watertight silicone sealant. Slowly, I pulled away the elastic of his shorts and drew out his erection, a dim greeny-gray mushroom-headed pole in the dashboard glow. Beautiful. Bone-stiff. I bent to it. It smelled dark and leaf-moldy and with the faintest trace of mostly gone moisturizer—my Gray had unusually dry skin, and lotioned himself up every day to battle it.
I hadn’t really planned on this, Madame. I’d never sucked a cock in a car, let alone a moving one. What was most pleasing, I only learned later, was that no one had ever done this to Gray before. I was shocked by that, him being such veteran adulterer by that time. What a coup for me! To have gained a first against so many!
But that wasn’t on my mind at the time. I had started this whole thing with the intention of only teasing him, blue-balling him… I know that sounds cruel, and I don’t know why I thought to do that. Really, I think it was mostly a matter of not believing that I could do, or that he would allow, much more than just a manual bit of flirtation. But I was greedy, yes, like I said, and in great need of physicality. Thinking of it, I had to touch it, and touching it, I had to see it, and seeing it, I had to suck it, and sucking it… well, I couldn’t possibly stop short of making him give up his load. Choke me with his cum. Empty his balls down my throat, as I was fond of saying to him in my filthier throes.
And I was feeling particularly evil, as well, I’m ashamed but not above admitting. My “friend” Lynn so kindly gave up the company of her husband of any evening to rescue a preggo in distress, and I was going to repay her by sucking him off, by licking and sucking his hard cock until spurt after spurt of his married-man cum filled my mouth, until his jizz jetted over my hot, greedy tongue. Don’t you think, though, that when a woman is profoundly pregnant, she is also at perhaps her most narcissistic? One feels like a world of sorts, a kind of universe, completely unto oneself and wholly apart from all others. It’s all about me, about me and my stupendous, miraculous body, about procreation, making life, propafuckingating the species—how fundamental! One has moments when one almost feels deified. (Cut all this stuff out, luv. Lush readers will go cold over it, I expect.)
His cock. It tasted a faintish amalgam of urine, wax, sweat, and hair. Altogether, though, this was the taste Gray’s cock. Add saliva, and you have the taste of Gray’s cock when it’s been in my mouth. (Add copper penny and salt, and you have the taste of Gray’s cock after it’s been in my pussy.) I savored its cylindrical, hard-yet-soft full feel in my mouth for a bit, and bobbed it gently, thinking “this is me pretending to be a cunt, a cunt getting its fuck…” I had to stop and catch my breath.
“Don’t stop,” he breathed.
“I love fucking your cock with my mouth, baby,” I said, licking at the head, plunging my mouth down over as much of it as I could take, then pumping it with my fist. I must say that I was mostly oblivious to where we were, what was going on, had no more sense of being in a moving car. At that moment, I felt more consumed by his cock than consuming it. “I love…” bobbing, up for air, “your cock…” ditto, “in my fucking mouth…”
And then back at it, laving it stem to stern with my tongue, sucking the head, pulling off and pumping it and looking at it squarely in the dimness, sucking it some more. Looking at it some more. God, I wanted to see the white cum spasm out of it, but I also wanted to feel it, feel that unique belly-flop experience of a man ejaculating in my mouth… Even when you know he’s coming, even once you learn all the physiological nuances of a man so that you can detect the precise moment when he’s going to shoot, there’s still a thrilling beauty to it all. The same way you can never tire of a good rollercoaster; you see all the twists and turns, you see the long climb, you know you’re at the crest, you remember the sudden wild fear of the free fall, and yet… here we go, baby. Here we go. Give it to me…
He was shifting, thrusting… I felt the car gradually slow, slow… and then lurch back up to speed. (I thought about recommending cruise control, but felt it might break the mood.) He was close, and I loved that closeness, that feeling of being on the verge of no-control, both of us. I stopped bobbing and sucking, kept gently fisting…
“What do you want me to do with your cock, baby?” I said. “Should we save this big, hot load for Lynn ? Or do you want to fill my mouth? Hmm? Do you want to shoot your hot cum in my mouth, Gray? Baby? Do you want me to swallow your cum? Because I’ll drink it all. I’ll drink all your cum. I haven’t been able to think of anything but you shooting your hot cum down my throat since the last time you fucked my mouth …”
He just panted, glanced down at me hastily, then looked back to the road, thrusting his hips up at me. But I wasn’t going to take just that.
“You have to say what you want,” I said.
“Suck me off,” he croaked. “Drink my cum.”
“Are you sure,” I teased—I was scum, I know. But believe me, this made it all the more… authentic. Acknowledging what we were doing. Being genuine about what we were doing. Don’t pretend. “Are you sure you want to shoot your load in another woman’s mouth?”
“Take it. Or I’ll pull over and shoot it all over your pretty face. I know you’d like that.”
“Oh, yeah… that’s my boy.”
I slid my lips slowly and snugly down his hard shaft, like I was stretching a Trojan over that pole, and then began twisting my fist up and down the length of him while I sucked on his cockhead, joggling my tongue at the underside of his head… all this, I knew, was the crest of the hill, the end of the long climb…
He came in my mouth. He gushed his semen over my tongue, and I sucked at his spasming cock, swallowing, sucking, swallowing… It was warm, salty, clammish, sweetly edged, muscular. It was fucking beautiful, delicious in its purely biological, intimate way, controlled and yet chaotic, dirty and yet pure, coldly administered and yet desperately hot because of that. I could say I drank his cum, and this went intimately beyond all other common knowledge. Oh, I’ve cleaned up after him, and I’ve washed and ironed his shirts, and I’ve tended him through sickness, and I’ve listened to his deepest fears, and I’ve tendered his dreams, and I’ve wiped his tears… Yes, well, very nice, but have you swallowed his cum? Has he come in your mouth? Has he transmitted his hot, beautiful, slippery fucking load down your throat, groaning and thrusting and holding your head in place, his essence manifest through your entire system, your digestive track, your bloodstream, the molecules from his semen making their way to your brain? Have you eaten his cum?
I looked up at him from my place in his lap.
“You’re divine,” I said, meaning it. God.
“And you’re a slut,” he said. Meaning it. Smart boy.
A.M.to be continued...
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<a href="https://www.lushstories.com/stories/straight-sex/postmodern-love-part-1.aspx">Post-Modern Love: Part 1</a>