I’m a scientist, you know. Actually, I’m a doctor. I fix people. And I know how. So I don’t believe in miracles or the paranormal. Generally speaking, things happen for a reason, according to relatively predictable principles. My job is to learn what those principles are and to work with them.

My name’s Lucy, and my specialism is sex. Sounds fun, you think? Yes, it is – but perhaps not always the way you might expect. I work at the Institute for Sexual Medicine. I deal with issues of fertility, sexual diseases, genetics, hormones – lots of stuff: you name it, I’ve seen it. Weird things, unusual things. I won’t bore you with the details. But the point is, even the weird stuff is not random. It’s medicine, it’s science. It’s not witchcraft. It’s not magic. It works according to scientific principles: we just need to investigate what’s really going on, in order to help people.

So… when my girlfriend grew a cock one day… Yes, you read that right. No, she’s not a hermaphrodite, or intersex, or transgender, or anything like that. She just one day appeared with a cock. And then she proceeded to fuck me with it.

Now, I know what you’re going to say: girls don’t just grow cocks like that – especially not insatiable eight-inch beauties like Daphne now has. Yes, yes, I say beauties, because – well, it is beautiful. Actually, cocks are beautiful. Especially when surrounded by female flesh. Okay, I admit it, I used to fuck guys. But then I stopped fucking guys – not because I didn’t like their cocks, but because I decided I couldn’t stand the specimens of humanity who sported them. Well, a few of them anyway – but that was enough.

And then I met Daphne. And oh my fucking God, she is beautiful. She was, even before the cock made its appearance. Tall, dark, elegant, with small breasts but a huge scrumptious clit – well, even huger now of course… but I am getting ahead of myself. And we love each other so much. Really, truly, she is for me and I am for her. Forever.

Now, Daphne is very different from me. She’s an opera singer. Even worse, she’s a soprano – and all the stereotypes, let me tell you, are true. As much as I am a scientist, she is an artist. She talks about beauty, and eternity, and the transcendent, and the immanent, and “Platonic ideas”. As far as I can tell, it’s all bullshit – but it works for her, so that’s okay by me. And, by God, she sings beautifully. If anything could make me believe that there is a God, it would be her voice. You know when someone sings and you feel they have become a window to another world? That’s what it’s like just listening to her. God only knows what it’s like to be her and to be able to be that window. Okay, I admit it, I am jealous. My world, my scientific-medical mindset – it just seems so petty in comparison.

So how did Daphne get a cock? Well, her story is total mumbo-jumbo, involving aliens and time-travel and cryogenic suspension: it wouldn’t win any competitions, I can tell you. If I didn’t know Daphne better, I’d say she was on acid at the time. But she doesn’t do that kind of shit; she doesn’t need it because, she says, singing opera is trip enough for anyone. But whatever the truth, one day, I appeared in her dressing room after her matinée performance of a Strauss opera – and she had a cock.

And, oh my God, how we fucked! Now, if you’ve never been fucked by a girl who’s just acquired a real live dick – which I presume is the case for most of you – then, well, you haven’t lived. Which is kind of sad, because of course girls don’t just grow dicks just like that. Except they do. Well, one has, at least. And I am blessed to be her lover.

And so there we were – me grinning like a Cheshire cat, just fucked by my opera-singing lover with her eight-inch dick, feeling her sweet cum swashing around inside my pussy – when there was a knock at the door. And suddenly Daphne froze in terror, the colour drained from her face.

“What is it?” I asked her.

“Apollon!” she whispered. There was terror in her voice. Absolute terror – I’d never seen anything like it.

“What, the tenor guy? How do you know?”

“Oh God, Luce, you have no idea!” she whispered, her voice trembling, tears welling in her eyes, her jaw shivering as if she’d seen a ghost.

“I mean, I know he’s a dickhead,” I started to say, “but has he done anything to –”

“Don’t let him in!” Daphne hissed.

“Okaaay…” I answered, cautiously, wrapping her dressing gown around me and making my way to the door. Sure enough, it was the great Apollon Legay, in his costume, dressed as a cowherd. “Hi, Apollon!” I greeted him with an unconvincingly cheery smile, as I felt Daphne’s cum trickle down my thigh towards my knee. “Can you come back later? Daphne’s a bit… busy at the moment. Thanks, byeee!” I shut the door in his face before he had a chance to object.

“All right. Ah will come back lateur,” called Apollon’s voice from behind the door.

Daphne sat on the edge of her couch, hyperventilating. I got her a drink of water, gave her a hug, helped her to calm down, and then said, “Come on, let’s go out for something to eat, so you can tell me what’s bitten you – and where you got that motherfucker from,” I added, gesturing to her cock. “Okay?”

Daphne gave me a hug, her big girl-cock now dangling flaccid between her soft thighs, whilst I kissed her tears away, and that trickle of futa-cum reached my ankle.

~

“Signorina Daphne! Signorina Lucy! Benvenute! Che piacere!” We heard his voice calling almost before Daphne had touched the door handle to his little café north of Covent Garden.

“Giovanni, come stai?” Daphne and Giovanni have known each other for years – ever since she was junior chorus at ENO, and she used to pop into his place for a coffee between rehearsals. Now, of course, she is a star, and Giovanni, apart from taking full credit for that fact, adores her.

“Your private booth, signorine? Come, come, you don’t want the public chasing after you asking for autographs now. Come to the back, I keep you safe from all the paparazzi, sì?”

“Mille grazie, Giovanni,” said Daphne, as they kissed each other’s cheeks in turn.

Giovanni keeps a curtained dining booth at the back of his café for his celebrity operatic guests – of which, thanks to Daphne, he now has plenty. “Come, signorine, sit down. And this is my niece Lucia, visiting from Milano – she will serve you today. Ah, ah, Lucia, just like you, signorina Lucy – but we call her Mimì, like in Puccini. Sorry, her English is not so good – but signorina Daphne, I know you speak excellent Italian, maybe you can ‘elp ‘er?”

Daphne caught sight of the girl before I did – and I knew from the way her eyes widened that she must have seen something quite remarkable. I whirled round and was greeted with the most breathtaking vision of beauty I had ever seen. What Mimì was doing waitressing in her uncle’s café in London I don’t know – because she could have been a supermodel. She was small – a waif almost – fine, elfin features, a delicate button nose, high cheek-bones, long wavy light brown hair down to her buttocks, and eyes which announced to the whole world her own deliciousness – sparkling, fluttering, irresistible. She was wearing jeans, and a thin loose crop top which tastefully concealed – but only just – a pair of pert teenage breasts, nipples quietly straining for release through the soft fabric.

I could tell Daphne found her as sexy as I did, because she did that “man thing”, moving her handbag carefully in front of her crotch, before hastily taking a seat behind the table and rapidly pulling the flap of the tablecloth outwards over her lap in a desperate attempt to conceal her sudden erection. To her relief, neither Giovanni nor Mimì noticed her tent. After all, who expects a beautiful soprano to be concealing a hardon under her skirt?

Daphne has learnt her Italian from singing Donizetti and Verdi – which means that genuine Italians find her turn of phrase quite amusing. Giovanni has long been used to Daphne’s archaic-poetic style, basking in the imagined flattery of being spoken to like a nineteenth-century prince. Mimì was not expecting it, and could not help but smile as Daphne ordered our meal in the language of Ghislanzoni and Boito. And what a smile! Her entire face sparkled with grace and beauty. I was smitten – and felt just a touch guilty. After all, it really doesn’t do to be ogling other girls less than half an hour after being fucked by your lover, does it? Except, perhaps, when you know your lover is also ogling her, and, what’s more, has a raging boner on account of it.

By the time Mimì had left with our drinks order, drawing the curtains around our booth so we could not be seen by the other customers, Daphne was trembling all over. “Oh God, Luce, help me – I’m so horny! Why am I so goddamned horny?” She shifted her bottom awkwardly, trying to reposition her cock which, despite the intervening skirt, tablecloth and serviette, I could tell was still erect.

“Well, my dear, one: that girl is sexy as fuck. And two: something to do with that new member between your thighs, babe,” I giggled, shuffling towards her along the banquette and reaching under the layers of fabric to grasp it gently in one hand. “Your hormones are doing things which they never taught me about at the Institute!”

“Oh, God no, Luce, if you touch me there I’m not going to be able to hold back. I’ve got to control myself, this is agony!”

“Okay, darling, let’s change the subject,” I smiled, taking my hand off her cock. “We can have another fuck back at the theatre before your evening show. But how about you tell me where this thing came from?”

And so Daphne’s story poured out: about how she’d been hit by a car, and put into suspended animation, and woken up two hundred years in the future with a cock, and then sent back in time by a pair of aliens. Total horseshit, of course – but I didn’t think she was in the right place emotionally for me to say so just yet. So I listened carefully, nodding and making affirmatory noises as she spoke, holding her trembling hand and stroking her hair. Thankfully, talking calmed her down, and her erection gradually subsided…

… until Mimì came in with our wine – filling the booth again with her life-affirming, sultry beauty. Fuck the wine. I didn’t even need to look at Daphne’s crotch: I just knew her cock was rising again. Jesus – what was I going to do with her?!

Distract her, I decided. “So what’s this business with Monsieur Legay then?” I asked, as Mimì left, drawing the curtains shut behind her. Now, I already knew the man was a lecherous dickhead – typical tenor – with a long-suffering wife and kids back home in Paris, while he travelled the world singing exquisitely and fucking chorus girls. But he had never, as far as I knew, tried it on with Daph.

And then Daphne’s whole terrifying story poured out: of how he had tried to force himself upon her, but she had kneed him in the crotch and sent him packing, just after today’s matinee – in her imagined alternate reality, that is, which, I noted silently, was becoming progressively embellished with each re-telling. But she insisted that it was to escape him that she had run out into the middle of Floral Street and been hit by the imaginary car. Of course, it couldn’t have happened, could it? Because people don’t go back in time. And there is no such thing as “alternate realities”. And women don’t grow dicks…

Oh shit – except, of course, Daphne had. Grown a dick, that is. And she was still trembling in fear and humiliation, gulping down her wine in an attempt to calm her jittery nerves, while telling me a story which – though surely a hallucination – was clearly still affecting her deeply. And so I listened as best as I could, wiping away her tears and kissing her hand.

“Allora, cosa vorreste mangiare, signorine?” I heard Mimì announce as she entered to take our food order, giving a slight start as she noticed Daphne’s hand at my lips, and averting her eyes swiftly. She had tied her hair back now, in a simple pony-tail which served only to accentuate the breathtaking beauty of her face even more than before. She seemed ever-so-slightly sweaty as if she had been working in a steamy kitchen: beads of moisture glistened on her upper lip, and her now slightly damp top sagged endearingly against her pert protruding nipples. Fuck, she was sexy! I sensed Daphne shift her bottom around on the banquette, trying to accommodate and conceal her cock.

“Why not just let it happen, babe?” I suggested softly after Mimì had left with our food order, reaching across and feeling Daphne’s cock, rigid and throbbing again in my hand.

She whimpered at my touch. “Oh God, Luce, I'm so horny, I need to come. I can’t wait. What do I do?”

I said nothing, but slipped gently off the bench and onto the floor under the table.

Soon Daphne’s dick was twitching in response to the caresses of my tongue, sweet pre-cum leaking generously from the glans and forming a long gloopy string which dangled invitingly in front of my face. It dribbled gently onto my chin as I took her cock between my lips and began slowly easing my face down onto her huge shaft, my tongue tickling the underside as it searched for her balls. I could hear Daphne squealing and whimpering above me, humming little snatches of opera and muttering, “Oh Luce, stop, please stop, if you don’t stop I’m going to… oh God, oh fuck, oh Lucssssss…” she hissed through clenched teeth.

As her cock exploded, I clamped my lips tight around her shaft, caressing her balls with one hand as she unloaded her sweet cum into my mouth. When I say “sweet cum”, I am not being poetic, you know: it is sweet – still a bit salty, still a bit chlorine-y, but sweet, like a combination of salted caramel, crème brûlée, and the Camden municipal baths. Mindful of keeping Giovanni’s carpet unsoiled, I took it all in my mouth, gently sucking Daphne’s cock in long strokes from base to tip so as to not waste any. Swilling it around in my mouth, I was just about to slide out from under the table and share it with her when – shit! – I heard the curtains opening and Mimì entering with our first course.

“I vostri primi piatti, signorine,” she announced as she entered, her slightly sweaty fragrance embellishing the exquisite aroma of basil and sun-dried tomatoes, butter and fresh sage which, even from under the table, I could smell floating up from our bowls of pasta. Seeing Daphne apparently sitting alone, she enquired, “Ah, dov’è la signorina Lucy?”

Daphne was still panting from her orgasm, but she managed to stutter, “Nel… nel bagno.” – “In the toilet,” she lied. “Fra-a poco tornerà-à-à” – “She’ll be back soon.”

But Mimì did not leave, instead deciding to stay and chat, clearly fascinated by this elegant operatic friend of her uncle’s who spoke archaic Italian. And muggins here was stuck kneeling under the table, with a mouthful of futa-cum, unable to move while they continued their conversation.

For a couple of minutes, it was okay. I swallowed the cum, licking my lips and fingers clean, and squeezed the last few drops out of Daphne’s cock as it gradually went flaccid again. Daphne and Mimì continued to converse in a mixture of Italian and English. My Italian is pretty rudimentary, so I caught only a few snatches of it – and it seemed to be principally inconsequential small talk – until Daphne asked, “Hai un fidanzato, Mimì?”

There was a pause, after which Mimì replied, “Boyfriend?” – clearly wanting to make sure she had understood correctly.

Daphne’s “yes” was met with another awkward silence, and a tentative “… nnno…” and then more silence. I could not see Mimì’s expression, or Daphne’s, but I had an idea what was happening, because I sensed Daphne reaching out her hand to touch Mimì, and I saw Daphne’s cock begin again to twitch.

“Oh, fuck,” I thought to myself. “She’s getting horny again. She wants to fuck the waitress – what do I do? My lover, my girlfriend, wants to fuck the fucking waitress – and she so wants to fuck her that she is getting yet another erection just thinking about it. What do I do?”

But actually, Daphne wasn’t just thinking about it. Not anymore. For Mimì was now sitting next to her on the banquette, her right leg pressed up against my lover’s, foot deftly kicking off her slipper and beginning to tenderly stroke up and down Daphne’s left calf. Soon I could hear the sounds of smooching and moaning coming from where, by extrapolation, I presumed their mouths to be now interlocked.

Now tell me, if it were you in that position – watching your lover get a boner from making out with a young waitress – what would you do? Rip her fucking dick off? Leap up, throw a hissy fit and storm out? Or quietly crawl out of your hiding place and join in? I mean, I’m no prude, really I’m not, but normally, I would at least expect a bit of consultation prior to my lover initiating an adulterous liaison – wouldn’t you? All these thoughts went through my mind as I sat there listening to the two of them slurping at each other’s faces, whilst watching Daphne’s cock grow huge and stiff again, bobbing lustfully in front of my face.

From the movement of their bodies, I could tell they were feeling up each other’s tits now. And then I saw Daphne’s hand reach down to Mimì’s crotch and begin to make gentle circles over her vulva through the fabric of her jeans. Daphne had clearly lost any self-control now, and any sense of the necessity of secrecy, for she made no attempt to stop Mimì reciprocating: the young girl’s hand stroked its way down across Daphne’s stomach, curling its way around the hem of her dress until, inevitably, it came into contact with, curled around, and grasped her balls.

“Porco Dio!” screamed Mimì, leaping to her feet. “Che due palle!” – and she was not wrong. In her shock, she knocked over the table – glasses of wine and bowls of pasta flying everywhere – revealing me skulking in embarrassment on the floor, my face inches from the pair of testicles she had just unwittingly discovered. Mimì stood trembling and panting in shock, pointing in horror at Daphne’s erection, now revealed in all its glory. “Signorina,” she trembled, “hai un cazzo!” – “You have a cock!”

There was a long silence. I was expecting Mimì to make a run for it. After all, what would you have done under the circumstances? But she didn’t. Instead, she stood trembling, eyes fixed on Daphne’s huge member, pointing in disbelief. My lover slowly stood up, her cock twitching with anticipation as she continued to ogle the waitress’s young lithe beauty. “Ti piace?” Daphne asked – “Do you like it?” Mimì nodded wordlessly, sweat beading on her face, a tiny strand of drool dangling from her trembling lower lip.

Mimì walked slowly back towards Daphne, her eyes fixed on her cock, her face exuding fascination and lust. Halting in front of her, she wordlessly – perhaps mindlessly – reached down, and grasped her dick with both hands.

Of course, Daph began to sing: she always does when she’s horny. This time – cheeky bitch! – it was “Che gelida manina, se la lasci riscaldar” – “Your tiny hand is frozen, let me warm it…” But by the time she got to “Al buio non si trova” – “You’ll not find it in the dark,” the girl had bent over from the waist, her tight arse sticking out behind her, and had swallowed her cock deep.

I stood watching in fascination, as Mimì began to suck Daphne’s cock, her lips sliding effortlessly up and down her huge dick, nibbling their way along on the downward journey, smearing outwards on the upward, leaving a thick layer of saliva glistening all along the shaft. The waif might not have had a boyfriend – but she clearly knew what to do with a cock. And what was I to do? Just stand there, transfixed as I was by the sheer beauty of the sight? Yes, Daph and I had had the occasional threesome with another girl in the past, but such events were usually meticulously planned and discussed in advance – you know, to make sure there’s no misunderstanding, no jealousy. I had never seen her pounce like this – but then, she’d never had an eight-inch cock before, or two huge testicles powered by… what hormone, precisely?

So, by the time Daphne had reached “Ma per fortuna è una notte di luna” – “Fortunately it is a moonlit night,” I was already kneeling behind Mimì, admiring her half-moons which peeped at me over the top of her jeans. And by “E qui la luna l’abbiamo vicina” – “The moon is close to us,” said jeans were around Mimì’s ankles, and my face was buried between her buttocks, inhaling the heavenly aroma of sweat, pussy juice and arsehole, laced with olive oil and fresh basil.

Mimì was clearly no novice with either sex, moaning contentedly as my tongue teased her little brown bud, pushing her bottom backwards into my face – even as great ropes of saliva began to dangle and swing off Daphne’s shaft as she continued to pleasure it deep in her mouth. Soon I was lapping enthusiastically at her starfish, feeling it begin to gently loosen and wink, welcoming my probing tongue into its pungent depths. And it was not long before Daphne’s rendering of Puccini had degenerated into squeals of anticipatory ecstasy, and I could tell she was approaching yet another orgasm.

Mimì clearly could tell it too – but she didn’t want that yet. “Signorina, inculami con questo cazzone!” she spat, as saliva dribbled down her chin and she ripped off her spit-soused top. It was not quite Boito, but Daphne understood, and I knew she wanted it too. I pulled the waif’s jeans off so she could kneel on the banquette, her bare arse high in the air, flipping myself over so I could taste her wet cunt from below. My opera-singing lover braced one leg on the banquette, poised with her huge cock pointing at the girl’s arsehole, now winking and dribbling from my ministrations, and lunged.

Mimì screamed. No, not a scream of objection, but a scream of ecstatic pleasure, followed by a long loud stream of Italian swearing which went quite beyond my limited knowledge of the language, and certainly not in the spirit of Ghislanzoni. I lay below, inhaling the girl’s young cunt-fragrance whilst watching my lover’s huge cock – not much more than a couple of hours old yet, in this world anyway – pounding in and out of our waitress’s tight arsehole. I reached up with both my hands, curling two fingers of one hand into Mimì’s neatly shaven cunt, and two fingers of the other into Daphne.

“FUUUCK!” screamed Daphne. It takes a lot of pleasure to get Daphne to shift from singing to swearing, so I knew I was doing well. The Italian girl had clearly lost all inhibitions too, as she began to mouth off: “Ah sì, signorina Daphne, inculami, metti il tuo cazzone nel mio culo. Signorina Lucy, ti piace la mia figa calda, sì? Allora mangiala, bella puttana. Ah sì, eccola, signorine, SÌÌÌÌÌÌÌ!”

Well, perhaps I made some of that up – but it was along those general lines, and even if you don’t know any Italian, you get the idea, I’m sure… At any rate, I felt the young girl’s cunt spasm against my fingers, tasted her juices dripping into my face. I saw Daphne’s balls tense, heard her squeal, “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck I’m going to come,” and saw her cock stiffen, pulsate and release her load deep into Mimì’s arse, eliciting yet more squealing and swearing from the young girl as she felt her rectum fill up with Daphne’s sweet seed.

Daphne slowly slid her cock out of Mimì’s tight hole, and a small flood of cum dribbled out after it, down the crack of her arse, forming little rivulets between and around her cunt-lips, which dangled tantalisingly above my face. “Ne vuoi?” asked Mimì, looking round and down into my face – “Do you want some?” I nodded, and she obliged, sitting on my face so that my mouth could envelop her creamy cunt and arsehole, and all of Daphne’s warm sweet cream could dribble down my throat.

From my recumbent position, Mimì's face, framed between her pert puffy tits, looked even more ravishing than ever. And when she giggled cheekily, “I secondi adesso?” – “Main courses now?” we both replied, “Sì!”

~

“I’ve changed,” said Daphne, as we walked back to the Opera House.

“No shit!” I grinned.

“No, no, I don’t just mean like that. I mean…”

“In your desires?” I suggested.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Luce. I love you. I love you so much. But this dick, it’s just… insatiable, uncontrollable! You’re an expert on such things – is that what’s it like for people with cocks, all the time?”

“You mean men? Pretty much,” I nodded grimly, my cynicism overriding my clinical judgment. “That’s why I gave up on them.”

“Oh, baby, you won’t give up on me, will you?” said Daphne, desperation etched on her face. “If so, then this cock just isn’t worth it!”

“Well, you’ve got it now,” I chuckled. “And short of time-travelling you back to the future, I don’t know how to get rid of it. So, no, I’m not going to give up on you. I never will. Keep fucking me with that thing, and I’ll stick by you, love. Always.” I squeezed her hand.

As we reached the stage door, I added, “But what are we going to do about the Frenchman?”

A mischievous grin crossed Daphne’s face. “Funny you should ask that. I think I have an idea…"

~

Fifteen minutes later, we were both in Daphne’s dressing-room, and both clad in nothing but dressing gowns – Daphne sitting on her couch, me standing against the wall at the other side of the room. There was a knock at the door, and Daphne winked at me, before calling out: “Come in.”

It was, of course, Apollon – leering and ogling as usual, as he greeted my lover with, “Ah, tu es très belle, Daphné!” Apollon was barrel-chested and tall – handsome enough, I suppose, but with an air of loud self-satisfied arrogance which reminded me of one of my exes. In fact, he reminded me of all the reasons I gave up men. But I put that all to one side, as Daphne and I had a dish to concoct – and it would be best served cold.

Daphne is an opera singer; despite that fact, she is actually a rather good actress, and she was playing her part perfectly. “Et vous êtes très gentil, Apollon,” she replied, in mock courtesy. “And do you know my friend Lucy?” she added, gesturing towards me.

Apollon turned and caught sight of me, his eyes shamelessly focussing on the shape of my large tits, bulging under Daphne’s somewhat too-tight spare bathrobe. “Ah, Lucie – is zat your geurlfriend?” asked the tenor with a knowing smirk.

“Yes, she is my girlfriend, Apollon,” answered Daphne with a smile. “Isn’t she pretty?” I fluttered my eyelashes in what I thought was an utterly ridiculous soft-porn centrefold manner – but Apollon was clearly no great judge of my piss-poor thespian skills, or at least, any judgment he might have was submerged under good ol’ male tit-lust.

Either way, Apollon thought this was hilarious. “Daphné, Lucie – oh là là! Beaudiful geurls like you shouldn’t be feucking each ozzeur. You need a man to take care of you,” he leered.

Daphne giggled coquettishly, biting her lower lip as she replied, “Oh, Apollon. You are so right. And you are so handsome and strong. Please will you teach us girls the true meaning of pleasure?”

“Take your clozes off, my beaudiful geurls, and ah will give you such pleasure zat you will neveur want to go back to feucking each ozzeur,” drooled the tenor.

“Oh, how could we resist, Apollon?” trilled Daphne. I stood in the corner, quietly pissing myself – metaphorically speaking, that is – but trying not to show it. “This is our treat for you, Apollon,” she continued, giggling. “Lie down on my couch, on your back, and we will give you a surprise.”

“A surprise?” he grinned. “Quelle sorte de surprise? Do you want to give me a special show, ze two of you? Or maybe a special kind of massage?” He lay down on the couch, giggling in anticipation, like a stupid schoolgirl. I approached, doing my best to look seductive, despite feeling little more than an unpleasant combination of ridicule and nausea.

Daphne pulled out a scarf to tie around Apollon’s head as a blindfold. “Oh, you are a very naughty geurl, Daphné!” he chuckled. “What will you do wiz me?”

“Nothing you could possibly imagine, Apollon,” Daphne replied, tying the blindfold over his eyes. “Something out of this world, in fact!” Once the fool’s eyes were covered, Daphne slipped off her dressing gown to release her large but flaccid girlcock. Silently, I knelt down in front of her and began to suck. This was revenge, not a pleasure-fuck, so I worked fast, my cheeks hollowed out, rapidly wanking her shaft with one hand, whilst stroking her large balls with the other – till her cock was stiff and throbbing. I opened the front of my dressing gown so Daphne could ogle my tits – and she began to moan in pleasure.

“Oh là là, Daphné, Lucie – que faites-vous là? Puis-je voir?” giggled the man stupidly. I guessed that he could hear the slop-slop of Daphne’s cock fucking my mouth – but that it probably sounded enough like a rather vigorous pussy-frigging, that he wouldn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary.

“Have patience, Apollon,” panted Daphne between little squeals of pleasure. “Soon you will have the experience of your life!” And she was right, for soon I felt Daphne’s cock expand further in my mouth, and begin to twitch as her cum rose yet again. Just as she was about to spurt, she did that male pornstar thing, pulling her cock out and starting to jerk off rapidly with her fist – her huge swollen glans about six inches from Apollon, and pointing directly, mercilessly, at his face.

Just as her cock began to blast, Daphne called out, “Surprise, Apollon!” and pulled off his blindfold.

Apollon’s screams, I am reliably told, could be heard as far away as Covent Garden market.