Viewing the local antiquities

Fifth Avenue. 

"I cut off my hair because last time you said it was too long."

"You didn't!"

Her hair: orangey-brown; her jacket taupe over the beige silk blouse with one button too many open.

"I couldn't believe you came two times."

I put a pillow under my ass so Jade1 can suck on my balls more easily. She munches my sack's beard, tugs it with her lips. She reaches her hands up, sticky fingers at my nipples, tugging them erect.

She has a shaved cunt.

"How can you shave there?!"

"After my bath."

"So it's soft."

"You can make me hard without touching me."

"I'm touching you now."

My knees are raised up. I raise my head slightly and look down between my thighs: The parting in her brown hair, her broad forehead, her calm eyelids. She's looking down at her work: Slurps as she gobbles my balls. She pauses, raises her head, meets my eye, and jerks her head off me.

"I'm shy."

"I won't look."

I think when her tongue tires she uses her finger. Her kitteny tongue is flat, rough, stings just a little. Now, though, I feel a smooth rounded caress under my ball sack and down my perineum toward my anus, where the skin thins; she's using her finger. She pauses.

I push away from her and sit up. She's still on all fours, so she crawls forward and takes my cock in her mouth.

She tugs at the top of the condom, making sure that my billable come count is zero. It snaps back soft around me.

Two days later her perfume is still on my sheets. Is strong cheap?

See also Remorseful things.


"For the baby," 
another {100}. Boulevard St Denis, Paris:

She was a fat, unscarred African I'd cased as the best available on my reconnaissance. She led me from her doorway through an unlighted archway into a courtyard filled with broken stone, then up the stairs: crumbling stone stairtreads, flaking tricolor layers of blue, red, white paint, exposed wires: all lit by yellow cage lights dangling as on a construction site, though no construction was evident: then into her room, neatly painted blue, with a polished floor, a wooden dresser, a mirror, shopping bags, and the bed.

And I did come twice, surprising myself, though not her: With her rump as a solid foundation, and the knowing tilt of her pelvis, I pounded my way to a come between her fat black thighs, looking down and seeing her creased belly shake: Her bushy motte hid a platform of flesh and bone I could slam against, slinging myself into the juiciness under her pubic bone.


Finally I have money, 
so early Sunday afternoon I start walking over to my favorite brothel Downtown. But I kept worrying whether my heartburn would pose problems. I imagined her—whoever, after such a long absence—on top, slamming down on my belly: Ouch! I could turn her around and get the back view, but still...

And then the RolAids seemed to kill off the Viagra.

I make this decision, mentally schedule an encounter, and when things don't feel right, I force myself forward regardless, because I've blocked out the time slot for the transaction. Why do I do this?

But then the location—location, location—an unnamed and logoless building with a red awning largely numbered 2221 and a green door near the med school, turns out not to be so ideal at this hour either.

First, there's the street person in the Santa Claus hat who sits on the steam grating out front on the sidewalk. Then the parking lot booth turns out to be manned. And then the suburbanites and their tubby children start clambering out of their SUVs.
"Where is that man going, Mommy?"

"I know him, that's John Psmyth! Hi, John!"
Somehow, complexity has been introduced. There's friction in the transaction that I haven't bargained for.

I turn away and spend the money on a long Sunday brunch and the Mail.


All characters and situations fictional. Copyright (c) 2003-2007 by "John Psmyth."
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