My body and face flushed hot as the Southern California sun, only a dick-length away from the wanton pair. And that’s when I finally figured out that I was as buck-naked as the two lovebirds, because I saw that my cock was pitching a silk sheet tent right alongside the sexy ladies. But they didn’t seem to take any notice, too preoccupied playing with each other.
Sara spun around and crouched down on the bed, showing off her rear-end to me and the brunette, the sweetest, most hand-pliable, teeth-sinkable pair of seat cushions I’d ever laid on eyes on before. Then she crawled backwards, her brazen buns rippling, until her bum was over top of the brunette’s pretty face, knees straddling the girl’s head.
The brunette gripped Sara’s butt cheeks, sinking her scarlet dragon-lady fingernails into the creamy-white flesh, making Sara murmur and me dry-lick my lips with longing. Then the woman stuck out her tongue, speared it into the ginger bush just below Sara’s incredible ass.
That Girl squealed with delight, her rump shivering, the woman licking Sara’s pussy, eating out the living doll’s snatch. As Sara dipped her head down and her own tongue into the brunette’s pussy, licking and sucking. It was the 69 muff formation of every hot-blooded male’s fantasy, come true right next to me. My body and cock surged with excitement.
The brunette really knew what she was doing, too, because she had Sara bucking and bleating in only a couple of minutes. The little babe’s big buttocks jumped and shuddered, as Sara wildly orgasmed on the end of the other woman’s tongue. She kept right on lapping at the brunette’s pussy, though, until that bob-haired beauty gasped and shook with her own orgasm.
I could hardly control myself, so wanting to pile-on to all that lovely female flesh. Sara shifted around in her girlfriend’s arms again, the two women kissing, licking their sticky juices off one another’s faces, their bodies and breasts pressing hotly together. I copped a quick head-turn and stared at the pair, shocked to see that the brunette was also a film maven; Sara called her “Yummy Dearest”, and her arched eyebrows, glaring eyes, and plush lips would go on to star in a multitude of sound movies.
And just when I thought the two minxes had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, I felt a warm, soft hand slip onto my bare chest under the silk sheet, slide down my tightened stomach and wrap around my wildly beating cock. ‘Yowza!’ I groaned, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth, the hot little hand swirling up and down the length of my raging prong.
I came almost instantly, spouting hard and often into the sheets, that small, deft hand milking me to sweat and sperm-drenched empty. I heard Sara sigh, and I turned my head, stared into her veiled eyes. Her head was nestled on her girlfriend’s tits, and she smiled at me and murmured, ‘Touchdown!’
We kept rolling on, winning game after game. And after we’d crushed one of our neighbouring rivals, Sara invited us all back to her Beverly Hills mansion for another party. But Coach was wise to the situation by now, and assigned a couple of freshmen to watch the frat house where we all lived.
So, Sara roared up the street in her big red roadster, horn honking and fiery hair streaming, her red Chow dogs sitting up on the front seat and barking away. It was quite a sight, and the freshies couldn’t help staring – as we all snuck out the secret back window in the frat house and met up with Sara a couple of blocks over.
We hit the heights that night. After plenty of good eats and good Canadian whiskey, the guys all got naked and jumped into Sara’s swimming pool, still sober enough to marvel at the Persian rug on the bottom of the giant dunk tank. Scantily-clad and unclad starlets jumped in with us, splashing around, nipping at our dicks underwater, getting breast-stroked.
But the star of the follies, as usual, was That Girl. She was energy unlimited, party girl extraordinaire, roller-skating around the edge of the pool in just a flimsy nightgown, daring the guys to catch her. Laughing and teasing, a whiskey bottle in one hand and champagne in the other, a lit cigar in her mouth. Like Fitz said, the ultimate flapper: pretty, impudent, worldly-wise and briefly-clad and hard-berled as possible.
When she got tired of the roller derby, she kicked off the skates and picked up a football. ‘C’mon, boys, time for a touch game,’ she yelled, racing out on to the lush green lawn beyond the pool, me and Tommy in hot pursuit. The glowing orbs of her rippling butt cheeks in the moonlight were like twin beacons to me, spurring me on to all manners of recklessness.
Sara spiked the ball down in the middle of the lawn and then set up over top of it, in a hiking stance, waggling her bum at us. I elbowed Tommy out of the way and got in behind her, Tommy playing defence. My cock went as hard as a game at Notre Dame, staring at that wagging bottom, then slipping my hands in beneath.
‘Oooh!’ Sara yelped, my fingers brushing up against her furry pussy. ‘You big brute,’ she said, turning her head and grinning at me.
I rubbed some more, her fur soft and springy, and damp. She moaned, undulating against my fingers. I got so excited I wanted to grab her by the waist and slam my cock into her pussy – or ass.
But she read my thoughts, and cracked, ‘A minute man, huh? The minute you know a girl, you think you can fuck her!’ Then she slammed the football up into my hands and took off.
She ran a hook pattern, big tits bouncing and big buttocks clenching, and I threw the ball to her. She caught it, squeezing it against her chest and turning to run up field. But Tommy right away tackled her, scooping the little vixen up in his arms and holding her squirming and giggling against his chest.
Then, as I watched with hanging jaw and humming dick, Sara dropped the ball and wrapped her legs around Tommy’s waist, her arms around his neck, and giddily kissed the guy. He grabbed onto her butt cheeks, and she grabbed onto his cock and jammed it into her pussy, as impulsive and wild as any Hollywood harlot!
Tommy started pumping his hips, fucking the impetuous redhead clinging to him, raining down kisses on his face. I could hardly believe my eyes, watching the pair go at it right out there in the open backyard. And as I quickly glanced around, I spotted another guy taking in the action along with me, from the sidelines, half-hidden in the shrubbery off to my left.
He was the lanky lineman with the hitch in his gait and drawl in his speech that we all called “Pilgrim”, and who went on to even bigger movie fame than Sara and her dark-haired girlfriend. He had a broken right hand – which kept him out of the ‘27 starting line-up – but his left hand was working perfectly fine, fisting his cock, as he watched Sara getting thumped by Tommy.
I turned back to the action, just in time to see Sara drop out of Tommy’s arms and scoop up the football, rush over towards me, her mouth open and hair flying and breasts bounding. She was the Galloping Ghost, only a million times prettier. And I ran right into her, blocking her progress.
She collapsed to her knees in a puddle of laughter and beauty, right at my bobbing cock level. She grasped it, stroked it.
‘Whoopee!’ I groaned, jolted like I’d taken a forearm shiver to the leatherhead.
Sara’s swirling hand felt wonderful on my straining hard-on, tugging me even harder and higher. And when she wrapped her ruby-red lips around my knob and sucked on it, I felt like I’d just been sent sailing through the goalposts for a score.
She clutched the base of my cock and bobbed her head back and forth on the shaft, sucking deep and hot and wet, lips sealed tight. Tommy came up behind her, and she dropped down on to her hands on the grass, dragging me down to my knees with her mouth on my cock. Tommy dove back into her pussy, doggy-style, rocking her back and forth on the end of my pole. As I dug my fingers into her thick red hair and helped her out with her sucking, pumping her cauldron of a mouth.
Sara stared up at me with that sultry silent film gaze of hers that had stiffened the dicks and wetted the pussies of a nation of moviegoers, her sensuous mouth full of my pistoning cock, her pussy getting stuffed on the other end. It was too much for me – the wild abandon of it all – and I grunted and went off in her mouth, blasting my joy. Just as T
ommy creamed her pussy. And Pilgrim fanned his six-shooter all over the bushes.
We finished the season with a tremendous record, but were shut out from playing in the only Bowl game available. So Sara saw to it that we didn’t go unrewarded, throwing her biggest and bawdiest party yet.
It took place at the epicentre of sin-sational Hollywood decadence, the Garden of Allah Hotel. Sara rented out their largest room, and loaded up one long table with a feast fit for triumphant Roman warriors, another long table with an Al Capone army of bottles. And at the head of the two tables, in between them, reclining on her side on a specially- designed padded platform, was the reigning Whore of Hollywood Babylon, her goddess-like body covered in rose petals.
‘Buffet’s open, boys!’ she cried, when we entered the room.
The Howlin’ Pack charged at her, ignoring the laden tables of chow and booze. Carnal appetites were always served first in the City of Angels.
We surrounded Sara, stripping off our duds and giving the silent screen gem an 11 gun salute. She licked her crimson lips, dark eyes gleaming, excited as hell to have the starting team buck-naked and at her beck and call.
‘Consider me your trophy,’ she breathed, stretching out on the platform and arching her back, thrusting her breasts up and nipples jutting into the air, rose petals sliding off to reveal everything. Then she kicked out a foot, spinning the platform around length-wise. She lay flat on her back and spread her legs, ginger bush glistening a welcome.
Willie “Pepperpot” Sanders was the first to take the plunge, shuffling forward and driving his cock into Sara’s waiting pussy. She moaned, stretched like a cat, grabbing on to a couple of other guy’s cocks hanging out near her head, and stroking. Chet Forde was directly in line with her face draped over the edge of the platform, and he fed his meat into her open mouth, all eight or so inches of it.
Sara’s throat and hands worked, sucking and pumping, Pepperpot pile-driving her pussy. Until he bellowed and blew, made room right away for the next guy. It was the wickedest team huddle any of us had ever been involved in, a gangbang of collegian proportions. Sara writhed around on the platform giving out blowjobs and handjobs galore, getting pussy-stuffed with cock after cock.
Artie “Over the Top” Pickford couldn’t control himself, going off in Sara’s tugging hand and striping her tits, lathering her body with jizz. A couple of guys quickly grabbed up champagne bottles and emptied them over Paramount’s leading lady, washing the hedonistic woman’s body with the bubbly while she kept right on smoking cocks like she smoked Gitanes.
It went on and on, wobbly-legged guys going for seconds and thirds, pumping and jerking, the sweat, sperm, and bootleg spirits flying in equal measures. That Girl didn’t need a scenario script for this scorching performance, the wanton wench working the crowd to everyone’s utter delight, giving the performance of a lifetime.
Until, at last, it was my turn at the gates of heaven, the nexus of sin and debauchery – in between Sara’s wide-open legs, in line with her sodden pussy. I’d been holding back, getting stroked and getting sucked, but not taking the ultimate plunge; hoping, maybe, for something special in the end. I was Sara’s biggest fan, after all, and her favourite football player of them all.
And sure enough, she looked up from the fringe of dangling, dripping cocks and grinned at me. ‘The best for last, Buff,’ she said. ‘The ol’ end-around play.’
She rolled over and reared up onto all-fours, and shook her plump, plush ass at me, pressing a button that lowered the platform down to exactly my cock-level. I doused my dick with champagne, then poured a golden stream of it over Sara’s buns, so that it rushed in between her cheeks. She shivered, shuddered her fleshy buttocks at me, and I gripped my goalpost and thrust it in between her luscious mounds. I hit the lady’s pink pucker and plowed on through, piling my body up against her behind, buried to the bone.
‘Oooh, yes, Buff! Fuck me, Buff! Fuck my bum, will ya!’ she wailed, her Brooklynese accent more pronounced the dirtier she got.
I grabbed hold of her narrow waist and moved my hips, sliding my cock back and forth in her gripping chute. The feeling was just this side of paradise, pure bliss fucking that silver screen idol’s ass. She received 8,000 fan letters a week; well, here was her biggest fan, giving it to her special delivery.
‘Faster, Buff! Faster!’ she hissed, always in a rush for her kicks. She shoved her butt back, bouncing her cheeks off my thighs, impaling herself on my stake.
I cranked up the pressure, churning my hips and pounding her bum, her chute a heated, silken tunnel I never wanted to exit. My thighs banged out a frenzied beat on her buttocks, making them dance and shimmy, my cock gone white-hot in her bung, hitting the high notes, ready to trumpet jism into her bowels.
The team stood around in awe, Sara cursing and clawing at the platform, me flinging myself into her bottom, setting her and I and the room to shaking. And then the Big One hit. I buckled and blasted, jetting sizzling semen into her ass in mind and soul-shattering bursts. Sara screamed like the crowds when Lindy landed, frantically rubbing her pussy, her overstuffed ass gyrating on the end of my pumping, spunking cock …
The big-bootied nurse’s aide walked over, wiped “Buffalo” Bob Simmons’ chin off. He pinched her juicy bottom a thank-you before she left.
‘So,’ I rasped, ‘the rumours were true, then? About the college football team and the silent film star – the orgies and the gang-bangs?’
‘Sure, they were true,’ Bob sighed, folding his hands in his lap and smiling. ‘But we had to deny them, for the good of her and our reputations, and careers. But now that I’m the only one left …’
‘Did you keep in touch with her after the football season ended?’
‘”In touch” is one way of putting it,’ he laughed. ‘She got me some acting work after I graduated, but I was no ham. The talkies were coming in then, anyway, and Sara developed a bad case of “mike-fright” – it killed her career.’
He looked at me wistfully. ‘By 1930 the party was over for Sara Button and the rest of the country. They used to ask her, you know, just what it meant to be That Girl. She’d pout out a frown and say, ‘I really don’t know. See, I’m just a woikin’ goil.’ And I’m here to tell you true: boy, could she ever work it.’
Alive
by Clarice Clique
When the end of the world came there wasn’t much left we recognised. The landscape was barren, brown nothingness stretched further than the eye could see, towns and cities vanished into rubble, the skies were grey with no sign of birds or insects. What was left was the smell of his sex pushing into mine, the tenderness of his hands on my breasts, the sounds of our soft moans filling the empty air.
We survived because we’d been underground; the two of us on our own personal caving adventure, forcing our bodies into tighter and tighter spaces as if we were journeying backwards into the womb of mother Earth. When we emerged we stared around us, stared at each other and began to cry.
Later when the coldness of the night came we were still standing in the same spot, neither of us having spoken as if when the world had disappeared it’d taken all words with it. The sky darkened into a murky blue-black, if the moon was still out there it was hiding behind thick black clouds, nothing was left but shadows. It was then that we kissed.
Gently at first, our lips barely touching as if we still possessed the shy virgin bodies we had when we first met, but then the thing inside us, the anger, the fear, the hatred, the fear, the grief, the fear, burst free. I bit down on his lower lip until the warm blood flowed between our mouths. He put his hand around my throat and pushed me backwards. The breath struggled to fight its way out of my lungs. I smiled as my head pounded. He smiled back at me and released his grip. We pulled at zips and straps, shedding our clothes like excess skin, baring our flesh to the cold night air in defiance of life itself.
Our bodies were distorted mirrors of each other, pale white skin covering lean hard muscles, he was two inches tall
er, my hair was blonder and longer, but we felt as if we were the same. The slight curve of my chest, the hard pinkness of my nipples, the neatness of my sex compared with his protrusion, those were the differences, but when we made love I imagined we were one body, neither male nor female, and the way he looked at me at those times made me believe he thought the same.
Now there was nothing feminine about him, he was pumped with testosterone and so was I. We threw ourselves together like beasts. He tugged on my hair, strands ripping out of my scalp and tried to force my head on to his erection, I dug my nails into his balls and nipped the head of his cock. His hands pressed into my flesh pushing me on to my front, I pushed back against him, twisting my body, wrapping my legs around his waist. We bucked and thrust, clawing and biting and bruising the person we loved most in the world. We screamed and we cried our bodies pulsing with orgasmic energy.
When we stopped tremoring we curled up together, his head resting on my chest. I stroked his hair and breathed in his familiar scent. Neither of us slept, we passed the night in the space between dreams and reality not daring to think about what we’d do in the morning.
The morning arrived. Earth was continuing to turn on its axis, but there was no beautiful sunrise, the darkness gradually faded into greyness. The only thing that was the same was his early morning erection. Smiling, I shrugged away from his embrace and sat astride him. He opened his eyes and smiled at me riding him, then frowned. With the back of his hand he caressed my battered body and I did the same to his. The contact hurt, but neither of us winced away. We needed the physical pain as much as the gentle caress.
Tied Up In Knots Page 4
