Fur

by Vanessa de Sade

  “Slip your hand under my skirt without lifting it,” I whisper, my lips close to his earlobe, my breath hot on his skin. And close up he smells faintly of some old-fashioned aftershave that his father would have used. Old Spice or Aquamanda that you bought in an unassuming bottle from a dark mahogany-shelved pharmacy. “Then pull my knickers down and see if you can make me come without looking, as if my cunt was one of those hidden fairground objects in a black velvet box that you have to identify without seeing...”

  “Like this?” he asks, his hand creeping up my thigh and finding the elastic of my big sensible panties.

  “Oh yes, just like that...”

  He’s very close to me now, and I can feel the burning heat of his cock against my thigh through the thin fabric of my skirt as he familiarises himself with the contours of my sizable belly through the cotton-lycra of my underpants, then slides round the back and traces round their border and makes my ass cheeks goose-pimple as his fingers come back to the front of me and measures out my pudenda.

  “I’m hairy,” I warn him, hating myself for being such an insecure conformist when the chips are down, but he all but groans and slips one finger up my knicker leg and has an exploratory feel of my fur.

  “I think I’ve just died and gone to heaven,” he moans as he touches my hot wet jungle for the first time and I want to grab his cock and ram it up me and then sit on his hard-on and fuck his brains out.

  “Never mind all that,” I chide. “You’ve got a job to do. I’m not going anywhere near that big fat cock of yours until you’ve pleasured me at least twice.”

  “Greedy,” he laughs, but he takes a firm hold of my waistband and inches my big pants down to my knees, his fingers slowly climbing back up my thighs like Incy Wincy Spider as he circles my thick and furry bush, marvelling at its spread and the twisted trail of hair that climbs, creeper like, to my belly button.

  “I’ve never touched a cunt like this in all my life,” he confesses breathlessly to me as he squeezes my pussy with his whole hand and then slowly commences a firm circular motion.

  “I bet you say that to all the girls you lure to your den,” I retort, trying not to moan out loud as he splits my fanny open like an over-ripe fig and slides a finger inside.

  “You’re right, I do,” he replies, but I’m past banter by now and just want him to find my big fat clit and rub it. Which he soon does. And very well too.

  “I’m going to come,” I whisper, clinging tightly to him like a drowning man clutches at a rock, but he just kisses me and nods, stepping up the pressure on my nut-hard rosebud as I feel everything in me tighten to breaking point and then snap as my orgasm swells up and engulfs me, over and over again.

  ***

  I know now that I have to be naked, have to feel the hairy roughness of him hot against my skin, and I quickly pull my sweater up over my head and step out of my skirt, my big white pants somewhere around my ankles and being carried off in its folds like puny pulled-up trees in the wake of a raging river in full spate.

  And I’m not one of those bosomy ladies with tits the size of Yorkshire blossoming out in front of me like a pair of hot air balloons, and my pert little puppies sit snug in my pretty pink bra above the arctic whiteness of my huge hips and belly.

  “Take that off too,” he begs, his cock bobbing like a circus sea lion act. “I want to suck on your stubby little nipples till you come.”

  “And how do you know my nipples are stubby?” I enquire as my hand fumbles unsteadily behind me, eventually finding the catch and letting my little snub-nosed beauties come tumbling out.

  “I don’t,” he confesses, taking me into his arms again and running his fingers down the snowy slopes of my big white bum. “And I see now the error of my ways. They’re like pink candy, all hard and stiff and waiting to be devoured...”

  “Devoured? Who by? Surely not you, Mister Wolf?” I ask, all wide-eyed and innocent, but my wobbly legs and the salty-hot scent of my pussy give me away as the depraved liar that I am.

  “Me indeed,” he groans, getting to work on my tits, and, fuck, this boy knows how to drive a woman wild. It won’t be long before I’m in need of his services on my big fat pussy once again, methinks!

  “My clit’s as big and stiff as your rampant prick,” I manage to pant into his ear as he comes up for air from turning my normally pale pink nipples into glowing red hot pokers. “How do feel about sucking some rock-hard girl-cock?”

  “My favourite food,” he purrs as I fall back onto his sofa and spread my legs like a porn star, my sleek and hairy beaver opening like a stop-motion film of a flower unfurling, labia parting like a sticky tropical specimen to reveal the promised erection, my clit stretching up hot and hard from under its slippery hood and desperate to be sucked.

  “You weren’t kidding about it being a girl-cock,” his voice whispers adoringly from a million miles away. “I’ve never seen one this big...”

  “Wait till you taste it,” I promise, but he’s already circling my hot hard stamen with his tongue and further conversation becomes impossible as he starts to flick my clitty and then suck on it. Hard.

  “I’m coming, finger fuck me,” I cry out, crushing his head between my thighs, and he rams two fingers up and sucks me like a suction pum, his cock like a hot slab of meat against my calf as I start to buck and thrust like a wild thing.

  ***

  I’m well passed the point of no return by now and, with no regard for his masculine sensibility, I throw him onto his own immaculate Ikea sofa and straddle him, hollering like a harlot as his huge cock slides easily into me and I grind myself down onto him, groaning as my still throbbing cunt envelopes him.

  “Fuck, you know how to use your tongue,” I pant, heaving my bulk up and down on him, perhaps not the most romantic of bedside compliments but quite sincere nevertheless. “Can you push your cock up harder so that it rubs on my clit?”

  “Like this?”

  “Oh yes, that’s nice, but it’s not quite on the spot.”

  “Do it with your fingers, so I can watch you...”

  “Dirty little boy! But since you’ve been so good I’ll do it and give you and your great big cock a special treat,” I gasp, licking my finger and getting to work on my own slippery flange. And one of my favourite solo pastimes is masturbating in front of the big full-length mirror in my bedroom at home, and I love watching my own pussy getting tugged and stretched as I pleasure myself relentlessly, so I quite enjoy putting on this show for him as he pushes his amazingly stiff dick in and out of me with growing velocity. Hell, I think I’d even let him bum-fuck me at this point, so you get just how turned on I am, and it isn’t long before I coming like a cowgirl again and bouncing up and down on him like a rodeo queen.

  And he’s still going strong, pushing hard into me by how and crushing my fat white hips with a steely grip. “You can come inside,” I whisper when I can finally talk, but he smiles and shakes his head, and I think for a mad moment that he’s read my mind and is going to flip me over and shoot his jism right up my tight little rear orifice, but instead he withdraws very gently and climbs on top, resting his cock on the arctic white wastes of my considerable belly. The big dark red bestial thing deliciously wanton on the dimpled ivory of my flawless skin.

  “You want to tummy-splash me?” I ask, incredulous, and he nods, sliding back the foreskin on his monster and starting to rub himself gently on my big barrel stomach, his cock wet and slick with my fanny juice.

  “Now this I didn’t expect,” I moan, unexpectedly aroused beyond belief as he grinds into me and pushes himself up the thin hairy ravine from my bush to my belly button, and it’s not long before I see his face take on that strained look and he starts to thrust hard, very hard, his come suddenly shooting out of him in hot wet globules, soaking my thick curls of pubic hair and pooling in a thick gelatinous puddle in the hollow of my navel as he finally falls down, exhausted, on me and kisses me with a sincere and genuine passion.

  And, standing h
ere now in the grey early morning light, I see a kind and considerate man who is attracted to me for who I am, big arse and all, and who is without baggage or complication and is more than sexually compatible with my somewhat selfish desires. A one-in-a-million find, in fact, and I cry a subtle tear as I dress quietly and slip out of his door before he wakes. I won’t be going back to that Life Class again, I fear, which is a shame, as I rather enjoyed drawing chubby little Molly...

  Kissing Kera McNally

  When I was just eleven years old I fell in love with Kera McNally, who everyone hated. Or said they did. Kera talked with a strange lilt which she said came from back home. She had emerald eyes and red curly hair, cropped short, and little plump cheeks covered with freckles that I dreamed about kissing. She didn’t wear proper school jumpers but came to class in a green pleated skirt with a matching cardigan over a clean white silk blouse that showed her little flowery brassiere beneath, her tiny breasts like two poached plovers’ eggs. She had no dad and went to Irish dancing classes and played the concertina. And when she sang Molly Malone at the school concert in her sweet, slightly saccharine, voice, my little heart just melted. Though the boys all snickered behind their hands and said that she was rubbish. Of course, that was during the time when all the boys in our class were in love with Brenda Wood, though she was, in truth, a plain girl who just dressed nicely. And, though I didn’t tell anyone this, I was sure that it was her mum that they really all liked, because she was young and pretty and didn’t look like a proper mum at all. She had long chestnut hair which she wore in a pony tail and we would see her cycling down the road in her striped jersey and three-quarter-length Capri pants, not even an ordinary Milanda loaf from the Co-op in her wicker basket but one of those long French things that they sold in the bakery down town. Kera McNally’s mother wasn’t like that. She wore heels like spikes that were made of a clear plastic that made me think of acid drops. She had a tight leopard skin coat and a huge beehive hairdo that dripped lacquer, and she smelled like the perfume counter at Boots, like someone had mixed summer flowers and candy floss and the fur coat my mum kept in tissue paper in a trunk in the loft. My mother said that Mrs McNally was “common” but I thought that she was wonderful and once, though I destroyed it immediately, I drew a picture of her with no clothes on. Just those teetering-tottering heels. I suppose, looking back on it, that I was an odd child and didn’t talk much, though my teachers always exclaimed over the stories I wrote for homework. But I didn’t really care for any of the other girls in my class, though I would have liked to have been Kera’s friend. But Kera didn’t chum with anyone, least of all me, and when the school eventually sent me to talk to a lady in an office about my shyness I just clammed up on her and didn’t say a word, because, once, just before bed, when I told my mother that I loved Kera, she had looked pained and said that girls didn’t love other girls. And my older sister had whispered: Freak.

  Fur

  The shoot was being done as an act of charity, for fuck’s sake, and yet here she was stuck in a freezing studio at ten o’clock at night with this loud-mouthed model. And the irony was that Avery didn’t even do model shoots as a rule, much preferring to point her lens at inanimate arrangements of non-complaining fabrics and object d’arts ; but when the art director of Le Mode called and asked for a favour in this town you jumped. If you ever wanted to work again, that is.

  And, what was worse was that it wasn’t even a standard model who was used to just striking poses and keeping her big mouth shut, but some vociferous professor of women’s studies from NYU who had been pulled in to illustrate her own fucking article for the January issue. Le Mode always went all feminist in January, when everyone was feeling guilty about all the branded junk they’d bought over Christmas, so it was customary to allow some space for drum-banging in the year’s first issue before February’s lush double-page-spreads of ostentatious Valentine’s day lingerie and perfumery. So last year it had been the dangers of high heels and this January - since the media buyer at Immac hadn’t reserved any space - it was going to be a defence of body hair.

  And, of course, there wasn’t a single model in the whole state who possessed so much as a landing strip to illustrate the point, and, rather than using a stock image, which, to be fair, really wasn’t Le Mode’s style, the art director had had the eleventh hour brainwave of using the author of the article herself, so there Avery was in a deserted studio on a freezing night in November, photographing this awful woman and her armpits.

  Effronnia Delahunt was ostensibly a black activist, though there had been little African-American blood added to her line in the last hundred years, and her pale coffee-coloured skin would be unlikely to earn her the title of a woman-of-colour in any state north of Alabama. The daughter of a Supreme Court justice and herself a tenured faculty member of long standing, she had no personal experience of the ghetto dwellers that she so loved to speak out for, but this didn’t appear to prevent her from bending Avery’s ear on everything from Civil Rights to Post-Feminist Doctrine as they ground through the unending shoot.

  Le Mode had asked for something monochrome and moody, with lots of lights and darks to make the thick jungle under Effronnia’s arms halfway acceptable to a readership who waxed almost daily. But the pictures were just not working out and Avery kept altering the lamps and trying different f-stops and lens without success, all the while having to put up with Effronnia’s incessant lecturing.

  “Men are afraid of hair on a woman’s body, that’s basically what it is,” she was yammering as Avery circled her like a hungry predator with her Nikon. “Their first sight of female nudity was when they pulled the underpants down on their little sisters’ Barbie dolls and got a hard-on ogling a smooth synthetic crotch, and women have been obliged to try and emulate those plastic dolls ever since, and removing their body hair is just one more part of the surrender of basic human rights that our sex feel obligated to take part in in order to maintain our place in a society which daily excludes us as a mater of course and oppresses us routinely... You alright there, honey?”

  “Sorry,” Avery muttered, peering into her light meter for the hundredth time. “I’m just not getting the shot I want. The lighting’s good, but the contrast is all wrong...”

  “It’s because I’m dressed,” Effronnia said quietly, stretching across her and peering into the monitor. “It’s the fabric of my shirt that’s bouncing the light back and interfering with your composition. Here, I’ll take it off!”

  “You really don’t need to do that...” Avery started to say but Effronnia had already slipped the green silk up over her head and sat half naked before her. She was tall slim woman with close-cropped curly hair clippered neatly against her scalp, huge Bambi eyes and bone structure that that was made for black and white photography. In fact, Avery had been struck by Effronnia’s looks as soon as they met, the tall woman resplendent in a deep olive green pant suit and heels, an immaculately cut silk blouse the colour of iridescent seaweed making up the ensemble with just two simple gold studs in her ears and a tiny diamond in her nose.

  Topless, though, she was beyond breathtaking, with perfect skin the colour of pale mocha, pert breasts that would make a sixteen-year-old green with envy and big erect nipples the colour of jet and hard as walnuts.

  “Sorry,” she apologised, looking down at herself as she raised her arms again to reveal the thick parsley beds beneath. “It’s a little cold in here!”

  “No, that’s good, great, in fact...” Avery breathed, uncomfortable but elated as her shutter snapped and snapped, eating up the vision in chiaroscuro before her. “That is all but perfect! Thank you...”

  “All but?” Effronnia asked, her head snapping up and meeting Avery’s eyes. “What would make it perfect?”

  “Oh, nothing.” she replied, hastily sliding a gel over one of the lamps to soften the shadow beneath Effronnia’s breasts. Delicious, she’d almost called them. What the hell is wrong with you, Avery?

  But Effronnia
was unconvinced. “No, honey, you said ‘all but perfect’. I don’t do ‘all but’ - what would make your picture perfect?”

  “The waistband, of your pants. It keeps getting into shot...” Avery muttered, aware that she was blushing like a schoolgirl. This was why she never worked with models. “It would be so much better if we could lose it...”

  “Hell, you want me to take my pants off? Why didn’t you say, honey!” Effronnia laughed, unhooking the fastening and sliding down the zip. “You need me to take my panties off too? It’s no problem, I’m not shy!”

  “Oh, I couldn’t ask that...” Avery started to say, her face flaming, but Effronnia had already slipped the tiny little triangle of glossy fabric down over her hips and let her incredibly expensive designer thong fall to the floor, and was standing quite naked before her.

  And even without her heels her long legs looked like a colt’s, with firm tapered hips and a washboard stomach - obviously the hefty college salary included a gym membership - but despite the smooth plains of her navel and the overall brilliance of her nakedness, it was her crotch that made Avery catch her breath and stare.

  “You like my fur, girl?” Effronnia asked, her eyes mocking, as she stood back in front of the backdrop stand and let the lights flatter her. “You want to put that in your magazine?”

  Avery blushed again, aware that she was behaving like an idiot. If any word of this ever got back to Le Mode she was done for... “Sorry,” she whispered, picking up the camera again to hide her flaming face. “I’ve just never seen anyone so... hairy before...”

  Effronnia laughed. “Oh, we’re all of us this hairy inside, sugar. And what about you, photographer girl? Are you a natural tigress or have you also fallen victim to masculine pressure to conform and waxed all your femaleness away?”