Fur

by Vanessa de Sade

  Grip me just below the bellend, he whispered, guiding her hand. Then drag it right up as far as it will go, then pull it back down again.

  Like this?

  He let out a moan. Yes, just like that, but lick your finger first, then kiss me while you do it...

  So they kissed again, hard and heavy, her right hand on his cock, sliding up and down like he’d shown her, the other tentatively exploring his hot hairy butt as he pawed her huge ass through her dress.

  Will I take my panties off so that you can fuck me under my dress? she finally managed to utter, no longer caring about what was bold and what wasn’t, but he shook his head vehemently.

  No, I need to see you without anything on, he replied hoarsely, fiddling with the buttons on the bodice of her dress. I have to see all of you before I go inside you. Can I strip you? Strip you naked?

  And she had always imagined that boys would want to fuck her with her clothes on, hiding her big belly and under-sized tits, maybe even turning her on her stomach and pushing their big rabid cocks through her tree trunk thighs and pumping hard and fast into her fat cunt doggy style, not putting her on a pedestal like this and worshiping at the alter of her voluptuous nakedness.

  Yes, she whispered, shaking with excitement but still managing to undo the bodice for him, letting him help her out of the dress, unfasten the stockings and roll them down and take them off, reach under her basque and slip her large not-in-period panties down, till she stood trembling before him in just the silk and whalebone corset that she had so carefully made for this night.

  That too, he pleaded and she nodded, turning for him to loosen her stays, aware that he was getting a grandstand view of her huge white bum as he liberated her from the tight-laced garment, turning back to face him again as her last garment slipped to the floor and she was naked before him, colossal and frost-white as an iceberg, her skin a symphony in moonstones and creams, her huge hips and belly like virgin snowdrifts, her thighs dimpled and buttery, her tiny breasts pert little hills above all these mountains of flesh, the nipples dark and erect, the areolas the colour of ripe damsons, big as old copper pennies.

  But her cunt was concealed by the curvature of her big round belly, and she waited for his erection to droop when he realised that he couldn’t see her hairy jungle and chubby pudenda, but he just kissed her again and held her close, his hands mapping every contour of her vast white body - thighs, hips, waist, arms, shoulders. Then down again for another sweep, this time committing her ass to memory, then her shoulders, her tits next, bending down to suck on her nipples before spending ages circling her vast stomach, getting lower and lower until he finally reached her pussy, tracing its girth before he finally squeezed it, running his fingers through her hair before going lower and threading around the deep slit that was wet and open like an oyster, his fingers quickly finding her clit as he kissed her again, hard, and then made her come.

  ***

  She was still shaking from the orgasm as he led her to his narrow bed and lay down beside her, reaching over her into a little box on the night stand for a condom which he unpeeled with practiced ease, then encased his big horse’s prick with fine latex, making it glisten like something oiled.

  I need to fuck you, hard, he pleaded hoarsely, his hands everywhere on her curves as he devoured her neck and tits with his hot kisses.

  And she didn’t answer but lay obligingly back, opening her legs for him and pulling her tummy up so that he could see everything that was down there, her cunt like a soft pink fleshy flower in the midst of all her thick and dark animal fur, but he shook his head and lay on his back, his bursting cock sticking up like a monolith.

  No, not like that, he smiled, lifting her onto him. I want to see you while we do this, but don’t blame me if I come quickly looking at those gorgeous little tits...

  You want me to straddle you? she asked in some astonishment but he was already caressing the insides of her thighs and steering her onto him and, having already lost her virginity to her vibrator long before, she sank down eagerly on his hardness, feeling that huge horse cock go right up inside her with a sigh.

  You feel like greased velvet, he moaned as he began to thrust, and she thought that he felt not too bad either, though she had no voice to say so as she began to move herself up and down on him to meet his drive.

  I’m not going to last for ever, watching you like this, he managed to moan. Can you come in that position?

  I’m not sure, she somehow managed to reply as each thrust of that battering ram of a dick went deeper and deeper inside her and she bore down on him hard to cram even more of it up there.

  I need you to come when I do, he groaned, pushing harder and harder into her. Can I rub your clit while I fuck you?

  Would you, would you please?

  Of course. Is that good?

  Yes, oh yes, now fuck me harder...

  Like this?

  Yes, just like that...

  And then he was pounding into her and all her muscles tightened and clenched him hard and then she was coming loud and fast, her big body bouncing on him as she rode his cock like a mad thing, his hands digging in like claws on her tree trunk thighs as he slammed up into her again and again, her slit convulsing in orgasm after orgasm as he thrust and thrust.

  3

  She was alone in bed when she awoke slowly and sensually the next morning, counting how many times she had fucked him the previous night, and at first she thought he had gone out and left her when she saw him squatted cross-legged on the floor like a garden ornament, quite naked and surrounded by a sea of drawing paper.

  What on earth are you doing? she asked, stretching, a little self-conscious at being naked in front of him in the daylight, but he just grinned over the top of his drawing board.

  Oh, just sketching you. I’ve been wanting to paint you ever since the first time I laid eyes on you, with that Jenny Saville body and fuck-you expression of yours. But you’ve ignored me for a whole four weeks and I was getting desperate...”

  Oh holy fuck, she thought. He thinks I was ignoring him when I was just too terrified to even think about making eye contact, let alone speak to him...

  But, aloud, she merely smiled and said, Let’s see what you’ve made of me then, as she wrapped herself in the duvet and slid down onto the floor to where he sat. And, though she’s seen quite a lot of his art before, these drawings still took her breath away, the boldness of the line contrasting with the soft tones of the charcoal; but it was the electric sexuality of the huge girl in the pictures that took her breath away. Yes, he’d drawn her fat, but this was no indolent slumbering behemoth here but a powerful predatory panther at rest, a sleeping lioness on a hair-trigger to wakefulness, a hungry beast that men would both desire and fear. Was that really her?

  She rather hoped it might be.

  OK, Doctor Sketchy, you’ve had your fun, now it’s my turn, she laughed, taking the board from him. Stand over there by the window where the light’s throwing a sharp shadow, I want to draw you too!

  And he obeyed, wordlessly, standing where he was bid, the thin nets in the windows all that stood between his nakedness and the Sunday-morning London traffic outside, but she had only drawn a few lines when she noticed his cock starting to rise.

  What the hell is that? she asked, trying to sound stern but failing.

  Sorry, he grinned. I just find the idea of you looking at me all naked like this a real turn on...

  She clicked her tongue and said nothing, going back to her work and drawing him as he was, huge boner and all, but by the time she’d sketched all the contours of his massive erection her cunt was soaking and she called him over to her side.

  You are, without doubt, the worst model I’ve ever worked with, she chided, looking straight up at his enormously stiff cock. I think I need to punish you...

  Oh yes?

  Oh yes indeed, yes. Peel that hood back and bare your head for me, yes, that’s right, now bring that cock right up to my face...

>   And she had heard drunk girls in pubs talking about the taste of cock, heard all their eulogies and smutty snickers; read all about facials and deep throating and swallowing versus spitting, but nothing prepared her for that first taste as she ran her tongue around his huge swollen head and groaned out loud.

  Closer, she commanded, sliding one hand under those big fat balls, tighter this morning in the chill of the room, the other gripping his firm buttock like a claw, then taking him gently but firmly into her mouth, feeling her lips encircle his girth as she sucked, then letting him slide out so that she could see the fiery beast slick with saliva before drawing him inside again; each time she sucked taking him deeper and deeper until there didn’t seem to be any more room and yet there seemed to be still more and more of that delicious cock to accommodate.

  I’m going to come, his voice whispered from somewhere far away. Do you want me to withdraw?

  But in reply she just clawed his butt cruelly and pushed his cock into her, and then she heard his strangulated cries as he fucked her mouth hard, oh so hard, his orgasm filling her up with his hot and salty come, his huge dick throbbing in ecstasy as it pumped more and more of the thick white liquid that ran down her chin in depraved rivulets of desire.

  Can you come again? she panted, manhandling him, and when he nodded she pulled him close and pushed his huge raw cock between the whiteness of her tits. Rub yourself off against me while I feel your arse, she instructed, his still-rock-hard prick slippery with his recent spendings as he pushed it all over and between her breasts, making the nipples stand to attention. And then you can go down on me and show me a really good time as a thank you gesture...

  I think I want to marry you, he groaned aloud as he started to come again, drenching her small breasts in his hot thick pearl jam as she rammed her finger up his tight little bung hole and made him cry out like a rutting beast. I want to live with you forever and fuck you every waking hour of every day...

  And she smiled as she lay back and softly but firmly pushed his head downwards, shivering with delight as his lips began to kiss her stomach and thighs, anticipating the delights which she knew were about to come. And she realised that her night with this boy was no one-night-stand and that he was truly in for the long haul, that much was obvious, but, if he was this interested then others would be too, and she had already spent far too many years in her room at home with only her vibrator for company to rush out and pick out curtains with the first boy who asked just quite yet.

  Oh yes, she told herself as his tongue found the magic spot and she felt herself starting to slide comfortably into her first orgasm of the day. London was spread out before her like glittering jewels and she had her art and her friends and now she even had amazing sex. Oh yes indeed, she thought as she felt the tremors of her first massive climax start to engulf her. Life was just about to become just grand...

  West Hollywood Fairy Tale

  1

  Once upon a time there was a castle. The Castle Hotel, no less, a crumbling golden-age Hollywood hacienda in the heart of deepest La La Land where Garbo had danced naked and Deitrich held her legendary sewing bees in the secluded privacy of the now semi-derelict penthouse suite, its crumbling stucco work dingy and the - unashamedly erotic - Salvador Dali wall murals damp-stained and beyond restoration.

  But, despite the stealthy scamperings of floods of fleet-footed rodents on the fenced-off upper floors where the elevators no longer stopped, the Castle’s fading Art Deco turrets still attracted the new demi monde of Tinseltown in their pubescent droves, and there were plenitudes of pouting princesses in the maze of lower rooms, sleek slippery creatures slithering their way to the solariums, tiny Kewpie Doll mouths constantly chanting infantile incantations into the bejewelled plastic phones that they all clutched like candy rosaries. Sugar babies, dew-fresh from the early dawn kisses of somnambulant bus stations, desperate to enter the confessionals of the papal paparazzi and see their burnt-brown bodies spread all over the morning’s tabloids in faux cum-shot crucifixions of long tanned limbs and translucent designer lingerie.

  But today there is trouble in Paradise, for a certain popular Princess lies languishing in her suite while studio publicists with their slicked-back hair and blue-tinted Ray Bans punch desperate pleas into their blinking i-Phones, her pale body a jumble of sticky elbows and knees on the rumpled scarlet satin of her big day bed. A physician has been summoned, of course, the house specialist who knows how to handle ODs and anorexia attacks with equal aplomb, and the Castle prides itself on letting him glide unseen from its gilded beaten-brass doors like an Armani-clad phantom, far away for the prying lenses of the feral photographers who prowl like hungry pariahs on the hot and dusty sidewalks of the boulevards beyond.

  However, this particular Baby is unresponsive to all of the doctor’s magic needles, and the medic leaves disgruntled despite his hefty fee, grumpily prescribing a diet of “proper food” to correct the balance and put the automaton back on its pretty little feet again. And, of course, the Castle swings into immediate action, its flotilla of chefs vying with each other to produce mouth-watering delicacies to tempt the Precious back to working health. There are plovers’ eggs wrapped in translucent emerald-hued vine leaves and dusted with a hint of glistening black caviar; miniscule slices of sea bass on a bird’s nest of carrot slivers fried to a crisp; pure almond-paste lozenges soaked in Kirsch and then enrobed in a chocolate so dark that it is quinine-bitter on the tongue until the rich alcoholic sweetness of the centre kicks in.

  But all is to no avail and the parade of dainties lies untouched on the dishevelled linen cloths of abandoned room service trolleys that cluster like white-shrouded drones around the entrance to the queen bee’s hive; and the pizzazz-men rumple their thousand-dollar hair cuts in desperation as they pace frantically along the echoing corridors of their personal ruin, convinced that this particular little filly will never run again and no longer contribute untold riches towards their planned palatial villas in the South of France.

  But wait! A last cart is wheeled into the room and through the softly undulating gossamer drapes of the inner bedchamber and on to the big circular bed where the pouting Princess lies. But the fading dolly’s porcelain features are still immobile, like a waxwork Sleeping Beauty, the only sign of life the faint raising and falling of her almost non-existent breasts, and her personal assistant shakes her head and is about to motion the velvet-clad bellhop in his double-breasted brass buttons away when the miracle happens.

  Sleeping Beauty sniffs the air. Sleeping Beauty opens her eyes; raises a limpid hand as if undersea and motions the boy closer, gesturing to him to lift the lid from the silver slaver and present whatever lies beneath...

  And a gasp fills the room when there is revealed, not some intricate spider-web-sculpture of crystallised root vegetables or the flesh of some endangered animal sautéed in alcohol and peppered with rare Arabian herbs; but a rustic white china bowl of soup the colour of Halloween sunsets, a simple garnish of chopped chive floating dew-green on its glassy garnet surface.

  The maître d’hôtel clutches his chest and has to be helped to a chair, a flurry of flunkies furiously fanning at his florid face; the pizzazz men tap frantic pleas and press releases into their phones to stamp their spin onto the crisis before the tabloids get hold of it; and the PA silently faxes out copies of her résumé, certain that she will no longer be in the employ of Monumental Pictures by the time the burning LA sun has sunk into the thirsty Pacific ocean.

  And, unseen by all of them and - temporarily - forgotten, like a taut spring uncoiling in slow motion - oh, Rapunzel, Rapunzel - the pale Princess lifts her silver spoon. And begins to eat...

  2

  Who? That is the question on everyone’s lips. Who has dared to concoct something so plain and so ordinary in the epicurean centre of the western world. The chefs are quizzed and stamp their primadonas’ feet in outrage like testy mares, affronted that they should even be asked such a question. As are the under chefs,
and, in desperation, the hotel management turns to the kitchen help in a last dash attempt to discover who has had the audacity to save the day, for, upstairs, the Princess has licked the bowl clean and is calling for more.

  Finally, as the - now confident - Personal Assistant rings the kitchen for the third time, a porter steps up. A small dark-haired girl with a big ass and Louise Brookes eyes, beautiful in her own way, but not the sort of human likely to attract notice in a world such as this. Yes, she has made the soup, and, yes, she has sent it up to the royal suite. It is her grandmother’s recipe and has never failed in her home, so she has thought the Princess might like it since all else has failed...

  And the management are incensed. Never, in the history of the Castle Hotel, has such gross insubordination ever been committed; but, on the other hand, no-one needs know about the existence of this lowly underling and, as far as the world is concerned, the Castle has saved the day and filly of the month will soon be back on the Monumental lot and the subsequent silver screen once more. Therefore, as long as the porter keeps making her magic broth nothing more needs be said.

  Until, of course, the Princess speaks.

  She has heard the bellhops whispering and knows who is her chef, and requests, nay, decrees, that the maker of the soup and none other should serve it to her in her room each day, and so our little Cinderella from below stairs becomes the royal emissary, journeying out from her nether world in her kitchen whites and taking with her all the aromas of a forbidden kingdom of food. And today she smells of olive oil and rosemary, yesterday it was vanilla sugar and sweet plums, and each day there is a new scent from a world the Princess has forgotten existed since that fateful grey morning when she left her parents’ Iowa farmstead and boarded her bus to Hollywood.

  And, gradually, the colour returns to her pallid cheeks and now she rises from her bed, throwing open the French windows and letting the hot red wind blow into her room, stretching her arms above the humid smog and straining her eyes to pick out the dawning sun over the oceanic horizon. And, today, it is Sunday and she finally feels well, well enough, in fact, to be back on the lot at daybreak the next morning to resume shooting the becalmed movie that is costing her bosses millions of dollars each day, and she hugs her last day of freedom to her bosom and plots escape, tapping out a desperate text to her saviour below, who duly arrives with the breakfast cart and a brown paper sack concealed neatly beneath the starched white table cover.