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Introduction:

A young man engages in sex with 31 different women before fallling into the dark, gay underworld.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Cindy returned to the reading lounge.

She had her expensive designer jacket over her arm and a designer purse in her hand. She appeared to be ready for the drive home. This was not a happy moment for me. My cock had ebbed, but could be called upon in seconds. Cindy dropped her stuff on the floor and sat down opposite me. Crossing those long, beautiful legs, the clear shoes in front of my face. She reached into her purse and pulled out a joint and a lighter. Fired it up. I was taken aback.

What else was going to surprise me on this journey?

The classy librarian toked a few times. Snuffed the joint against the lighter, and put the two items back in her purse. She sat back in the chair and exhaled. Opened her eyes. Looked at me. Serenity washed over her. Smoky and seductive and relaxed she was. Big time.

Her foot began to move. The stupid, sexy, mesmerizing thing women do when their legs are crossed. I stared at her shoes. I had never seen shoes of this type, or style. I was fascinated. Her pretty feet looked to be imprisoned in the shoes. Her pink toe nail polish screamed color. She walked around all day with these feet on display. For men to see. With her legs on display, and her ass and tits on display. This librarian was a walking display.

I don’t remember moving, but I had slid off the front of my chair to my knees. I caressed her shoe with my hand. Looked up at her, caught her eye through her glasses. Yes. The glasses were on. She seemed to nod. I pressed my magic tongue into the shoe, touching skin. I felt a tremble run down her leg, followed by the distinctive aroma of released pussy. I licked some more, running up to her delicate ankle, then down the top of her foot. I opened my mouth and she pushed the toe of her shoe in.

What to do?

I began to suck on her shoe, much as the wet nurse had sucked my cum off Donny’s fingers. My cock leapt to attention in my pants. Shit. This was hot. I grabbed both of her shoes, one in each hand. Began to lick up her perfect calf. Stopped at her knee as she inhaled deeply. Her body temperature rose as my tongue touched her thigh. Both of them. Inside. Licking upwards. The smell of pussy was overwhelming. This bitch was in heat. I was near suffocating on it. I could taste her, she was strong.

I thought about the boring, sedentary sex life she had with her fat ass husband. I would make sure I exceeded his bullshit. I moved my hands to the undersides of her thighs, pushing them up, pushing Cindy back. She went with the flow, the older woman now putty in the rookie boy’s hands. My head was under her classy skirt, and the rookie boy got a rookie surprise. No panties.

When had she taken them off?

Shit sakes. I was still learning.

Or, did she work all day long without panties on? No. Ridiculous. Wasn’t it?

Her smell was a magnet for my tongue. Out it came, in it went and out came the first moan from the classy librarian. I would love to see myself right now. On my knees, head beneath the skirt, her long legs pushed straight up, beautiful acrylic high heels waving in the air. The moaning continued as I moved my tongue around. Her wetness began to flow out. Her heat is impressive. My cock is rock hard, I am thinking of climbing on and plowing into her wet, thirty-two year old, married hole.

I wonder if they have video surveillance in this city building.

I hope they do. The bitch would lose her job, for sure.

I would become a legend.

This happy thought prodded me on. I licked harder, now sucking at her pussy. I let go of her legs and slid my hands under her wet ass. Her pussy juice had flooded the grey leather chair beneath. I lifted her small ass, a plate on my dinner table. I felt her two hands on the back of my head, her two married hands. She pulled my head into her snatch and began to grind against my face. I opened my mouth wide and sucked hard at her. Her moaning became speech, the foreign mumbo jumbo women seemed to favor. When they were about to cum.

Her fingers twined through my hair, slamming my face into her pussy. She pulled my head back and slammed me again.

Fuck! I was having trouble breathing.

A third time she repeated this movement. Then she held my head in a vice grip as I tried to suck air in. I felt her strong thighs coil around my head and neck. Again I tried to inhale, and got nothing but pussy. Wet, hot pussy. Lots and lots of heat, now fragrance free and taste free. She bucked, a bronco trying to toss a rider, as a major flood of her juice nearly drowned me. Through flesh muffled ears, I heard her scream her delight, or passion, or anger at the world, whatever the fuck it was. I tried to back out but she held fast. She was pulling the Charlene leg lock maneuver on me. The oxygen deprivation was making me weak, I had never experienced this type of female power. I clawed at her with my hands, trying to unwrap the strong legs from around my skull.

Runner’s legs.

Finally she relented, spent in orgasm, spent in strength. Or so I thought. She did let go of my hair, and did unwrap her legs from my head. She grabbed the back of her thighs and pulled herself apart. Slid her ass forward on the chair.

“Keep eating me,” she whispered, all foreign and smoky sounding.

My cock was running, an out of control trip hammer, but I remembered my earlier thought. I knew her hubby never did this to her. She would remember me. Forever.

No problem, babe. I fell back into her, tongue first. I began to eat, sliding my lips and tongue and mouth all over her.

“Kiss me there,” she begged.

I did. I kissed her cunt. Over, and over and over. Kissed her cunt deeply. French kissed her cunt. Worshipped her cunt. For sure, she would remember me. My cock begged for release. I felt the jackhammer throbbing from my ass to my skull.

Day twelve I thought. How could this possibly get any better?

I lifted my head. I was seeing stars from the lack of oxygen. She was wide open, her back and head flat on the seat of the soaked leather chair. She kept her hands on her thighs, she wasn’t yet satisfied.

“Kiss me more,” she moaned.

No problem. I puckered up and moved back in on her. My mouth was nearly there. I felt her hands in my hair again. Guiding me. Lower.

“No,” she whimpered.

“Here…….kiss me here.”

She guided my lips to her ass. Pushed me in. Her ass was soaked from her pussy. Kind of gross I thought. Guess who would never do this, in a million years? You got it. The master of the house. The husband. The father of her children.

I would. I pressed my lips on her ass. Cindy squirmed. I kept the pressure on. I got brave. Once in a lifetime.

Why not?

I pushed my tongue into the tightest spot on this woman. She wiggled in the chair, moaning loudly in my worship.

“Yes. Right there,” she barely breathed.

The smoldering voice.

“Eat my ass.”

I was already there. It was dark and forbidden and musty. I pushed my magic tongue in deep, deeper, deepest. All the way. I gagged at the smell and taste, my tongue seemed to go numb. Almost a buzzing, electrical numb. I had felt this sensation before. With Charlene. On her go spot.

The librarian began to moan loudly, squeaking then yelping. Almost a bark. Then her hands twisted in my hair, and she pushed her ass into my face. Harder. Again. Again. Slamming my face as if it was a pussy. My cock responded with its first major flow twitch. I was in the danger zone as the super-hot librarian fucked my mouth with her ass.

Christ. Now she was orgasming? On my face?

With her ass?

I wasn’t even touching her pussy and she was blasting off.

The rocket’s red glare?

Learning curve indeed. I had no idea this was possible.

I truly was a rookie.

Humbled.

Cindy let go and I climbed to my feet. Face dripping with pussy and ass. I didn’t waste time taking my pants off. Zipper down. Cock out. I grabbed those hot legs, pulled her up in the air, aimed my monster at her snatch, and plunged in. I sunk to the bottom. She gasped as I hit her depths, my body weight compressing her diaphragm. I pulled back and slammed her again. Her hair was disheveled and her glasses hung on her nose. Her face contorted with the pain/pleasure syndrome. I pawed at her tits, trying to get a feel before I came.

Who was the rookie now?

Crack!

I felt a hot streak of pain against my face!

What the hell?

Crack!

Another streak of pain. My cock stabilized.

What was happening?

I looked down at the librarian.

“In. My. Ass.”

The three words fell out of her mouth.

Did I hear this right?

Fuck, I did!

Carefully I pulled back on my cock. Lined up with her second hole. Pressed my bell up against her. Applied pressure as she spread herself. A pop, and I was in. The pain raced across her face. Tears fell from her eyes. A cry slipped from her mouth.

Is this what she truly wanted? Why?

Was she a glutton for pain?

Did she have a G spot in her ass?

Was this punishment for being a bad girl? Such a bad, married girl?

Yes.

My mind blew past answers A, B and C, settling on ‘all of the above’.

I looked at her. Her thighs trembled. I pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it on the floor. She reached for me. I lowered down to her. Her hands were starved for hot male flesh. She grabbed at my pecs and shoulders, tried to bring her head up to kiss and lick. I lifted her, close enough for her mouth to suck at my chest and stomach. Then unceremoniously, dropped the bad girl back on the leather chair. Pushed my bell into her ass.

She yelped as my cock bore in. Bad girl indeed. I pushed in deeper, I had six inches in her ass now. Tight. Smoking hot. A furnace of searing heat. Holy shit. I pushed in two more inches. Dropped the hammer all the way in. She yelped loudly, thrashing beneath me, the pain and pressure immense. I again envisioned tearing a human body open.

The bad girl had many tears on her face, smearing the classy, smoky makeup. For a second, I wanted to punch her face. Throttle her delicate, gold chain draped throat. I thought of useless Mr. Waterford. Look at your little wifey tonight, big guy. Nine inches of cock meat buried in her ass. Not her mouth. Not her pussy.

Her ass. Her sacred ass. Her sacred, married ass.

Where no cock had trespassed before.

Hold on big guy. Hold on. This wasn’t her first ass rodeo.

I felt the twitch in my balls. I didn’t have long to go. I pulled back and pushed in. Again. Again. A few more times. The bitch was bucking now, this time her ass against my pole. Now she was orgasming, her ass lifting off the chair, swallowing my pole.

She was taking my entire cock with her ass!

The pain had been overcome and the pleasure was ruling.

This definitely wasn’t her first ass rodeo.

Fuck you bitch, I thought. This one will be on my terms.

I pulled out of her ass; a loud sucking sound was the accompaniment. She gasped as she orgasmed, I had timed it perfectly. She was orgasming with nothing in her. She looked confused, and dirty, and humiliated and makeup smeared, and incredibly hot. I leaned over her; further, further, with my you know what dangling in her face.

Would she or wouldn’t she? What was her cock pig rating?

To my surprise, she would. She opened her mouth and sucked at my engorged cock bell, the same cock bell previously buried nine inches deep in her rectum.

She ate; a filthy pig sucking wet ass and pussy off my cock.

I nearly lost it. My mind and cock both.

Huge twitch in my balls. Fuck me. I was coming.

I had to get it into her pussy, fast. I pulled out of her mouth and slid back down. My first shot flew out as I jammed it home. I fell on top of her, nearly knocking her senseless. I was thinking, this could be the final fuck of my life.

I sprayed deep in her, thrusting long after I was spent. Holy shit. Insane. We lay together. Heaving and breathing. Sweat soaked and cum stained. Ass stained and drained.

I checked my watch. Ten o’clock sharp. We had been at this for a solid hour. Somebody might be in trouble. Somebody was working overtime. Not me.

The counter clicked over to twelve. The scorecard would read, hole number twelve, Cindy, nine point five, and ten. Such a looker when she was orgasming. Such an innovator.

Me, I was still learning. Still being surprised.

I staggered to my feet. Stepped back. Inhaled. Flexed my arms. I was Tarzan.

Below me, the classy librarian was a crumpled mess.

Hair destroyed, makeup obliterated, sweater pulled up under her tits. Skirt soaked, folded up around her belly. Long, long legs splayed out, the beautiful shoes reflecting the night time lighting. The glowing pink toe nail polish. She looked amazing. She looked hot.

Messy and dirty and hot.

Married and illicit and hot.

Fuck me.

This might be another Charlene. I could do this one again, for sure. I was actually looking forward to driving her home.

Be happy to ma’am, no trouble at all.


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

No use delaying this any longer. I hop out of the car, shut the door and lock it up. Cross the busy street, my head down, my cowering instincts have taken over. I absolutely don’t want to be seen or identified anywhere near this place. I pull open the door and enter the dim hallway. I shiver, despite the fact I have made it in unscathed. My twenty is ready, and I slap it down on the counter. A hand shoots out of the slot, grabs the money. I wait for the buzzing of the door.

My hand is on the doorknob as the buzz comes. I am quick, clear headed and sharp tonight. I push into the bar. I stop. My towel and room key are waiting on the bar. I hesitate to pick them up. The towel and the key mean nakedness and a room in the bowels of this building.

A room with a bed.

In a building full of queers.

Without the fortification of alcohol, I don’t feel quite as brave. Not quite as determined. Not quite so full of purpose. The big screens are ablaze with college ball. The false comfort of normal behavior. Most of the tables are full. Of course, men only. Clothed and toweled, equal numbers of both. I shiver again. It is definitely not the same without the liquid courage in my veins. The bar is busy. I wait for the bartender. It is the same guy as night one, and night two.

Does he never take a day off?

The bartender sees me. He holds up five fingers. This guy is good. I haven’t been here in how many weeks and he remembers? I shake my head no. The bartender comes closer.

“Orange juice,” I order up.

The barkeep looks confused. I bet he did. He looked me up and down. No leathers. No slurring of speech. No boozy bravado. No signs of drug use. A customer, straight up and clear eyed. The bartender saw few of these in this place. Mostly, everyone here was fucked up on something. Booze. Dope. Cocaine. Meth. Fucked up in the brain, mis-wired for perversion and man sex.

The barkeep shrugs and preps my o.j. on the rocks. He does the tong thing with the orange slice, and this time, adds a lemon slice. Both slices are packed with powder. He stirs the drink and slides it across the bar to me. I notice his fingernails are extra-long. Girl fingernails. They are pointed, sharp and painted red. What a tired old faggot. Pathetic, buddy. Funny, what you notice when you are dead sober. I hold out a ten dollar bill to pay for the juice. He shakes his head no.

“This one is definitely on the house,” he smiles.

Mischief is oozing out of his eyes.

What gives, I wonder?

Indeed, what gives in this House of God? This house of nasty surprises.

I feel a tapping on my shoulder. I turn around. Jesus Christ.

Stevie.

With a beer in his hand. No. Two beers. One in each hand. He seems to be a touch unsteady on his feet. Eyes swimming.

Interesting.

Same skin tight black leather pants. Stomping boots. Button up white shirt, this time. Shaggy hair. Big lips. Girly face. Smiling. What an asshole. My instinct is to punch him square in the face. As hard as I can. I don’t. Information first. Then get the scrawny bitch into a back room, make sure the music is cranked, then turn his lights out. I don’t care about the stupid ‘even up’ blow job, or the stupider ‘even up’ ass fuck. My bad, on both accounts. I could accept my wrongs. Instead, I was going for the punch in the mouth and the information.

Stevie drank from one bottle, then the next. He went back and emptied the first bottle, setting it in on the bar. I took a sip of my juice. Tasted damn good. My free, non-alcoholic, no tip drink. I feel a slight numbness on my tongue and lips. Must be the chemical sugar coating on the fruit slices.

The shivers of anxiety running through me are getting stronger. I can smell the pot and drugs and incense and poppers in the club. The air is heavy with these scents of illicitness. Scents of voyeurism. Scents of things about to happen. Abnormal things. To folks who shouldn’t be doing them. In the daytime world, anyway.

Not for me though. There is no way I am going to open that door.

Door to what?

Kissing, and touching, and hugging and sucking, and fucking?

With men?

Unnatural, and disgusting.

Period.

Insidiously, the tingle of anxiety made its way down to my balls. I sense a stirring down there. Stevie is leaning on the bar, ass in my direction, as he calls for more beer. I can see the tight girlie rear end encased in the snug black material. The stirring moves deeper, back into my ass. I swear I can feel my prostate coming to life.

Stevie has two new beers, one in each hand. He turns back to me. Catches me staring at him.

“Let’s talk,” he says. “Follow me.”

Stevie is making his way through the bar area, heading to the hallway maze. I follow, orange drink in hand. I left the towel and key on the bar. I don’t want the fucking things. I don’t need the fucking things.

We step into the maze. The music is pounding. The maze is steady with man traffic. I feel the usual errant brushes of hand from towel clad faggots. Exceedingly gross when you have no booze in your system.

What am I talking about?

It is exceedingly gross when you do. I need to punch somebody.

In the depths of the maze, Stevie stops, takes both beers in one hand, and with the other hand, keys a door. He enters the room and I follow. He toggles up the light, then reaches to another switch to kill the pounding music. I didn’t know these rooms all came with their own volume control. I certainly know why they do. Turn down the music when filming. This allows the sounds of sex to come through loud and clear. At least one of the rooms has a volume remote. Room one twenty-nine.

I look up at the ceiling. The red light is glowing. I know the device is not a smoke detector. Or is it? It might be legitimate. Perhaps room one twenty-nine is the performance room. Where they take the rookies. To make brand new memories. And DVD’s. I am getting pissed. Pissed is good. Pissed is better than conforming and floating and surrendering and being a worthless faggot.

The walls in this room are mirrored as well. I can see the holes of various diameters cut and buffed in the glass. Holes to stick cameras and dirty cocks through. How pathetic. Same shitty cot in this room. Same locker. Same night table. Same collar and leash hanging on the wall. Same bullshit in every room. How tiring, how stale, this would become.

Stevie throws himself on the bed, back against the wall, stretching his long limbs out. I sit on the bed, my back against the opposite wall. I sip my juice. He slugs his beer. He finishes one of his bottles, and starts on another. Stevie boy is getting hammered. More than interesting.

It is steaming hot in the room. I peel off my jacket and fold it, placing it on the cot. Stevie subconsciously rubs at his crotch. I can see the full bulge of his pants. I look away, but my stupid eyes sneak back. I almost wish I had my leathers on. My leathers were better than his. His dirty, worn boots were inches from my thighs. My nearly new sparkling black boots were also better than his. Most important, my bulge was better than his. I was better than him, in every way imaginable.

“Davey, you came here to talk. So talk.”

“Okay you fucking asshole. What the fuck did you do to me? The punching shit? Why? What is with the movie? And what the fuck is with the tattoo?”

Stevie cringed against the wall. He wasn’t expecting a display of force from good old me. The me Stevie knew, was laid back, a floater, always in surrender. Weak. A dirty little begging bottom.

He sucked on his beer bottle, a small baby boy.

“Easy. Easy,” he started.

He unbuttoned his shirt. Took it off and tossed it on the night table. Why the hell is he stripping?

I could see his ridiculous nipple rings. Glinting in the light of the mirrored room. Glinting off the mirror surfaces from side to side to the ceiling and on into infinity forever. Too bizarre, this mirror thing.

If you stared long enough, you might get lost in the mirror labyrinth forever.

Damn it was hot in here.

[To be continued……]


Watch ‘TRAILER FOR THIRTY-ONE DAYS’ on YouTube.


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VISIT the author on Facebook [Ronan Jackson Jefferson] or send emails to rojackjeff@hotmail.com


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rjj
16 comments

Anonymous readerReport

2014-04-19 22:40:13
reading you from Pittsburgh, PA. and loving it....so far so good

Anonymous readerReport

2014-04-16 17:04:52
calgary, alberta, canada. books are fun!!!!

Anonymous readerReport

2014-03-30 20:45:24
cASPER , wYOMING.............off to the library myself..

Anonymous readerReport

2014-03-29 17:43:29
Buffalo, New York..........lots of libraries to check out there!

Anonymous readerReport

2014-03-26 17:29:09
Boston Rob. A different Boston Rob.

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