A Iss at the End of Our Day

Melanie is wearing a black silk camisole and matching bikini, lacey apparel with the salacious character of a whore's costume in that it scarcely covers her nearly bald mons or cloaks her measure of healthy breasts. Through the gauzy weave, I see pale brown nipples, the pink skin of flat belly, and the prominent slash so dear to me, the cleft of buttocks.

In the center of my bed, I have positioned her up on all fours; her rump facing the chamber door, her mane of Cinderella locks forward toward the simulated stone wall. My index finger under the gossamer material follows the cleaving in her ass, pushes into her wet center. I introduce two other fingers the same place. Spongy wet heat envelopes my digits. She moans.

"Your cunt is so hot sweetheart. You want a cock don't you?"

"Yes."

"You forgot the rule sweetheart. No talking, just nod your head. Remember?"

Melanie nods. She knows the rules, understands them, endorses them or she'd not be here.

"Good very good, but no cock just yet my randy slut. Something almost as good, something you will enjoy no doubt."

Melanie and I are in my candlelit fun factory, a basement play room I keep cool so she has the requisite chill bumps on her firm, compliant body. I have installed a sound effects system to instill the proper mood, create a setting appropriate for our shared passion. Our only distinction in this mutually held obsession is my dominance and her submission. I have sounds of guards shuffling by, pausing, rattling keys in cell doors, prisoners screaming, rats scurrying inside the walls, the clanging of manacles, a helpless female crying somewhere, the crack of a whip, a woman begging for release from her bondage. The entire hullabaloo associated with damp dungeons and fetid prison cells. An audio encyclopedia of sound bites, guaranteed to stir our special passions. In the background, a Deutsch Grammophon recording of a male chorus sings

Onward Christian Soldiers

.

From my little box of tricks, I remove a large shiny black dildo. It is fifteen inches long and four inches in diameter. I found it in sex store, an emporium catering to every imaginable fetish. Hanging on a silver hook, sealed under shrunk wrap plastic and displayed on the face of eye catching pink cardboard, it went directly into my shopping tote and now here it is. A little while ago I filled it with hot water; boiling water matter and now gripped in my hand it is still hot to the touch. The toy could have been cast from the immense cock of El Magnifico, the legendary Cuban sex star in pre Castro Havana. This powerfully built purple black man, his body always greased with oil, stood six feet six inches tall and his member dropped below his knees in its flaccid state. Seldom was it flaccid. Every night in the center of an auditorium packed with spectators, El Magnifico labored on a circular mattress big enough to sleep a dozen people in comfort.

Sultry, raven haired Cuban beauties with bodies of indescribable perfection fucked El Magnifico night after night. Actually, he fucked them. On top of these wenches or these women squatting on him, he never tired. Some of the braver senoritas allowed him to penetrate their resilient anuses, others tried to encircle his hardness with their mouths.

In the dark amphitheater lit by several flood lights focused on the action, five nights a week El Magnifico took on all comers, never seemed to run out of sperm. His control was amazing and he seemed to hold off orgasms forever, and most women he frolicked with did not wish for him to stop. El Magnifico had groupies; woman fucked by him who wished to be fucked by him some more. They stood vigilant sentry outside his dressing room or under a beam of light focused on the theater's stage door. Some he deemed to dally with after a show or he allowed them to suck his cock on his days off.

Every night, the watchful audience of these performances was international in its character. Men openly stroked their cocks; beautiful women in evening gowns went down on their dates and other stunning women hid their heads under the gowns of overheated females.

Western women, Nordic blondes, olive skinned ones from the Mediterranean basin, ladies with the dark complexions of the Middle East vied to fuck El Magnifico. Many did. They returned to their marriage beds, their husbands no longer able to satisfy them. El Magnifico must have wrecked many a marriage in his time.

In honor of El Magnifico who is no longer with us, I pushed the oversized dildo into Melanie's pliant pussy. Slowly, taking my time, not pushing too hard, the black cock slipped in until it no longer existed but the nub held by the tips of my fingers.

Melanie moaned again.

"Oh my God, oh my God."

I say nothing. I do not criticize her for speaking. I do rip the swatch of fabric from her body, toss it to the floor.

Already naked, my cock is swollen; I stroke myself and fuck her some more with the hefty black dildo.

Melanie, flaxen hair falling down off her head, pushes back against the dildo.

"Melanie, you are such a slut. Imagine what your co-workers would think, your parents, your husband."

"Fuck, it feels so good. Push it in some more."

"I can't sweetheart. It can go in no farther. You are talking a bit too much. I think you may need some discipline."

` Melanie so stunning in this bed, now fully exposed to my ministrations. I drink in every precious inch of her lithe body, the pale flesh, the tiny mole on her left ass cheek and the several unobtrusive blemishes in the small of her back and on her left thigh. She has the most intense blue eyes. Those eyes, the ash-blonde hair sweeping down on her shoulders, she'd have been the perfect breeding vessel in Nazi Germany for the gestation of an Aryan superman.

Her gently swaying breasts, the peach fuzz triangle of pubic curls about her gash, down lower the thick folds of labia, then the puckered stoma in her ass. All these facets drive me mad with desire. My cock hurts, wants to be in her.

Earlier, Melanie, blonde hair in a ponytail, a shiny yellow purse dangling on her arm, arrived at my home wearing a yellow sun dress, yellow high heels. No brassiere, not even a flimsy pink or yellow

soutien

-gorge

from Paris, but yes, a yellow thong brief, a mere ribbon of fabric to give definition to her round buttocks. In the foyer soon as the door closed behind her, I unzipped my dress gray trousers, ripped Melanie's sundress off, and stretched the thong until it came apart in my hands like an archaic rubber band. She kicked her shoes off, they arced, the left one landed upright on the antique oak umbrella stand, the other one on its left side near the potted plant and on the terrazzo floor, and I fucked her. My cock pumped in and out, my hands stroked her smooth, cool thighs, fingers stretched to calves corded so nicely when she wears heels. Finally, I rubbed the bottoms of her sexy bare feet. It was hard rough fucking, cave man fucking with no love only lust, lots of lust and violence, much violence. Consensual rape it was. It was a compact, a marriage contract, a connubial bed made on the cold floor. I wished to get my edge off for the coming night; she wanted to spill my passion to keep me going the distance.

Later, the two of us naked in the playroom, the dildo dancing inside her, all the way inside her, I imagine El Magnifico doing her in that amphitheater fifty odd years ago. Hang dog Melanie hounding the star, pushing other women out of the way, to get closer to his celebrated schlong.

Melanie looking back over her left shoulder watches me stroking my cock. She pushes against the dildo and grunts. Her voice is echoing in this chamber of thrills. She knows I want to fuck her until we are both raw and out of breath. I see her want so clearly under the hooding of her perfect blue eyes.

I know this woman. I am familiar with all the pink and red colors of her blooming body when she is pleasured to the hilt. The crimson hue of her puckered anus when inflamed, the cherry shade of her lower lips opened wide to gain my entry, the ruby glow of her mouth gapping open to receive my package.

She knows I never permit her to wear panty hose nor she is to sleep in my bed with clothing hindering my access to her. She knows to be unerringly compliant with my wishes, to obey my desires, to be my ever ready slut.

In this moment before ejecting the rubber implement, just before our union, ecstatic memories bubble to the surface of my mind. I remembered her call from an out of the way desk at work, her voice in a whisper telling me she shaved her pussy, now it is itches terribly, wants fucking. She came here; we fucked until both of us were limp as dish rags, slept afterwards like hibernating bears. Near the noise of ocean surf, the rush of evening tide, we dozed on the cooling white sands of a beach baked all day by a tropical sun. I had pulled off her conservatively cut bikini bottom, my tongue went between her legs, gently brushed her clit; she hammered her legs against my noggin, screamed at the full moon. The first time I doggy fucked her sans condom. That time I pushed up her blue skirt, squeezed past her indigo panties, humped her on the faux marble countertop in the bathroom of the contraceptive museum in the French town of Condom. The luxuriant texture of Melanie's mouth suctioning my cock in front of television set showing perspiring, buttoned down cops grilling a cucumber cool Sharon Stone. That delicious moment, I first took suzerainty over Melly and she licked my earlobes, nipples and cock head in willing servitude.

In the present, playtime over, my dominant nature and her submissive self sated for a time, we snuggle in our warm, fireplace lit bed. She my cherished wife, who during the day wears opal-colored scrubs and carries on for Florence Nightingale, on weekend's train's guide dogs, the latest a Lab named Price. Now, as she always does, she comes to bed naked and in my eyes she is quite perfect. I am wearing pale blue boxer shorts and need a shave. Her hand caresses my cock through my brief's slit, her foot and mine are intertwined. We fall asleep but not before we kiss at the end of our day.