Unbridled Wishful Sex

Jennie O'Hara was reaching the end of her sexual peak, being forty-seven and having three children to show for her endeavors. She was sad thinking about the gradually decline of her libido to the state where the most exciting moment in her life would knitting and wondering if she'd just done a purl instead of a plain.

She was walking through the woods when Poof! - a bear in a checked waistcoat too tight for him and eating a banana blocked her way, saying, "Good morning. Ready for you wish?"

"I'd wish you'd get out of my way," Jennie said, overlooking the fact that bears don't talk and certainly don't eat bananas out of choice nor wear a ridiculously silly little hat like this one.

The bear threw away the banana skin; it went ‘splat!" against the sign warning Drop No Litter. "You should make a wish about geeing up you sex future. That's currently your biggest worry, isn't it?"

"Hmmmm. It certainly is," said Jennie, vaguely wondering how a bear escaped from a circus would know that.

"Well, come on – I haven't all day. Make your wish."

"Um, I wish to have sex with a handsome young man once a day for the rest of my life."

Poof!

The bear disappeared and Jennie walked on with no memory of such an encounter.

Forty-years on, aged eighty-seven, Jennie groaned as nurses in the rest home pulled her knickers down and left her on the bed to wait. In strode a handsome young man.

"Hi, Mrs O'Hara. You have me today; my name is Mark."

Dully watching him undress Jennie winced when seeing the size of his penis which he was stroking to full erection. It was the largest she'd ever seen.

"I'm getting too old for this caper," she growled. I want this to stop."

"I'm sorry, Mrs O'Hara, we work under contract and have to complete the job – open wide."

Jennie's eyes widened and she experienced that uncomfortable bloated feeling.

"I wish I could retire from having sex," she grumbled. But no-one came to grant her new wish as wishes only come every so often. No-one had a clue when the next ‘often' would come; they are rarer than comets.

x x x x x

Stewart Peabody squeezed a couple of pimples on his face, smelt his t-shirt and thought it was okay to wear for the fifth day running. He yawned, thinking he could smell his own breath but stretched and yawned again instead of going and brushing his teeth, flossing and gargling mouthwash.

Two hours later he was screwing Lizzy Walters into a quivering screaming mess, as she ejaculated herself into exhaustion.

"Ohmigod, what the other girls say about you is true," Lizzy groaned. "You are the king of orgasm-makers."

Stewart could only scowl. Once again he'd failed to get off. These young women were next to useless – screw them for twenty minutes and they were finished, whereas he was only warming up. He wondered if it could be different.

Poof!

A big fat nude woman with breasts reaching almost to her knees appeared before him.

"Who are you?"

"Your best chance."

"What chance do I have with you?" Stewart pondered.

"I'll grant you just one wish."

"Oh yeah. Well I wish I could find a pussy that could squeeze the cum out of me an hour after I entered it."

"Whose pussy?"

"Anyone's"

The old retired prostitute smiled and disappeared in a Poof!

Three weeks to the day Stewart's folk sat in the church devastated as they watched their son they'd hoped be an astronaut marry a woman fifty years older than himself, with massive breasts.

That night Stewart got his wish – his bride's powerful pussy clamped around him and milked him dry.

"Darling, I love you," he smiled as he fell into an exhausted sleep.

Steward was shaken awake exactly sixty minutes after his last ejaculation.

"Honey, wake up," leered his heavy-jowl bride. Time to get it up and in; we must remain on schedule – once an hour, on the hour."

x x x x x

Twenty-year-old Richard B. Frazer-Pennyworth stepped out of the front door, took a glass of champagne from one footman, half-emptied the glass in a gulp and tossed it into the shrubbery and then took a driving iron from the other footman.

He walked across the carriageway to the lawn, tossed the golf ball handed to him by a footlady into the air and slammed it 210 yards.

When he reached the ball a pale-faced man with bluish lips, a very sensitive face and very thin nose - oh, and yellow hair down to his collar and dressed in velvet – handed him a wedge.

"What do you wish for darling?"

"Who are you?"

"Oh, just a fairy," said the stranger, looking for Richard's bulge.

"I wish I could hole out my next shot."

"Very well, that wish will come true provided you come to my bed instead of the bed of your betrothed."

"Do they still use the word betrothed these days?"

"I just used it, didn't I?"

"Well old man, you're going to miss out on you bit of nooky. I only have a wedge with a 60-degree loft in my hand and the cup is 144 yards away."

"One hundred and thirty-seven and a half, actually."

"Right, you're on, you washed-out fairy."

Eleven minutes later Richard was on his hands and knees, panting and grunting as he was being pounded.

"That wedge shot was a miracle."

"Finding an adult male ass virgin these days is even a bigger miracle," puffed the sweating fairy.

x x x x x

Claybourn Parish's annual fete was a triumph, the largest turn-out in 127 years and Pastor David Bee was exalted and also pleased. Never before had so many males attended this event, and he supposed that was because his sweet young new bride – his seventh wife Catherine – was womanning the kissing booth.

Catherine was dressed in an English school girl's uniform – while blouse, gym frock that barely went below her hips, a lacy thong, garter belt and lacy back stockings encasing her mind-blowing legs.

She was puckering her lips to be kissed, and after a couple of hundred puckerings, felt her lower lips puckering as well and becoming very moist.

Feeling a prickly beard scratching her face she opened her eyes to find she'd just been kissed by a man with a beard and incredibly intense orange colored eyes.

"Hello, I haven't seen you around our parish."

"Nope, honey, I'm just passing through. All this kissing is making you feel randy, isn't it?"

Catherine blushed and bowed her head shyly. "It is, rather."

"Close the tent and allow me to do something about it"

"Oh, I couldn't do that. I am a married woman, wife of the pastor."

"Does he fuck you to satisfaction?"

"Not since the night before our wedding."

"That's a shame. I command you to show no fear. I'll pull the tent opening around you and stand behind you. Try to keep yourself under control."

The disguised troll stood behind Catherine and plowed himself to a standstill. She continued kissing but under the fifty minutes of constant thrusting and being drawn to almost ultimate climax before being allowed to ease back, her kissing became more passionate and some men were up repeatedly for $5 kisses.

Catherine took a break and inside the tent to her dismay found herself sucking off the bearded-one and swallowed one 500th of a gallon.

"I wish you would go away," she said, cleaning her mouth and smiling kindly at the man who was busily corrupting her.

"Right you are," he said, in an Irish accent (these days trolls are only found in Ireland and parts of the Soviet Un-union). "I've had my fill and emptied myself a few times. Is asking me to go your only wish? I could give you one more?"

"I wish my husband would fuck me in a masterly fashion, so all the women in our congregation would see that I am capable of satisfying my man."

"Granted. 3 o'clock. Goodbye."

Poof!

Catherine flushed her mouth out with water. She knew she hadn't been dreaming as she knew what cum tasted like. Bemused, she went back to her kissing station and continued making more from her kisses than a super-active high-price whore would make in a week from her pussy.

Precisely at 3 o'clock there was a big flash above the fete ground and suddenly every male was positioned waiting patiently in lines outside the temporary toilets while all females were seated in the arena watching the pastor, nude, plowing his new wife, nude and over the next hour they had sex in eleven different positions until the pastor staggered to his feet, his deflated penis absolutely spent.

"Isn't she amazing," he cried, pulling Catherine to her feet with cum pouring out of the elated young woman.

The women acknowledged her with thunderous applause.

There was another big flash and everyone returned to what they had been doing one hour ago.

The pastor lined up at the kissing booth and paying his $5 kissed Catherine and said that he'd had the oddest experience half an hour ago – he'd visualized standing up nude and waving to his congregation.

"You don't look surprised," he said.

"Why should I – don't you remember, I was there?"

"Huh?"

"Move on jerk," said a big farmhand lining up for a kiss after pushing the pastor away.

Pastor O'Hara was about to dismiss the fucking incident when Betty Turnbell came up to him and whispered, "That was an amazing bout of athleticism."

Then Maureen Sullivan and Lilly Sullivan congratulated him, Lilly saying "For giving your lovely wife what she needs" while Maureen said, "doesn't she accommodate you so intelligently and with such flexibility."

Thereafter the church was always full, women of the parish hoping for a return exhibition.

They never witnessed another session but that's because the pastor and his wife never appeared in public at mid-afternoon. Never.

At three o'clock each afternoon they would be in each other's arms, nude, for a compulsory pounding. They learned to vary the length of the session and it handily took a break in the final days of Catherine's two pregnancies and for a month immediately after the births. But other than that, they go to bed each afternoon at 2.55 for a mind-blowing 'nap'.

THE END