Utah Is so Sweet

I don't know about you, but there's something about female body builders that really turns me on. There's more of 'em on the net these days than you can shake a stick at, of course, but there's one who stands out – pardon my pun – ahead of all the rest.

I'm referring to the lovely Utah Sweet. She's blonde, she's busty and she's mature, a combination I find irresistible. Depending on who you believe, she's either 36 or 40-years-old. Doesn't really matter. Like the lovely Utah said to me on our first date, when I asked how old she was: "How old you want me to be, honey."

That must have been the tact of a former airline stew coming out in her – OK, I know they're called fuckin' flight attendants these days, but to me they're fuckin' stews. And speaking of "coming out", what also comes out in her is that fantastic set of jugs – once again, the size depends on which information you believe. Some reckon she's a 38DD, others say 40 and others again reckon she's a 44EE.

Tell you what, none of the above matter a fuck. What matters is they are the firmest, most wonderful titties I've ever worshipped and I've worshipped a few, believe you me!

The rest of her stacks out at 25 and 36, according to some, and 24 and 32, according to others. I believe the former, but who takes a fuckin' tape measure to a body worship session?

That was the way I got to know the lovely Californian. I'm a self-made millionaire, I'm 50-years-old, but I look less than that, some ladies say a lot less. I've got long black hair, almost to my shoulders and there are some who reckon I've got the dark, brooding looks of a Spaniard. At 6 foot 2 inches, with a well-muscled body thanks to hours in the gym, I have no trouble pulling the ladies.

And when I display my equipment down there I have no trouble fuckin' 'em either – it's only eight inches, but it's thick and it's uncut. I have very prominent balls, which makes my cock sit up on the scrotal sack like it's always in a state of semi-permanent, semi-stiffness.

I've made my money from designing a specific part for those advertising hoardings that rush around motor racetracks at improbably high speeds – Formula One and IndyCar advertising hoardings, mostly. It's a highly sophisticated little gizmo that makes changing gear much easier. 'Course it's done at the push of a button or a pedal flap these days, and I'm not gonna tell you any more. Top secret type of crap.

Anyway, I called Utah on her private mobile number and this doll answered. Honest, I thought I'd cream my jeans when I heard her voice. That "Coffee, tea or me?" purr that you want to hear from every blonde stew – oh, all right, flight attenddant -who ever helped you fasten your seat belt.

I'm not exactly the shy retiring kind, but I was enchanted by her voice. "Hi," I said, trying to maintain my West Coast cool, "my name's Dirk, and I was wondering whether you'd be available for a body worship session?"

There was a laugh, and then Utah told me: "If you've got the money honey, I've got the time – and I guess we've both got the inclination."

"Tell you what," I said, feeling more comfortable now. "I believe a body worship session is a pretty intimate kinda thing. What say we meet beforehand, get to know each other, work out if it's gonna be mutual. Say lunch tomorrow at the Water Grill? You OK with that?"

Utah certainly was. "I

love

seafood," she said. We made a date for lunch the next day and I went into a state of semi-arousal for 24 hours!

I reached the restaurant a couple of blocks off Wilshire Boulevard early, got the kid to park my little Mercedes SLR McLaren (well, it's not that little!), and sipped on a beer in the bar. About the appointed time, this fuckin' vision walked into the restaurant.

Tall, I reckon around six feet in her high heels – she's five feet eight inches without 'em – and with long blonde hair cascading to her shoulders, Utah wore a red leather jacket, trendy blue jeans and had a Gucci bag slung over her shoulder.

She stepped alongside me, an intoxicating aroma of expensive perfume, Calvin Klein, I guessed, wafted into my nostrils and she planted a chaste little peck on my cheek. "If you're Dirk, I'm Utah," she smiled, and ordered an orange juice.

At the table, we weren't showered with attention – the Water Grill is

far

too fuckin' sophisticated for that - but the waiter who looked after us did a lot of looking. At Utah's stunning breasts!

She ordered Ecuadorian mahi mahi, I had the New Zealand John Dory and we swilled a bottle of vintage Krug down with the food. If I'm out with a supermodel, I don't stint!

Over the meal, I gathered that Utah liked men who paid gentle attention to her body in a worshipping situation, she didn't mind performing mild domination and she appreciated a man who was generous.

Like a man who's made his money in the cutthroat business of motor racing, I cut to the chase. "How much do you charge?"

Utah gave me a sweet smile, then cut me down to size. "I never charge my men friends," she said, "but I never refuse a token of their appreciation."

I sat back and sighed after the excellent dish – this joint's the best fuckin' seafood place on the West Coast. "I can be very, very appreciative, Utah," I told her and she laid a perfectly manicured, but very strong, hand on mine.

"Well then, Dirk," she said, in that oh-so-sexy stew voice, "we're gonna get along just famously."

She asked me where I made my money. I told her and she turned up her nose. "Racing cars," she said, looking down her nose at me. "Lots of men with Italian and German names driving round and round boring little race tracks, earning far too much money and all thinking they're God's gift to women."

"Precisely," I said, "when it's me who makes their silly little cars not smash their gear boxes and when it's me who, in reality, is God's gift to women!"

She had the decency to laugh at my feeble little joke, then drained her last flute of Krug and looked me directly in the eye: "OK, Dirk, how's about it?"

I looked surprised. "You mean that's it? We're on now?"

Utah grinned. "I like you, you don't look like a fuckin' sex maniac – and I think I'm a pretty good judge – so where do we go? I take it if you make millions out of those fuckin' boring Grand Prix dudes, you don't exactly live in a one room apartment? Unless this is all bravado."

For "bravado" I hauled out my black card – you know the one – and paid the bill.

"You mean, you're all ready to go?" I asked, once again sounding like a gauche kid.

Utah laughed. "I've got sexy underwear in the bag, a PVC bikini, some leather gear, and a little leather lash, Dirk. Reckon I need anything else?"

I shook my head. "Sounds like you're like the fuckin' boy scout," I said. "And if you're prepared, your carriage awaits."

Outside, I tipped the boy who brought the Mercedes round a $50 bill, mainly because I was feeling very fuckin' excited. I could tell by the way the kid feasted his eyes on Utah he was pretty fuckin' excited too!

As I pointed the Merc McLaren north towards my mansion – look it's a fuckin' mansion 'cos I can afford a fuckin' mansion, OK? – I could see Utah was impressed.

"This is the sort of car you get to drive when you make gear boxes for racing cars, eh Dirk?" she said.

"Well," I smiled, pleased she liked the Krautmobile, "it's better'n a fuckin' Bentley and it's faster'n a fuckin' Porsche. And anyway, I get a discount from the company 'cos I'm working on a tweaked version of my little gear box gizmo for 'em next year. The way they fuckin' went this year, they fuckin' need it."

"Too much fuckin' information," Utah laughed, and then stretched back to enjoy the ride. Men in higher vehicles must have stretched things looking down on her fabulous superstructure when they drew alongside us at lights, too.

We drove through the security gates at my walled mansion in its gated and secluded area looking down on Thousand Oaks golf course. It's not the biggest spread in greater LA, but it's not the smallest, either. Utah looked impressed.

"Nice," she said, climbing from the Merc, and looking at the double storey building. "Lead the way, Mr Formula One!"

Inside I could see she was impressed, again. But she had a "but". "Prove to me it's your home and not been loaned to you by a friend, Mr F One," she said, abbreviating the title she had bestowed on me.

I laughed and led her to one of the rooms overlooking the massive swimming pool. In the middle of the room was a large, glass-topped table. Set in it was a grand prix engine.

"That's from a Mercedes W-196," I told her. "From the days before they put advertising on 'em."

She nodded appreciatively. "And who's that?" she said, pointing to a photograph on the wall of me standing with Michael Schumacher.

"It's Michael Schumacher after one of his driver's championships wins, I forget which one," I said.

"He's good in the wet," said Utah.

"Yep, but not as good as Rudi Caracciola," I told her.

"Carafuckin' who?" she asked. But then she pointed to a picture of me with Stirling Moss.

"Who's he?" she asked.

"Stirling Moss," I said, naming one of Britain's best-ever GP drivers.

"He looks gay," she said.

I roared with laughter. "Oh, I must tell him that," I said. "Strange, odd even – but most definitely not gay, my darling Utah."

She grinned. "Well, forget Stirling Fuckin' Moss," she said, "where can I take a piss and change into a bikini. You want me to start in a bikini?"

I nodded eagerly. "Let me show you the master bedroom," I said, leading her upstairs. It's a big room, you could play the Wimbledon men's doubles final in it. I led her into the en suite bathroom – not quite so big, that one – and left her to it.

"How about me?" I asked. "What shall I be dressed in?"

"Nude would be fine, Mr F One," she replied, closing the door.

I quickly stripped off and climbed onto the bed. I heard noises of her pissing, and I started to stroke my cock. It didn't need much assistance, it was as hard as a rock already!

Then the door to the en suite opened and out walked a vision of beauty that made my jaw drop. I've seen loads of horny-looking women around the fast car circuits of the world, but I've never seen anything so fuckin' cock-jolting as Utah Sweet in her PVC bikini!

The bikini was brilliant red – yep, Ferrari red, I guess – and it was brief but not too brief. It looked as if it had been sprayed onto her magnificent mammaries. The lumps that indicated her nipples were bursting at the material.

On her hips, the bikini bottom was high cut, across her lovely brown body, the crotch of the garment bunched as if she'd given her pussy work-outs! Her hair was freshly brushed and it glowed lustrously. Her body was muscled, but not muscle-bound like so many body builder types.

She had one of those glorious California girls' suntans which made her look even more desirable. On her feet, fire-engine red high heeled shoes helped outline the perfectly cut shape of her calves and thighs. She did a pirouette before approaching the bed. As she twirled, I saw the bikini bottom was thong-style, her glorious glutes rippling and shining, just demanding worship.

"Utah," I stammered, finding it difficult to articulate my thoughts as I drank in her lush, toned and tanned beauty, "you are a fuckin' goddess."

"In which case get down here on your fuckin' knees and start worshipping me, Dirk," she snapped, in a much more dominant tone.

I leapt from the bed, my erection slapping noisily against my abdomen as I did so, then I knelt behind her lovely long legs.

I placed a trembling mouth on her calf and kissed it tenderly.

"Start on my fuckin' stiletto heel, Dirk," Utah ordered, and I swiftly obeyed. I inhaled the leather from her shoe, then slowly worked my way up her strong calf, then up the back of her muscular thigh, then onto her right buttock, my stiff cock brushing against her calf as I did so.

Utah then bent over slightly, allowing me a look at the PVC strap between her thighs, the bright outer sides of her anus peeping on either side of the PVC.

"Now the other ass cheek and down to the heel," she snapped.

I licked and kissed her other buttock, marvelling at the smooth, muscle-rippling surface, then her thigh, then her calf and finally the left stiletto heel.

"Now the front, Dirk," said Utah, turning around to face me.

I kissed the tip of her shoe, then her upper foot, then her ankle before working my way up her shin to her strong thigh. I then paused and wondered where I would be permitted next, but Utah solved my predicament by roughly pressing my head into her crotch!

My lips feverishly lapped at the firmness of her pussy, an unmistakable aroma of pussy juice mingled with faint traces of urine making for a totally intoxicating mix.

"Now down the other leg," she ordered, and I thrilled to detect a rasp, a huskiness to her voice. I dared to hope I was arousing her.

I traversed the other leg, as instructed, then came the command: "I hope you're a tit man, Dirk."

I stood, placed my hands gently on her shoulders, my prick stabbing her in her toned and taut belly and lowered my mouth to her breasts. First I kissed the inner globes of her big boobs, feeling the firmness of her mighty mounds. Then my mouth moved to the slippery PVC, kissing its coolness, and then sucking on the protuberance where her nipple stuck out against the material.

As I did so, I felt her hand grasp my cock, stroking it almost savagely, pulling the foreskin down, then pulling it back up to the helmet. As she did this, I instinctively placed a hand against the back strap of her bikini bra and with a deftness that still surprises me, unclasped the garment.

It fell back and her breasts sprang at me, the nipples erect, as I knew they would be, smallish and surrounded by a small pair of areolae. I lowered my mouth again and took one nipple in my mouth, savouring the sweet taste of the erect little nubbin.

As I performed this thrilling task, with Utah cupping her glorious globes as I did, I hooked my thumbs into the hip straps of her bikini bottom and pulled it from her groin. She wriggled and jerked her lower body slightly, and I heard the garment fall to the floor.

As glorious as her breasts were, there was now another destination which demanded my attention and Utah helped me, pressing her hands against my shoulders and driving me down towards her snatch.

When I was on my knees, I gazed in adoration at the totally hairless, perfect pussy before me. Her lush labia lips were pronounced, thick and gleaming. Her cunt looked invitingly tight. But her clitoris was the focal point of her sweet-smelling snatch!

It was a large, lickable thing – possibly the largest clit I'd ever laid eyes on. I was almost salivating as I pressed my mouth against it and then flicked my tongue onto it, rubbing and rolling it around in my mouth, kissing, licking and nibbling.

Then I moved down her sex trench to the juice-streaming cunt lips and tasting as I did the slightly salty tanginess from her labia, the aftermath of her piss. Her cunt was tasty, too, leaking love juice copiously as I paid lavish attention to its satin-like smoothness, my tongue forging a path up it.

Then I was back at work on her clit and then Utah took complete and total charge. Falling back onto the bed, she placed her very strong thighs around my neck in a scissors movement and trapped me in her prettily perfumed pussy prison, her stilletto heels stabbing me gently on the back.

"Give me the Big O, Dirk, come on, make it good big boy, make it good," she was ordering, her voice a panted plea.

I strove to satisfy her and soon she was heaving and humping on my imprisoned face, sweat pouring from me and mingling with her pussy and piss juices.

Then, with an almost screamed "Yeah, fuckin' yeah!" Utah Sweet burst into a long, low moaning as her orgasm surged through her crotch, her pussy drenching me even further as I licked and laved to bring her to total satisfaction.

Her moaning had subsided to a low whimper, when I realised that I needed satisfaction, too. I almost bounded onto her, my cock driving at her cunt, moving as quickly as possible, half-fearing she would repulse me, half-hoping for a struggle with the stunning, statuesque beauty.

But there was no resistance, only a pair of hands placed on my buttocks, which pulled at me, forcing me deep into her satiny cunt. She was wet, smooth and tight – fuck, was she tight!

I soon established a steady tempo, delighting in the way her big mounds pressed against my upper chest as we fucked, then she was back into command mode: "Tit fuck me, Dirk."

With reluctance, I have to admit, I pulled my throbbing cock from her pussy and placed it between her great golden globes. Utah then pressed them together, trapping my eight-inches of hardness between the two most perfect mounds in the entire history of tit fucking!

Once more I began my fuck tempo, with Utah smiling down at my cock as it rode between her beautiful breasts. "He's pretty, Dirk," she said, as I gasped in lust on top of her. "He's smiling at me."

Between gasps I informed her: "He's going to be shooting at you in a minute, 'kay?"

Utah grinned. "Let's see if he can shoot into my mouth from between my titties," she said, turning the tit-fuck into a competition of how far I could shoot my spunk!

Almost instantly, I felt the lovely surge of lust as my control totally vanished and I spumed a glob of thick spunk towards her face. Utah's mouth was open, but my first burst of jism failed to meet that lovely target, falling onto her chin. The second spurt splattered against her throat, the third on her upper mound of her breast.

"Whatta fuckin' useless shot, Dirk," Utah laughed as my efforts all missed her mouth. "Don't give up your day job."

I climbed from her taut and toned body, went to the en suite for a towel and returned to clean the evidence of my climax from her, then fell down beside her on the bed.

"Well, Dirk, what's the result of the road test?" she said, smiling at me in an amused fashion.

"Rolls-Royce," I told her, "jealously guard their good name. Anyone tries to advertise something as the 'Rolls-Royce of fridges', or 'the Rolls-Royce of toasters' can expect a cease and desist letter from the company's lawyers."

Utah looked at me with an inquiring lift of an eyebrow. "I presume this is leading somewhere, Dirk?"

"Yeah," I nodded, "what I'm trying to say is that I've had a lot of tit fucks in my time and compared to you the others were all Model fuckin' T Fords.

"You, Ms Sweet, are the Rolls-Royce of tit fucks."

Utah let out a low laugh. "Don't worry, Mr Formula One," she told me, "your secret is safe with me. No way I'll be telling that to Rolls-Royce."

"Why not?" I joked.

Utah Sweet kissed me gently on the mouth: "Because I'd fuckin' hate for you to cease and desist!"

To be continued.