Biggest Night of the Year

A Kinky Rachel Short

"You've got a hard on, don't you?" I asked.

My boyfriend, sitting on the couch next to me, gave me mildly sheepish look and snaked his hand inside his trousers to adjust his cock so it was less visible. "Sorry."

"What are you sorry for? I'm just wondering what got you going," I replied.

It was just after midnight and we were watching the Oscar's on the TV. It was still the pre-show.

"Well," said Matthew, "I was looking at Angelina Jolie…” I nodded - even I, a committed heterosexual woman, found her stunning. She had appeared on the television in a shimmering silver gown that was seemingly precision moulded to her statuesque body. There was a widening V cut spreading down from the neckline exposing the luscious curves of her breasts, and the silver fabric was dimpled with the large twin points of her nipples. Whether her nipples were firm from the cold or from the sensation of that lustrous fabric against her perfect body, I would never know.

"She's a beautiful woman," I said.

"Yeah," Matthew replied, "but I was watching her there on the red carpet and, you know, you hear she's pretty liberal sexually…"

"Yes…" I was a little reluctant, wondering what on earth this could be leading up to.

"Do you think she ever, you know, masturbated with her Oscar?"

I thought about it then. The shiny gold head of that miniature man pressing against her pussy, his nerveless metal lips unable to taste Angelina’s juices. Perhaps she rubbed him between her breasts first, let the cold head stimulate her nipples before warming him between the immense flesh of her perfect tits. In my mind’s eye I could picture those puffy lips of hers parted by full-throated cries as she rapidly pounded her cunt with her Oscar. Thinking about it, my own pussy was dripping wet and I could see why Matthew’s cock was pushing against his jeans.

I reached out and unzipped his fly, pushed my fingers inside his briefs and tugged at his cock. It brushed roughly against the fabric of his clothes and he complained - “Hey, watch it.”

“Frankly, my dear, if someone’s going to play with your dick you shouldn’t question it.”

As he watched Angelina being interrogated by the smarmy interviewer - who was doing everything but pawing her tits and saying “fuck me - I’ve a tiny cock so you won’t even realize it’s happened” - I played with my boyfriend’s penis.

I began by just messing around. I batted his shaft roughly with my hand, watching it wobble rigidly and then gently rubbed my hand over the head. It was dry, so I spat on my palm and stroked my saliva into his cock, rimming it around his taut foreskin. He moaned. “Oh, Rachel you’re so good at that.”

“Honey, I haven’t started yet…”

I stroked him more seriously now, my hand describing long, slow strokes up and down his shaft. My other hand went between his legs and rubbed his balls through the denim. He responded quickly - moaning faster and louder and reaching out to cup my pussy. I batted his hand away. There would be time for that and I would want his whole attention on the task.

Matthew has a beautiful cock. It’s not that long - about average size at five inches - and not that thick, but it’s the smoothest cock I’ve ever had. Not one vein seems to mar the perfection of his silky olive skin there. When it’s inside my tight, boiling cunt it feels nice - not the flesh-ripping pleasure of a big dick but a skilled presence that brings me to shrieking orgasms.

Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller are on the TV now. For some reason the two of them together make me laugh. They have great chemistry. Matthew laughs and the muscle movement in his abdomen quickens the process I’m engaged on at his groin. I hear his breath quicken and I can feel the pulse rushing faster through his cock.

I decide to bring him off as quickly as I can and bend over him, taking just the head of his cock in my mouth and slurping it. I dash it with my tongue then let it slip out, alternating between the steamy moisture of my mouth and the sharp cold of the air in my flat. My lips lack the splendour of Ms. Jolie’s, but they are still large and moist and very, very red. I lick and kiss his cock, still stroking the shaft but no longer playing with his balls - I’m too aroused now and one of my hands is playing with my breasts, teasing the nipples and caressing the delicate flesh the way I do when I masturbate alone.

Matthew is about to come, the heat of my mouth sending him over rapidly. He’s stroking my long, brown hair - something I like when I’m sucking a guy off - and huskily uttering my name over and over. I stop playing at sucking his cock and completely engulf it in one swift action. My tongue plays briefly against his shaft and he comes, spraying salty fluid down my throat. I swallow most of it, but keep a little on my tongue.

His breathing is slowing and his cock is softening in my mouth, a delicious feeling like a warm icicle melting. I release his cock and kiss him, feeding him the small bit of his come that I have saved. He swallows it then kisses me roughly back.

“That was fucking fantastic. You should write it down for one of those stories of yours.”

On the television, Billy Crystal appears, smug in a tuxedo. He starts to sing and I cringe, even for him. There is no way I can watch this idiot.

I stand up, the lace of my cosmic black panties rubbing against my extremely sensitive pussy with a moist perfection. “Maybe I will, but first,” I say. I unzip my dress, my moderately large breasts spilling quickly out, bronze nipples spiked with desire. I shimmy my slender hips out of it, standing just in my panties - no bra required with my ever so little black dress. Matthew watches me, enjoying the show. His cock twitches, though it will be some time before he will be able to use it to satisfy me. It is smeared with lipstick tracery.

I turn my back on him and slip off the panties, letting his eyes feast on my firm ass. I bend over, giving him a sneak preview of my cunt, and pick up the panties. Looking over my shoulder I toss them to him: he holds them to his face and sniffs then licks them, tasting my juices as he has so often before.

I turn back to him and his eyes fix on my cunt, taking in the carefully trimmed dark V of hair that frames my swollen lips, shining with moisture in the room’s light.

I finish: “Go to work.” His hands wrap around my ass and he pulls me on top of him, his tongue darting quickly inside my pussy.

Let’s just say that the next day my neighbour asked me why I was so pleased that Tim Robbins had won best supporting actor.

He must have been more soundly asleep when, as Peter Jackson took his award for best director, I rode Matthew, thrashing into ecstatic oblivion on the sofa as the never-ending ceremony mirrored our own even more established act. We were rough and hard and fast and loud, the couch denting the wall and rocking back and forth in a manner that would have been alarming if we hadn’t been so involved.

As I come for the third time in our last fuck before the satiated sleep of the orgasmic claims us I remember what one is supposed to say on such occasions.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

The End

I wrote this the day after the day after the Academy Awards and only found it, quivering on my computer, recently. Perhaps, having read it, you wish I had just pressed delete, but I feel - for those whose night was not particularly enjoyable - that some justification for the bloated Academy Awards is needed.

As usual, feedback to the link below is very welcome.

Lest I go on, like Gwyneth Paltrow, I’ll finish by dedicating this to Bill Murray, who really should have won.