CHAPTER 1
Thursday night, 10 p.m. and Megan Flaherty is at my door. She's been here many times before. Megan's tall and willowy, with raven-black hair, freckles around the eyes, and a thousand-megawatt smile. She's a good catholic girl. Says her prayers. Attends mass on Sundays. But she's strayed pretty far down the path to temptation. Put simply, she likes to fuck -- a lot. Let's just say that ten Hail Marys and ten Our Fathers isn't going to get it done at this point.
At first glance, she appears prim and proper, dressed for the office in a pressed skirt, tidy blouse and respectable shoes. But a closer look reveals that the skirt is rather short, displaying her taut, inviting thighs. Her blouse remains unbuttoned low enough to afford a healthy glimpse of her cleavage.
Megan looks at me hungrily as I open the door. Before I can speak, her lips are locked onto mine and her hand grasps at the crotch of my pants. She's so determined that I fear she will just tear off my clothes right here in the hallway. I have to wrestle her back into my apartment in order to close the door.
I meet a lot of girls like Megan. I'm confident, well-groomed and I keep myself in great shape. Also, frankly, I've got a big dick. Larger than most. You might think, okay -- so this guy's born on third base and thinks he hit a home run. But I've put a lot of time, money, and effort into becoming the complete package - the kind of guy that gets girls hot and bothered. You might call it my life's work.
At age 23, I know that there's a world of girls out there whose needs are not getting met. Some never get fucked properly. Others have no idea what good sex is, or they're too inhibited to really enjoy it. I want to meet these girls. I want to rock their worlds. Think of me as a missionary, changing lives as I spread the good word far and wide.
My friend Jim says it's impressive how I've been able to justify wanting to get laid constantly. He tells me I should set up a foundation, maybe apply for tax exempt status. Jim's my boy but he's a wise-ass who doesn't know anything about girls. They appreciate when a man has a higher purpose.
Inside my apartment, Megan sheds her clothes effortlessly, like she's shrugging her shoulders. Her body is pale and graceful, like a ballet dancer. Lean but pleasantly curved. Long shapely legs, slim hips, and a taut belly, beneath which a thin, well-trimmed patch of dark hair marks the path down to the Holiest of Holies. I feel my pants tightening in the crotch. This does not escape Megan, who loosens my belt and slides my trousers down to my ankles. Reaching into my briefs, she pulls out my long, semi-erect cock.
She stares, enraptured, as it grows, smooth and uniformly thick, curved slightly upward with a wide knob at the end, like a battering ram. It looks massive in her small, exquisitely manicured hands. Megan looks up at me earnestly from under thick eyelashes.
"I just sat through a three-hour meeting," she says, in her low, husky voice, "and this was all I could think about the entire time." She knows this kind of talk gets me hard as iron. Dropping to her knees, she begins to stroke my length gently with her soft hands.
"I'm serious," she says, still looking at me, "it's starting to affect my job performance." She yanks my briefs down to my ankles so that my cock stands, proud and stiff, just inches from her face. "I mean, how am I supposed to get anything done?"
I shrug. Megan's job performance is the furthest thing from my mind right now. She seems to ponder her own question for a few moments.
"Am I turning into some crazy slut?"
"Of course not," I tell her. "You just appreciate the finer things in life."
"That's my whole problem," she says, then spits noisily on my cock, an impressive slick glob of saliva that she slathers from the tip down to the base until her hands are sliding effortlessly up and down my length. Megan is all business, and I love her for it. She takes my knob into her mouth, lapping it with her tongue before wrapping her lips tightly around it.
Her head bobs slowly as her lips slide down the shaft, and back up again. She begins to move faster now. The only sounds in the apartment are the hum of my refrigerator and the rhythmic wet smacking of her lips working my cock, now thoroughly bathed in her saliva. Her hands move like a blur, stroking the exposed length all the way to the base and up again with firm, gentle fingers.
Megan Flaherty. Truly an angel sent from heaven.
I stand there stupidly with my mouth hanging open and eyes half-lidded, while the tempo increases and a crescendo slowly builds. Megan's a virtuoso, her mouth and hands working together in perfect harmony. What turns me on most is the sheer effort that she's putting in. It's a committed performance. A lot of girls just want to skip straight to the main event.
She stops and moves her hand down between her thighs. "So wet," she announces, and looks up at me imploringly. I lift her into my arms, stepping clear of my now useless pants and underwear crumpled on the floor. Her breathing is shallow, and I can feel her trembling ever so slightly as I carry her into the bedroom.
When I lay her down on my bed, she spreads her legs wide and reaches for my cock. As I slide my hand between her legs, I'm astonished at the sheer amount of heat she's radiating, like a dripping furnace between those smooth, cool thighs.
