Some warnings: if you don't like violence, skip the Dick sections, and if you're easily disgusted, especially in a moral sense, skip the John sections.
I have no idea how to categorize this story. Originally I'd gone with romance, and I'd still argue for that, but it's definitely not what a lot of people look for in "romance."
I guess "non-erotic" makes sense since a lot of people won't find this story a turn on. But I hope it's a good story, and, really, I think it is. For now it might be the best I've published on this site, but I hope I will do better better in the future!
(Please don't mix me up with the narrator. I'm just the author. Hopefully the narrator's more interesting than I am.)
Anyway, feel free to let me know what you think.
Enjoy!
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Preface
We've all seen statistics about a few dozen old men having more wealth than the bottom 95% of the people in the world put together. That really shows two things: a few people have literally inconceivable weath, while a literally inconceivable number of people have nothing or even less than nothing.
Obviously not everyone loves this situation, and since a little violence would redistribute things, and at least some people are eager to make that happen, such extreme inequality has to be sustained by even greater violence, or at least the threat of it, as well as constant propaganda to persuade people in the middle that their interests lie with "the haves" rather than with "the have-nots."
Pussy inequality is fortunately not quite so bad, but it does exist. We usually don't consider it a polite topic of conversation, probably because the men who get a lot of it and the women who give it to them strongly influence what we consider polite conversation, and they don't want the deprived men to realize how unequal the situation is.
Why not?
Because they would murder people.
This insight has led some to wonder whether women ought to have sex with men in order to save the world from their violence, but we might also wonder whether men ought either to try a little harder to render themselves fuckable. After all, the world has plenty of lonely women and most of the time most guys only need one.
Be all that as it may, we wish to inform you (lest the title is too vague) that this is a story about three of the men who do get a lot of pussy.
That means, to be clear, that these three gentlemen have a lot of sex with women. Specifically, their dicks get hard, women open their legs, and these guys just slide their boners right up in those wet, slick pussies and jiggle around until their cum shoots out.
And they do that quite often.
So without further ado, let's meet our heroes.
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John
John looks around, wondering where to wipe the booger off his finger. He's only renting the Rolls, so he doesn't care, he just wants to hide it from the driver. Or the chauffeur. Whatever.
He rubs it on the side of the seat just in time, just before the driver opens the door for him.
"Thank you, sir," John says, handing the guy a twenty.
Getting out of a car isn't as easy as it used to be. John eats well, very well, big hotel buffet breakfasts, whatever's for lunch, and quite often steak for dinner. But the most exercise he gets is when he decides he wants to be on top, which only happens two or three times a day. And unless he cums pretty quickly, he goes back on the bottom and lets the girls do the work.
He's rarely actually seen his dick go into a woman. There was a time when he was ambitious to seduce women and worked out a lot, but paying was just so much easier, so why bother?
And, ironically, paying was cheaper, too. Trying to impress women, he'd bought a big mansion in Beverly Hills, seven thousand square feet, with a swimming pool, wine cellar, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of furniture. Back then he'd owned his own Rolls Royce, as well as a Ferrari and a Jaguar. He'd had his own driver, chef, and household staff.
Such a fucking waste of money. Now he's much more efficient. For legal reasons, he maintains a small permanent address in a tax-friendly state, but he spends all his time and money traveling the world as a big-tipping sex-tourist. He fucks hot girls who are never trying to decide whether they want to be with him. No, they do their very best to please him, and it's easy for him to stay under budget.
He still dresses well as a man of his shape can. He stops back in London about twice a year for the tailors to measure his ass and gut. It's not a bad place, London, plenty of girls from all over the world.
Today we find him in Sydney, making his way from the car to the doors of Dragon Ladies Massage. The tinted glass doors open automatically in front of him, and as soon as he steps through, a tall middle-aged white woman greets him:
"Ah, Mr. Jackson again! What an honor! We've missed you!"
"Thank you," he smiles bashfully, like a little boy embarrassed by a compliment.
He hasn't been here for about three years, and they still remember him. That's what money can do.
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Blake
Blake closes the bedroom door behind him.
"They're all asleep now," he tells his wife. "We got all the way through the stories of Samuel and Saul, though."
She closes the magazine's been reading — this month's issue of
Christian Motherhood
magazine, with a picture on the cover of a pretty white woman having a picnic with two pretty white children surrounded by article titles: "Biblical Discipline and Submission," "Housekeeping Tips from a Pro," "Speaking the Truth in Love? Or Nagging?" and, "He has Duties in the Bedroom Too" — and puts it on her nightstand.
(On his nightstand we see the book
The Antichrist: Biblical Evidence
. The cover promises to prove that he is alive today and that he is a Democrat and a Socialist. The image of Satan on the cover looks suspiciously like a darker-skinned version of Barack Hussein Obama, but if Obama wanted to look like Anton LaVey.)
"I started my period today," she looks up at him, obviously eager to see his excitement. "You know what that means...."
He smiles happily. "We need to hurry these prayers up."
She gets up and walks around to his side of the bed, where there is more room for them to kneel together. They kiss each other's lips, pull their bodies close together. He wraps his arms around her, feeling her soft skin through her thin cotton nightgown.
"I love you, Candy," he sighs.
She rests her head on his shoulder and breathes in his scent. Masculinity tempered with domesticity. "I love you too, Blake."
He won't be wearing those dark blue plaid flannel pajamas very much longer, for Candy is the kind of Christian wife who believes that Christian wives have a duty to ensure that godly men have even more fun than evil men. As a result, every month when she starts her period, she performs oral sex for him, and he always returns the favor on her fertile days, warming her all the way up before trying to do his own duty: giving her another baby.
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Dick
Dick is initially only mildly annoyed to find a Camaro in his driveway, preventing him from parking in the garage. He pulls up right behind it, intending to punish whoever it is by forcing them to ask him to move for them to get out.
He takes off his aviator shades and checks his hair in the rearview mirror.
Big night tonight. It's been months since he's seen Adriana, but their youngest is two now, and she looks pretty fucking good again in the pics she's been posting online. So he's surprising her tonight, showing up unannounced with a diamond necklace as a gift.
Why tonight? Well, she's about to ovulate — he knows because he tips the maid to keep him updated on her periods — and he intends to get her pregnant again. He's got a few days free before he has to start preparing for the job in Somalia, so he's going to spend them boning the fuck out of her while their three kids run wild.
The kids don't seem to be home, though. Usually they recognize his big black Navigator and run out to him, shouting "Daddy!"
That's how all the kids in all his families usually greet him, because their all mothers know who pays the fucking bills.
He presses the garage door opener and gets out. Still no kids running out to greet him. They must not be home.
He checks out the Camaro on his way past. It's an old classic, kept up pretty nicely. He doesn't know Camaros well, but he'd guess mid-80s. T-top, standard transmission.
Something about it feels wrong. Adriana might have bought it, but it somehow seems like a man's car. But why would another man's car be parked in his driveway?
He closes the garage door behind him and goes through the side door into the kitchen.
"Dick!" Adriana says, rushing to embrace him.
Her kiss tastes as good as ever. He picks her up by her hips, sits her on the edge of the sink, and opens his eyes just in time to see a tall, skinny guy run across his front lawn to the Camaro. He must have just gone out the front door.
"Well he's not going to be able to get out," Dick says, pointing through the window with his chin.
Adriana turns, guiltily, to look.
"He's just a friend," she says quickly. "The babysitter's brother."
Dick and Adriana watch the skinny guy assess the situation. After a moment's thought, he just runs off down the street.
"He could just ask me to move so he can get out."
Adriana is unbuckling his belt, trying to get to his cock.
"He's got to come back for his car eventually," Dick shrugs.
He tears her blouse open, sending little plastic buttons flying in every direction. "You're looking good," he whispers, pulling her panties down as she pulls her bra off. "Push-up bra. Plunging neckline. Tight skirt, perfume. Bright red lipstick. Funny to think you weren't expecting me."
"Oh, god, Dick, I've missed you," Adriana moans as he slides inside her.
He grabs her hair, pulls her head back, not to hurt her so much as to threaten her.
"You better fuck me like you mean it," he growls.
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John
John wonders how much he'd have to pay to fuck the woman who greets him at the door. With any woman, as far as he knows, it's always only a matter of the right price.
She's older than the girls, maybe even as old as he is, but she has something — perhaps dignity — that they lack, and perhaps he'd enjoy trying to fuck it out of her. She was probably one of them once, she probably knows her way around a dick better than most of them do.
Maybe, maybe not. It doesn't matter anyway because he doesn't have the courage to ask her. Even though he's paying, she seems to be in charge, and for some reason he wants to please her so that she'll think he's a good customer.
"How many ladies will your pleasure require this afternoon?"
"Four, if that's all right."
"Of course it's alright!" the woman winks as he hands her his credit card. "Shall we just hold on to this and keep a running tab?"
"Yes, please."
