Fathers Day 4

Golden lipstick leaves a lustrous fleck along the otherwise blue vein as Mariah's lips coat another inch of my rock-hard meat. Her neck bulges around the amount of manhood that her throat already conceals. Her radiant hair dangles off the giant fourteen foot-wide bed in which two children have been conceived and curls around my toes. As she savors the head, I compare her baby blue berets and her long blonde hair. She wraps her long skinny arms around my ass and pulls me deeper into her throat. As her mouth covers the thirteen bronze inches that lead to a thatch of coarse black pubic hairs, I knead her creamy 22-year old breasts. The flash of orange that is Mariah's skirt inverting itself covers my field of view as she performs a maneuver of physical magnificence. Using only her arms and my body for leverage, she completes a mid-air handstand, her nipples press into the dimples delineating my abs from my lovin' muscles, her stomach flattens on my heaving chest, her long legs encircle my head. I reach to pull aside a yellow thong when I see I won't need to. Two yellow threads spread wide mere millimeters before my Mariah's clitoris to accommodate a fat vagina. Mariah's overstuffed quim pushes two pink pussy lips out as a present to me. Over a lollipop smack I hear Mariah call back "Happy Father's Day, Daddy" and think about how the shape of Mariah's vagina is the only aesthetic effect I've ever really had on her.

***

Angela Ritchey's husband Bobby shoved his rigid pecker into her cervix once again. His biceps bulged and his forearms throbbed. She felt the muscles that connected to his gigantic mitts twitch in her hands as she rode him. Angela groaned as she felt tension build in her belly. Angela drifted away to thoughts of masturbating alone. Bobby had a series of away games coming up and she'd have plenty of time to have real orgasms in the peace of Mariah's school days and Bobby's game days.

Baseball and birthright had given him everything, from his brutish body, to their bayside villa. Growing up in Fayetteville, Bobby did two things well. He filled out a uniform and, when holding a bat, or other phallic object, he could direct a thrown object to any location he saw fit. Eight years ago, Bobby Ritchey and Angela Munter met at a party following the end of their junior high careers. Angela came under fire from three successive ice cubes before the fourth finally landed right between the cleavage her 30C bra was pushing together. Angela threw aside the rolled up dollar bill she'd been snorting Ritalin with and turned to chew out her assailant, when she saw Bobby wielding not a handful of ice, but an erect 15-inch cock like a novelty version of the bats he was already locally famous for swinging on dirt diamonds in Tennessee. There was a sudden coldness. Angela, in her eagerness to investigate, had let the ice cube melt in between her bra.

Everyone had a laugh. Angela remembered becoming flushed and running to the bathroom. Her nipples had gotten hard from the ice cube and the Ritalin and she was tired of being stared at, especially by Bobby and his imperious glance. In the bathroom, she took her shirt and bra off (just for a second damn it, to let her growing breasts relax for a while) and took to padding the front of it, to hide her incredibly aroused state. Without any pretense, Bobby opened the door, all smug grins and 15-inch boners in athletic shorts. Scandalized, Angela Munter tackled Bobby and tore off his shirt. She hopped in the driver's seat as the both raced towards O-town for the first time.

It wasn't one month before Angela's breasts began to swell beyond explicable sizes. In four months her hips had spread to fifty-four inches around and her belly had a beautiful bump. Nine months after Bobby dick-flipped an ice cube between her tits, Mariah was born.

Angela didn't regret raping Bobby when she did because he always thought of her as bigger than him, or at least more commanding than him. He had 150 pounds on her now. But she kept four inches on him, even today, eight years later. Bobby's self image was tied to his cock, not his professional baseball career, and not his spectacular body. Mariah had widened Angela's shores so that even as Bobby thickened out to the size of Angela's wrist, his boat could pass unharassed. So even though Bobby was bulky, Angela had grown up with him. She was tall, at 6'5 with 32E breasts and 52 inches at the hips. She kept in shape with free weights and heavy bags which her long arms showed in each toned muscle group. However, the ultimate emasculation, the true proof of his devotion to her, came whenever she had him eat her out, not just with his tongue mind you, but by sucking off her swollen clit. Bobby had asked for blowjobs before and she'd consented to give him one on the road, before an away game, or on a birthday, but this was a total role reversal for him. While he may not be able to understand that his dick was failing to fill her after eight years of trying to communicate exactly that, he could understand exactly how to suck and stroke her long, sensitive clit.

She knew what kind of sex this was and it made her think of little Mariah. Bobby was aiming to shove his dick into her womb again. "Guaranteed conception," he claimed. Each thrust was like a knocker clanging on the door until finally he managed the exact angle would allow his dick to slip into the whole Mariah had opened wide on her way out. It would be over soon now. She'd jack Bobby off with the sleeve of her cervix and he'd pay his dues to her orgasm. She rubbed her nipple and centered her thoughts on the grazing motions along her lonely walls. She'd tell Bobby what a big man he was. Twelve inches would wiggle back and forth in the gap between her cervix and her labia, and she thanked God, or Buddha, or Krishna, that he was at least as thick as her wrist. Bobby walked a tight rope between being a masochist and just being fucking stupid, or stupid about fucking, but he wasn't a complete shitheel. He at least had the decency to jack his wife off. So, as Bobby's rough palm encircled her clitoris and began to stroke up and down along it's slick two-inches, Bobby buried himself into hilt and plastered Angela's womb with spunk.

***

Farhan loved California. He loved the breeze that was always coming off the bay. He loved the sun that raged against the temperature it couldn't seem to change. He loved the dry air that reminded him of a home that had become inhospitable to him. He was learning to love the ocean that fed him and gave him enough income for the house in a neighborhood with a short commute to work and the linen suits for whenever he was in the city. More immediately, however, he loved California because she had swallowed all thirteen inches of his dick. He pushed her nose into his pubic hair while holding her pink and blonde hair between his sun-tanned fingers. Her hands moved from his pale, hairy ass to his dark back, which was corded with muscles made from weeks off Baja, Alaska, or Oregon. Cali earned a reprieve as Farhan extracted his dick from her mouth, ruining any notion that they were just looking at dresses as three heavy drops of saliva landed on the wood floor in successive "THHWAPS."

"Farhan deems he will have you against the door." said Farhan, and handed California a camcorder with all the self-assurance afforded someone who had just shoved thirteen inches of 2-liter-thick cock down his partner's throat. California's nipples hardened through the $250 screen-printed face of Audrey Hepburn as her back was pressed against the cold slate door of the changing room. The American Princess' neck became stooped and wrinkled as California hiked up her dress and wrapped her legs around Farhan's bare Egyptian ass. Her arms encircled his neck and pointed the camcorder at the arrangement of three mirrors. The autofocus revealed Farhan's bronze skin giving way to her compartively alabaster limbs. He was using one arm to maneuver his fist-sized head into her glistening lips, so she rested her chin on his other shoulder. Whoever saw this tape would know they had rehearsed this operation several times. All things considered, her reaction to his first full thrust was authentic. The camcorder didn't show Farhan's third fist slide just beneath California's cervix and wail into the wall of her fornix, and it didn't show his thick shaft bend up into g-spot as he forced her pussy to accommodate his full length, however it did capture a look of surprise when she didn't feel pain emanating from her cervix, and the moan and glossy rapture induced that can only come from multiple orgasms and thick cock folding over in your insides. The withdrawl was even noisier. In addition to the air compacted inside California's already over-stuffed beaver, she had been steadily filling it up with personal wetness. As Farhan pulled two inches of slick penis out, a loud SHHLIIIRRP filled the boutique so that no one could doubt what was going on. "Clearly," Farhan thought, "either California or myself must come out wearing a dress which zippers from ass to neck." The thought of women in tight dresses, either with big bulky zippers or made of translucent stocking-like material hardened his cock to brain-draining levels. Cali obviously felt his "renewed vigor." Her red lips came close to his ears and she whispered, "Now you can really fuck me you terrorist bastard."

Farhan drilled a turgid 13 inches into California soil. He withdrew until the top of his huge head had stretched her pussy lips around the full width of it and left her clit pointing directly at his shaft. Her button rubbed against the length of his cock as he entered her again. His thrusts became violent enough that Cali's back lost it's friction-fortified hold on the door. Her feet got most of her weight, but her cervix got a good portion of the hit too. This elicited different responses from the two fevered rutters. California felt like she'd fallen on the balance beam in gymnastics again, only this time, she managed to take the whole thing inside her, and to stifle a scream that would have surely have brought the whole boutique into the changing area if she hadn't bit hard on Farhan's shoulder. Farhan appreciated the added pressure on his shaft. It now felt like he had a pair of rollers on the top of his prick. He also noticed, with the awareness of someone who is transcending levels of perception like they're playing Super Mario Bros. on a time attack, that his back had started to perspire. He practically had a new river running between his shoulder blades.

Farhan thought of an English expression he had learned, "teaching by rod and by carrot." He had certainly punished California for her comment long enough. It was time for her carrot. He wrapped her legs around his waist again and pulled her rear away from the door. Instead of crushing her smallish breasts against his chest with each thrust, he had room to play, to

attend

, and so he did, with great vigor, as though he had a mind to create an audition tape for the title of Epic Lover of the Century.

Farhan's wiry, muscular hands roamed California's hills and glens. He went to work along the crest of Cali's hip bone and while rubbing his thumb along the length of her clitoris. With every thrust, his palm applied pressure to her pelvis, tightening Cali's pussy at the exact instant he was thrusting the thickest part of himself into her. Farhan's other hand was everywhere else. On her breasts, her nipples, in her butthole for a little added stimulation, but he never worked to shut her up. Call him shameless, but Farhan was unafraid of being found out. Cali was well beyond caring. Her head was lolling to the side and her mouth was agape in a permanent moan of invocables and semi-coherent curses. Every now and then she directed the camera away from the triple-mirror arrangement to the mess between her legs. When Farhan saw her do this he would remove his hand from her clitoris momentarily so his crowning achievement could be seen: a row of tiny pearls framed by thick, bulging veins. His final thrust was also caught on tape, mostly because California was filming herself soaking Farhan's groin in another orgasm. He pulled his cock out of California, the woman, and his first cumshot pasted her gaping lips shut. Cali reached between her legs and began fingering herself feverishly, while Farhan shoved her onto her knees and his heavy mushroom into her mouth. For a change of perspective, Farhan took the reigns on the camera. He captured two minutes of footage exclusively of Cali desperately trying to empty the six pendulous inches of ball sac she was massaging with her free fingers. When the twitches began to subside, he plucked his purple head from her red lips and shot his last five shots across her face. A pearl of come remained on his dick head and she was eager to lick it clean. Farhan switched the camera off and set it down. He pulled Cali close to him and kissed her lips gently. Then he held her face in one of his strong hands, and picked the longest string of cum, and ran the tip of his tongue along the whole length of it, tasting and savoring it before swallowing it. It tasted like almonds, though slightly sweeter. He ate the remaining four white streams of her face, and kissed Cali deeply, savoring his scent on her lips. His cock dangled between them, dripping onto the wood floor.

When they finally separated, Farhan dressed and shoved his semihard cock back in his linen trousers. California began to undress. "Just wear it out," Farhan said, and removed the tag. He emptied the camcorder of it's illicit substance and left California to finish dressing. The owner quickly busied herself with papers to shuffle, giving Farhan time to confirm what he had suspected for three weeks now. The owner was the woman he wanted. Her breasts swelled well beyond either side of her rib cage. Her hips were wide, easily two feet across, and though she had a ring on her finger and they had had a lengthy discussion about her giving birth at 15 to her daughter, and she obviously had another on the way, Farhan suspected she had at least three more in her. Most importantly, she was tall. Well over six feet, with golden hair and silver eyes, she'd be a stark contrast to Farhan's earthen tones and low to the ground 5'7," but Farhan was tired of having to worry about poking his partners in the cervix when he was having sex with them, and this goddess, with her sad face, looked like she was tired of her husband. So Farhan quickly scrawled his home phone number on the back of the price tag, bought the dress, made small talk with the goddess, and "accidentally' left his tape on the counter with a smirk.

Tonight, he would take California to an expensive dinner and let her pay. She was an empowered 21

st

century woman and had a fancy enough downtown job to pay for her meal and his unfinished plate (as well as the dress he had just bought her). They would argue in the car and he would offer to compensate her for it, but the argument would be fine break up material.

***

"So that's when you…ur… fell in love with me?" I ask, three toes wiggling deep in Angela's vagina while my big toe and witching toe slide up and down her clit. Her feet, which are covered in that preposterously expensive lotion she claims will keep them soft and callous-free, are held together by the muscles of her fantastic legs. Between the soles of her feet is my fat, floppy cock and all thirteen inches of are being stroked up and down rhythmically, because she didn't get to the gym today and what better way to do cardio than jerking off her husband with her legs. "It wasn't the tape… uhn… specifically, or the… oh…30 minutes of screams and moans you got out of that girl in the changing room. You made it feel like I was dating when you were just hanging around in the store. You could always make me laugh when you were in the store, even if I was stressed out, or if I had just finished puking in the bathroom."

On the television screen, I watch blood that I thought was sweat trickle down my back from eight months ago. As my ass clenches with each successive thrust and my ballsac, which was hanging half a foot from the base of cock, reach up slap California in the butt, the blood California drew from my shoulder rolls down my back, along my ass crack, and begins to paint rivulets along the back side of my balls, only to be flung in all directions across the boutique. It's our first Father's Day together and even though we've been fucking all day, the foot job my new wife has been giving me begins to stiffen my fatness. "Ever since the first time I fucked him, Bobby never had any real confidence."

There's a little wet slip as I pull my toes from the slit I've labored so dutifully to widen. I bury my nose in her dripping pussy, thinking how if I'd been a less adept lover I'd be smelling my feet instead of her scent. Angela sighs "Oh Abe," and I reminisce on how much the two of us have changed in these past eight months. Eight months ago, I was Farhan Bahgasa, a fisherman with a single boat and a different woman every month. Today, I had four boats in different seas, a burgeoning mining operation in Utah, and Angela and I had been back from our honeymoon for five months. I've inherited a seaside villa in Presidio, a fortune in stock options, and a fast car and a truck with way too much luxury to have a utility. As I ran my hands over soft breasts that hadn't felt a bra in thirty-two weeks, I thought of all the changes Angela had gone through. Most obviously, there was the last relic of the late Bobby Ritchey, the great dome that held the future Farhan Mahfouz. I pick her up, beautiful baby, belly, breasts and all, and place her back down on the couch. "You know, we should get you a donkey and a brown wig." I said. Angela was mostly entertained.

"XXX Virgin Mother fantasy is next week baby. Tonight is 'Fuck your horny pregnant wife with your 4-inch wide cock before I get hungry for bologna' night."

How could I refuse? Father's Day was coming to a close and I resumed the work I had so devotedly undertaken eight months ago. Robert Ritchey had caused my love so much pain and the last of his and Angela's children would cause her as little pain as possible. I began by hoisting Angela's long, toned legs up onto my shoulders. My legs are together and the fist at the top of my dick is level with her slit. My arms support my weight on the couch on either side of her.

"Spread it for me, Angie."

In the time it takes me to utter the sentence, Angela has one hand spreading her labia and another grabbing what she could of the base of my cock. Her long, slender fingers wrap almost two-thirds of the way around the twelve-and-a-half inch circumference of my corer. Just the piss hole enters into her lips and they try to push my head out. These angry pink guards will never learn they are over-stretched and helpless to exclude the brown invader. Only Angela's clitoris rushes out to meet me, swollen almost three inches out, projecting past my head and coating it in film.

I already know where her belly is and how deep my thrusts can go, but I start slow so her engorged clit can feel each of the pearls underneath my cockflesh. I feel her walls constrict, and don't think for a moment that I'm undoing all my hard work because I didn't hear Angela cry out in pain once whenever we had sex today and she's looking into my eyes and telling me "it's so good," and "please never stop."

There's another rush of lubrication, so I speed up until my head is allowed entry into in the depths of her vagina. With almost nine months of baby in Angela's womb, I can't even approach full penetration but the pressure is intense. The repercussions from the muscles she uses keeping her legs and stomach stable in the interests of protecting our precious cargo apply jolts to what's already a glass hard seal against my steely reamer. Were it not for the near constant gushing and precumming providing lubrication along the surface of my piston, it would take one simple misstep to take apart the complicated and noisy machine we had formed and shatter the stroker or the engine casing, or even the passenger. We have many bells and whistles, this drilling rig. Angela, for instance, supports her heaving breasts with her painted hands as they move with my thrusts, rolling their whole masses around in opposing circles. What purpose could this serve, other than, perhaps, a mutually beneficial moral boosting device.