My wife and kids were making the annual pilgrimage to visit the in-laws back in Chicago. Two weeks in mid-July in the sweltering windy city – not my idea of summer vacation. Not even a few nights inside the friendly confines watching the Cubs break the hearts of the city could make up for the torture of spending two weeks with Nanny and Pappy.
Lucky for me, I had a scheduling conflict. I’m a lawyer in Denver and a big case I had been trying for several months was locked in deliberation. Knowing the decision was likely to be adverse to my client, we were working up several appeal strategies.
“Sorry, honey,” I had argued. “But you know it’s this job that lets you and the kids take these leisurely summer vacations, pays for their private school, and keeps you in designer fashions.”
“Well don’t work too hard,” she had consoled as she pecked me on the cheek at the airport. “And remember to mow the lawn.”
What a wonderful wife! She really was quite a catch, a college cheerleader at University with a killer body, super-model good looks, and a never-ending devotion to our family. Unfortunately, the beautiful package hid a sad secret – she was a wet fish in the bedroom. Straight missionary with the lights off, my penis firmly wrapped in a plastic raincoat. Our lovemaking was regular as clockwork, once a month – even if it meant canceling her bridge club.
Unbelievably, I had never cheated on her. I was a second string quarterback in college and the senior class president. Blessed with rugged good looks and an athletic body, I had never lacked for the attention of the ladies. But since our marriage, I had been devoted to our family and my job, leaving little time for carnal pursuits.
That’s not completely true. I have a very active fantasy life and love to masturbate. My hand has replaced my wife’s pussy on an almost daily basis the last ten years of my life. I travel a lot with my law practice, and I really enjoy checking out the adult bookstores, pay-per-view hotel skin flicks, and live sex clubs in the cities I visit. My mental inventory of smut and perversion provides me an endless supply of stroking material. Rarely does a day pass that I don’t uncork a load or two in the executive washroom at work.
In fact, after I dropped the family off at the airport on Sunday afternoon, I hit one of the local purveyors of filth and bought a two-week supply of dirty magazines and DVDs to enjoy on my “working vacation”.
Getting home, I popped in a gonzo cumshot DVD, poured a glass of Merlot, and spread my work out on the living room table, planning to mix a little stroke session in with my case preparations.
I have to admit, I am fascinated with head. I love watching beautiful women deepthroat well hung men. A long, thick cock stretching a petite hottie’s mouth is pure art. Her eyes watering as she forces the length down her straining throat, I often imagine the intense longing and lust she must feel for the stud’s throbbing tool.
My dick is an average 6.5 inches, but I could model for Viagra. Ever since I was a kid, I could pop wood at the drop of a hat and my boners are frighteningly hard. I only wish I had another couple of inches. I imagine that a solid eight or nine inches could do for my wife’s libido what years of begging have failed to accomplish – turn her into a raging nymphomaniac.
As usual, the files on the table went unattended as I focused my attention on the widescreen TV. My fly unzipped, I fished out my balls and kneaded them tenderly as I stroked my hard-on, watching starlet after starlet reap the rewards of their hard earned work. A particularly naughty brunette was lapping the stray bullets of jizz off her abnormally well-endowed breasts when the phone rang, snapping me back to reality.
“Hello,” I stuttered, reaching for the mute button on the TV, my other hand still wrapped firmly around my raging boner.
“Hey, Curt, good news old buddy.” It was my partner at the law firm.
“What’s up Charlie? I was just looking over some of our draft briefs,” I replied.
“Well toss those in the trash, get a good nights sleep, and be in Judge Cornwallis’s court at 9am tomorrow. Word is, the jury is in and the verdict looks good.”
Stunned, I congratulated Charlie and hung up.
Hot damn. Returning my attention to a tight bodied blonde bartender that had served two horse hung studs a couple of beers and was now on her knees servicing them in a much more personal way, I let the good news sink in. We had won, but more importantly, I had a two-week free pass – no family and no work obligations.
As the bartender turned slut took turns throating the two strapping patrons, I picked up the pace on my own throbbing woody. Torn between the two cum spickets, unwilling to miss a single drop of their precious fluids, she grabbed a beer glass from the bar and held it between her tits as the customers deposited her hard earned tip on her exposed breasts. As the dripping cum from her chest found its way into the mug, I grabbed my own wine glass and with a final jerk shot my load into the empty goblet, thick frothy cream mixing with the last drops of red wine, creating a rose colored roux.
Raising her glass in salute, she downed the thick spunk, her tongue coaxing the final drops from the bottom of the upturned crystal, a look of pure satisfaction spreading across her face.
Caught-up in the perverted moment, I too raised my cum filled wine glass and toasted my firm’s victory, throwing back my head and drinking deeply of my own special vintage. I had never tasted my own cum - salty, thick and creamy, with a hint of pepper and citrus; not at all unpleasant.
As I slumped back on the sofa, smacking my lips, my spent cock deflating, I could only chuckle. Damn, I am one sick puppy.
As Charlie had predicted, the jury found in our favor. To celebrate, we gave the entire office the week off.
Rather than catch the next flight to Chicago to join the family, I decided to take a few days off and head to the mountains for some much needed R&R. I called my wife and told her the good news.
“So you can come to Chicago then?” she queried.
“I need to close a few loopholes here in Denver,” I lied. “I will fly up next weekend.”
I packed my camping and fishing gear in the SUV, ecstatic that I would have four days alone, just me and the pristine Rocky Mountains. A backpack, a tent, a fishing pole, and a week’s supply of porn magazines – what more could an ardent outdoorsman and card carrying pervert ask for?
I pulled into a remote trailhead in the San Juan range of southwestern Colorado about sunset, the only vehicle in the parking lot. I pitched the tent and organized my backpack before hitting the sack, eager to get an early start in the morning. The plan was to hike along Cibola Creek to the stream’s source, Emerald Lake and pitch camp. I had heard great things about the lake and was looking forward to landing a big trophy trout to mount on my office wall. I would have three days to explore the area, catch fish, and catch up on my “professional reading”.
The hike was demanding and I reached Emerald Lake about 2pm. After setting up camp well back from the lake under some towering pines, I stripped off my sweaty clothes and took a cooling dip in the crystal blue water. Grabbing a cigar from my pack and a smut magazine, I reclined on a big granite boulder to enjoy the serenity and beauty of the high mountains.
