Cheating Cunts Club: Doug

It was another usual evening. The usual well-dressed gangs of upscale cheating cunts gathered around the usual decorated tables with the usual fruity cocktails. The usual snide gabbing paused when a tall young guy in clean denims and a shoulder pack pushed through the door and grabbed a seat with the bitchiest bitches. I kept cleaning glasses and nodded to Trey, my security guy. We will have no trouble here.

"You're the cheating cunts I heard of, right?" he asked, slurping a strong Margarita he snatched from Kittra. "Lots of cheating cunts like you out there, maybe not everyone, but lots." He drank from Sharla's Harvey Wallbanger and peered around the place. "Yeah, it's a full house. Cheating cunts galore." He finished Julie's cherry Daiquiri before she could blink.

"Hey!" Yolanda almost yelled, 'what is this shit? Who you think you are? Stomp in here, bad-mouth everyone, steal our drinks - hey Louie, I'm running dry!"

I mixed replacement cocktails. They will go on appropriate tabs.

"I know there's zillions of cheating cunts because I get-em every day," the guy said. "They're just the usual."

"Yeah sure," Imelda said, "you can brag, so you got a story. You got a name, too?" She held her drink close.

"Call me Doug and yeah, I have stories."

"So tell us how you get oodles of pussy," Yolanda demanded, protectively cradling her fresh drink. She carefully sipped.

"It's a fucking cliché," Doug said, "and absolutely true. I work door-to-door sales, ringing doorbells, block after block, I get lucky more than you'd expect."

"What are you selling, commemorative bibles?" Shelley asked, smirking.

"Worse than that," Doug said. "Portrait packages. Sign up for pro-quality photos, commit to buy something, and seal the deal with a small cash deposit, that's my cut, whatever I can talk them out of. It's like this..."

---

There's one scruffy guy on the team, only knows broken Spanglish, but he goes through Latino neighborhoods and makes unbelievable sales. Says he gets laid a lot, too.

Most of the time I just get sent away. Maybe every tenth or twentieth door, I'm invited inside and make a sale, and more than every hundredth door is opened by a lady not wearing much and a bit drunk or just lonely.

Like today in 'burbs around here. I made four sales on one block this morning and near the corner this Vietnamese babe opened the door of her Mid-Century Modern and she's got only a thin silk shawl around her body and an almost-empty tumbler in her hand. I started my basic spiel and she invited me into her living room, very sparse, all sterile Danish Design.

She warbled at me, "Oooh, photographs! Do I need to buy any? Can I get skin shots, y'know, like erotic? No wait - do you know how to use a Polaroid? Just a minute." I put my sales folder on the coffee table. She stumbled down her hallway and returned with a camera and a refilled tumbler,

Cuba Libre

it smelled like.

"Will you take my pictures? Oh sure you will. Here," and she handed me the camera, an SX-70, the old high-end model. "Which part of me looks best? Maybe my face is okay? Take a picture of my face from right there."

She stuck out her tongue. I focused. The camera flashed. The picture emerged and self-processed. She glanced at it and dropped it on the coffee table.

"Not too bad. How about my face and my left tit?" She shifted the thin shawl and threw her long obsidian-black hair over her right shoulder. "Yeah, shoot from right there." She cupped her boob with one hand and stuck her tongue out again. I snapped. That picture got the same treatment - glance and drop.

"I'm cute, aren't I?" She took a good sip from her glass. "Ooh, I didn't think to get you a drink. You want to share?" She offered me the tumbler. I couldn't refuse a lovely almost-naked lady. One strong sip was enough - I needed to stay fairly sober if I wanted to finish my route and pay rent.

Yeah, I saw family portraits around the room, a husband and two kids. That didn't bother me. And she looked pretty good to me after multiple motherhood.

"Now the rest of me. Take a picture of my toes. I've got pretty toes, see?" Toenails on her small bare feet were painted with vivid sunbursts. The Polaroid captured them nicely.

"My knees are good, too." She pulled her shawl aside and stood straight, arms akimbo, knees almost together. She clutched my hair to position me. I got a nice close-up of the vicinity. Trimmed pubes showed at the top of the frame.

"Hey, I know what'll be a good shot!" She pushed me to the end of the long leather-skinned sofa and shed her shawl. She stood totally naked briefly, then laid obscenely on the sofa, one foot up on its back and one dangling off the front, her pussy wide-open in front of me. She pinched her noticeable nipples and leered at me.

"Yeah, boudoir photos, that's what I need." Her ring-decorated fingers opened her cunt to me.

I felt creative. I zoomed in on her inviting pussy lips, with and without her fingers inserted, then took a high-angle shot of her splayed out, then a low angle shot, spread thighs framing the sides, with her open, drippy pussy centered in sharp focus, and her boobs and face a little blurry.

"Oooh, that one is cute," she said, watching details form. "How about a picture of my nice butt?" She rolled over and lifted her tight buns. I saw no tan lines, a sign that she sunbathed nude.

I pressed the shutter. "That was the last picture in the film pack," I told her.

She rolled off the couch, slurped her drink, and squeezed my tented khakis.

"Just a minute, I'll get a reload."

I quietly watched her naked body shimmy down the monochrome hallway and then back with a fresh film pack and a refilled tumbler. She was a nice vision in both directions. I loaded the camera. She sipped her drink and sprawled on the couch, arms stretched on the back, boobs forward, thighs wide.

"Take more pictures of me there," she demanded. "But I don't feel wet enough, I'm kind of dry. Do you think I'm dry there? Feel me and tell me. Be honest, now. Here, get closer." She patted her crotch.

I knelt between her spread thighs and slid my left index finger into her very moist depths. My right hand held the camera and snapped another shot.

"Yes, you seem a little dry in there," I said. I added my first finger and reached inside her well-lubricated pussy, rubbing the velvety surface. She writhed.

"Oooh yes, I do feel very dry. Maybe you could make me wetter. And give me the camera."

"Just a second," I said. Reluctantly un-fingering her pussy, I pulled my shirt off and handed her the Polaroid.

"Oooh, you have muscles!" she said. I flexed like Mr Atlas. She snapped a picture.

"Check again on how dry I am, okay?" I slid two fingers into her and wriggled. She wriggled too. The camera flashed.

"Now you better make me wet." My eyes locked on her face, I leaned forward and tongued her pussy. She snapped another shot.

My tongue and lips worked more insistently. I reached for her boobs and twiddled her nipples. Her knees squeezed my head. She gasped, held the camera over her head and fired it - I visualized a full-length image - and then dropped it beside her on the couch.

I grabbed the camera with my right hand while frigging her with my left and relentlessly sucking her clit and probing her pussy. I squeezed off a few shots of her face (framed by hard-nippled boobs) in various stages of orgasm.

"Last of the film, " I said. She rolled over and then off the couch.

"You just wait," she said, and staggered naked down the hall for more film. In her absence, I removed my sneakers and khakis - only sports socks remained. She returned, handed me the film pack, and stretched on the coach again, her legs splayed wide like before, one foot up, one down. I reloaded and awaited her next idea.

"Give me the camera," she said. I did. "You think I'm wet enough now? I probably am. Now, don't you dare take advantage of me. Especially not here." She spread her cunt lips.

She fired the camera as I eased my dickhead between her liquid labia to gather lubrication, then as I slowly pushed my rock-hard cock into her just a little bit, then more, then out a little, then full penetration, glacially slow, infernally hot.

I elbow-nestled, and aimed my mouth at her tasty, natural, bigger-than-A-cup Asian boobs. She held the camera just above her head for low-angle shots of my fucking and sucking, and then dropped it.

The next part of the fuckfest went unrecorded except in our memories. Hers are probably pretty fuzzy but mine are quite clear. I clearly fucked the shit out of her and coated her womb with a good load. Sure, she was my first fuck today. She moaned and gasped before I blew so she probably got off, too.

I tried not to crush her but she pushed me off to the floor. "You stand there now," she ordered. I obeyed. She sat and sucked my fat, limp, soggy cock into her sloppy mouth. She pulled back and grinned. "You take more pictures now." Her lips stayed pressed to my pubes as my cock re-constituted in her mouth and then down her throat. I pressed the shutter a couple more times. The last shot showed her bulging larynx.

She gasped and unmouthed me. "Wait a minute, I'm still too dry," she mumbled. I watched her full-flesh display as she toddled down the hallway and returned carrying a jar. I saw the K-Y label when she handed it to me, the top off. She crouched hands-and-knees on the sofa, looked over her shoulder at me, and said, "Make sure I'm not dry." Her rosebud winked at me.

I am not real big on anal but I was rock-solid and who was I to deny a lady? I lathered her asshole thoroughly, greased my groaning goober, did a test run with a few fingers, and slid Big Dougie in past her anal O-ring, smooth and steady.

Today's second fuck took a bit longer and she seemed to enjoy the hot load I eventually spewed up her intestines. I probably hit the back of her throat while she writhed under me.

Pictures clearly showed my cock in her anus. Fun fun fun.

So she bought a pix pack and gave me a good deposit and then I went down the street for a cheap deli sandwich. The afternoon was good too, with a few more sales and another fuck, a biker babe. She dragged me inside when I started my spiel. We had slurped, screwed, and dressed again just as her scary, hairy Old Man came home. They bought a pix package, too.

Why do I love this job? Women fuck me and pay me. Go figure.

---

Doug snatched and drained more ladies' drinks and then headed out the door. I heard - remember me? I'm Louie, the barkeep here - yeah, I heard much skeptical dialog. He was bragging, or trolling, or stealing drinks, or he has a big or small or medium cock, yes or no or maybe. I dunno. Never saw him before.

The ladies ordered a few more rounds and my nose survived the mix odors. Some of this shit should be illegal. But then demand and prices would spike. I could handle that.

The front door opened and dislodged a newish regular - Alicia, that Tonkinese gal, somewhat business-dressed with legs and cleavage obvious. I had her cocktail ready.

"Wow, what a day!" she gasped, and slurped, and signaled for a fast refill. "This morning, oh yeah! He did every hole I've got! And I have proof!"

She spilled a handful of Polaroid pictures from her purse.

"I just can't let hubby see them."

All the cheating cunts nodded. Some undoubtedly wanted Doug to ring their bells. I saw it in their faces. They can't hide those lying eyes.