The Easiest Piece of Ass

Without any doubt, Ann Sterling, my sexy wife, is the easiest piece of ass, the most eager slut in Australia. She has expressed her free-wheeling sexuality as a two bit whore on semi-permanent loan to men scattered about this arid region, a woman frequenting a bordello bed at five dollars a throw, a flesh pot in a flesh pit learning to wow any and all clients by servicing them between her open legs and in the confines of her mouth. In our own bed, I regularly photograph her ranging over my privates and she stars in the finest home-made porn found down under.

A long line of lovers, four of them, different races, different builds, different pedigrees happened to make Ann preggers. Her newer cadres of lovers occasionally taunt me; others, worldly, cosmopolitan men, shake their heads with bemusement. Those who sneer, who expect knock down drag out

Guerra civil

between Ann and me do not know Ann and me.

I do not place such a premium on paternity, fidelity, outdated concepts of monogamy for that matter. No, I am not their father; do not really care for the honor if truth is told. I cherish other rewards, gifts bestowed on a cuckolded husband by a constantly horny slut wife perpetually needing satisfying. She is the rarest of sexual beings: a nymphomaniac who finds all her physical needs met by steady source of cocks and cunts. I service during those rare spells she needs one more serving of dick to get through the night, serve as a palliative, a hang over cure for what ails her.

I serve in other ways too. Do what is needed for God and country. Wearing these huge tortoise shell glasses over her dewy, inquisitive gray eyes, I fantasize dipping my wick into her, my wife playing this up tight Sheila. Her eyes under their clear shields are bright with the look of anxious expectation. A wallflower under the influence of unfamiliar emotions, she seeks a chance encounter, new experiences. Repressed, untried, Ann play acting the role of a virgin digs her heels into the bed, insistently available, eager to be de-flowered. She is hot as hell and loud too. I, the violator, the devil her dad warned her about, poised above her, count my lucky stars; feel my way over her unfamiliar terrain seeking the shortest course to her plush cavern where her ravishment will occur. At some point, I will lean over her upturned face, squirt semen over these immense glass lenses. Playing along, Ann's slot is tight, so tight. How she does this, I do not know, but she does it somehow. It is necessary for me to prod my way into her by using the pry bar method. I manage to push my way in nevertheless.

With such role play Ann is primed for several cocks coming over that particular night. Lying in bed, semen trickling down her spectacles, Ann, turned on, ready cocked, full of my spent sperm and equal to the task of pulling a long train of randy men.

I have done my job, served another purpose, made myself useful, prepared wifey for the acclaim of newly inducted club members.

In reality Ann is noted for her ribald ways, she the white Anglo Saxon rose, the suitable bedmate for English royalty, a perfectly adaptable high priced call girl if she desired such a venue for her dynamic sexuality. High toned and stubbornly inflexible she can be maddeningly English in manner. She has firm golden breasts and pliant rounded curves, an effective combination for our sordid lifestyle.

Her short dark brown hair is kept clean and sweet by my gentle washing, rinsing and pampering. Lazily reclining, immersed, nipples brushed by the soapy hot water, her chin dangles in the warm bath fixed with bath salts. The juncture between her legs nothing but a bare perception under the cloudy water. She raises one coltish, mushroom colored long leg; daintily sips merlot, licks her red lips and sighs. I scrape a safety razor down a graceful arched limb after applying sensitive skin shaving cream. Then she has me do the other leg just as carefully. In touching her flesh, seeing her slender, firm leg angling out of the water as sexy and wet leg art, the downward thrust of her pretty foot pointed toward the silver faucets, a captivating glimpse of feet as fetish. I am erect, randy. I shave her, my other hand sinks beneath the water plays between her legs. She pushes up against me. Smiles a wicked smile.

At once charmingly demure, her sexuality is unrivaled in its breathtaking scope. My wife in a nutshell, a nutshell every man wishes to crack open, fuck, she of course lets them since our marriage is open sesame to any gentleman or lady. We hide nothing nor feel any shame in our free wheeling lifestyle.

My name is Dave, David Sterling. Two years senior to my beloved Ann, graying gracefully; I am constantly plucking recalcitrant gray follicles from places hair should not grow. Tall, lanky, taciturn, too much of an over indulgent belly, a mop of well-barbered dirty blond widow peaked hair, good natured, quite jolly matter of fact, I am a native born Aussie, a decadent and romantic son of my native land. I wear wire-frame eye glasses; have a nose too big for my face. Some berate me, the cuckold. Others say I am rat faced bastard, a grinning pimp with a blaze of pearl white teeth. I know my limitations. My only desire is dying happy since immortality seems out of the question. Is that too much to ask?

Since detaching the Queen's service as a Flight Sergeant in Number 37 Squadron, the Royal Australian Air Force, there is always the sweat to contend with in my newest vocation, a bone weary tiredness that drips through my body, compels me as dinner time approaches to drive my beat up gray Lancia into town, settle on one of the stools in my local,

THE BULLDOG'S BLOOD

. Located next to the Magic Dragon milk bar on a narrow lane just off the busy concourse of the High Street, I often find myself nearly wrenching my arm from its socket grabbing a warm mug of lager out of the bar keeper's hairy hand. Not the Foster's swill the Yanks like so much but a locally bred brew with the punch of Polish vodka. Like most nights, this beer dropped down my throat with a satisfying thud. Ginger haired Sid, runs this English style pub, is known far and wide for his perfect pouring of a pint of Guinness stout. Annie likes Sid. He has an impressive tool, a gifted way in using it between my wife's ready and willing legs.

In a shallow, unremarkable way, Sid reminds me of Pigger Fredrickson, a bloke from Perth. Pigger's slow wit, his eagerness to find ways of being unlucky enabled him to jam his silky red head into a C-130's undercarriage after we landed in Kuala Lumpur. Most regrettably it killed him. Old Pigger though got a snoot full of Ann's charms before his tragic death. He was one man out of the 2238 men she has fucked these past few decades. Not included in this grand total the 176 women. How do I tally the transsexuals, the transvestites?

Since packing it out of the air force when my tour was up, I have not cared for this warehouse donkey work. Not one bit. Merchandise distribution it's called. Things come here; things go there, a constant stream to satisfy the Australian consumers. It pays the bills; I prefer something closer to home. It may be less providential to my purse, but nevertheless it appeals to my perverse nature. I am a video artiste, a cinematographer; consider myself a master of lighting, a director noted for sensitivity and subtly, a recognized maestro of shadow and light. Most importantly my feature productions appeal to my compulsions, are guaranteed to rally any bloke's jack staff, create run away dripping fanny in the closest Sheila. Ann, my star, is adored by the camera and this cameraman. In simple garter belt, thigh high hose and incredibly high heels, all black, Ann spurs men and a favorable number of women to new heights of concentrated fury. She bends them to her indomitable will within the constriction of her sweet mouth, delights them with the sweetest sensations emitted from between her ceaselessly opened thighs. All manner of men find purchase in the fleshy portal shadowed in the valley of her bottom. A deliciously sweet ass it is too.

Cream pies pooled at her various orifices drive me mad with desire. The contrast of glistening white sticky semen running down from the dark caps of black hose succors the voyeur in me. As her videographer I am transfixed by the spilt fluid drying in the nylon mesh, what it does to my cock is astounding and naturally these pearly strings dried to white paste features in lots of extreme close ups.

My birthday, the most recent one, we celebrated with chocolate cake, marinated olives, slimly sliced salami, bagel chips and fresh mozzarella; a magnum of chilled champagne. Ann in a surprising gesture presented me a pornographic Oscar of her design. The size of a wine bottle, covered in faux chrome, sand filled, streamlined, a figure with a blank smooth face and huge dong stood on a circular black pedestal, my name emblazoned on the base, the statement: WORLD'S GREATEST CUM CAMERA GURU stamped on the brass plate. Ann, gloriously naked, lay back in our bed, spread her legs, silky thighs shining in the light; she pushed the stature inside her slit, jammed it home and fucked herself with an in and out motion. Kept it in play, not satisfied it merely was there. Immediately if not sooner I focused my always ready camcorder on the juncture between her legs. The black base, the brass plate visible in the mouth she makes readily available to one and all.

She came. I shot a copious load of sperm straight and true on my woman's face. I placed the camcorder on its tripod, angled it toward the bed and fucked her some more.

Several years ago we took holiday in Sedona, Arizona. We fucked on a turquoise Indian blanket and I filmed it. Now, on my birthday, I turned on the telly and then we watched an extremely erotic and obscene video, my best selling video matter of fact, filmed in an Arizona nursing home surrounded by cacti, sand and a too hot sun. I still remembered the place reeking of urine, spilled medicine and the noxious fumes of bodies corrupted by age and the agonies of disease. Gently, with infinite patience, more like a mother soothing a child, Ann applied Doctor Mandrake's suction pump to an unimpressive engorgement of cock owned by Phillip, the nursing home's premier patient. Confined to a re-enforced hospital bed, Phillip, a thousand pound man child about the size of a player piano continued unrestrainedly smoking Kent cigarettes with abandon, drinking bonded bourbon by the tumbler full and gulping down Malomars by the box. After stimulating him as far as possible with Doctor Mandrake's help, Ann took him in her mouth and in about five seconds of intense suction, he splattered her face with an impressive quantity of sperm. Seeing his eruption once again, his look of contentment captured in the video, I too splattered Ann's face with semen. My outpouring was nowhere near the aggregate sum produced by Phillip but I was proud of its prodigious amount anyway. Then in our bedroom visited by legions of men and women, I shut down the house for the night and we slept contentedly in each others arms.

I spend long lazy nights emptying pallets, thousands of pallets it sometimes seems. Sucking the royal tit was not hard work. This is. Even with pallet jacks allied against my back, fork lifts easing the strain on my biceps, simple block and tackle designed to placate my burden I'd still feel put upon by the demands of this endlessly repetitive graveyard shift. No, this is not the life I prefer to engage in, not by all that's holy do I wish to be here. Bills need paying; we need to eat so I work. Like most people in Australia, we rent our home and that costs money even if our landlord, a portly lad originally from Canberra, lets the rent payment slide in exchange for Annie giving him a good fuck.

I labor in a sprawling industrial park laid out in the terra firmed fashion of a suburban college. Abutting this warehouse, the ugliest structure in the lot, is a single-story glass and steel cube dedicated to anti-venom research. There is a cinder block bunker woven into the ground, its exposed wedge is painted yellow and white. Foreign nationals study English and animal husbandry in its cool interior. Another flat warehouse similar to this one but with superior air conditioning and more design flair is a vitamin distribution facility. There is an Afghani dentist out here somewhere; the park is also planted with at least 100 orange and green sugar cube shapes. Protected by chain link fence and a locked gate, people store things under lock and key. Another single-story glass and steel cube looking just like the snake research place except for its opaque mirrored windows trains helicopter mechanics.

Any laboring this time of year, I find myself sweating and straining inside an invisible cloud of hot baking air. Outside, blow flies drone and dance in the shimmering heat. Of course no breeze blows. To complicate matters, this huge warehouse's ventilation is poor. The building is all corrugated tin designed to house merchandise not men. The size of eight or nine football pitches this monolith is a solar oven with air conditioning units pitched on the roof. They wheeze mightily to no avail. "Mates, let's take some steaks up on the roof and cook em," I say. Frank responds, "No, I'd bash together some eggs and a rasher of bacon." Fanning yourself does no good. Those battery powered fans whirling in front of your face are totally useless. Sweat trickles down my love handles, rolls across my chest. I am reminded of where Australia is, how hellishly hot a tropical sun can be at its zenith. I find myself nuzzling a flushed cheek along the damp side of a frozen food locker or I stroll through a chilled chamber where produce and fresh sides of meat are located.

From dusk to dawn; I generally muck about inside the blast oven camouflaged as long haul Lorries and railroad freight cars.

Cryptic messages scribbled all over the interior of the trucks and inside the train cars makes me wonder what may be in store for the human race as it descends into an intellectual wasteland; quickly I empty the trailers of their stores, my tempo is relentlessly staccato to get the damn job done, finish my shift, punch the time clock and promptly leave.

I wish to be home right now fucking my dear faithless Annie, not in this pub with these ruddy, sweating sods. I could stand in the bedroom's shadows, my back braced against the tiny red roses and green leaves printed on the rose hued wallpaper. Or hide behind the pleated pale pink curtains cracked open just enough for me to peer from. Me the noisy Paparazzi meddling my way into Ann's orbit, capturing all her nasty drippings inside my expensive Japanese video recorder, the tape documenting her hedonism, what an easy piece she is, the glistening jazz seeping from her mouth, shining brightly from the wet socket slashed in her loins. My cock jerks, sometimes I find myself trembling, my naked thighs quivering while the trusty camcorder memorializes it all.

In my lens, I catch the man's weak, submissive stare or another man's strong, domineering glare. Shoot close ups of Ann's hand stroking cock, her bedmate forcing her head toward his shaft. She likes it, this being shoved down, forced to suck cock. You see the fire in her eyes, the glistening moisture forming at the edge of her lips. On the mattress amidst riotous sheets, my lady is on top, a lad, a big man with a fat, thick prick sheathed in pussy. My camcorder sees a two backed beast. Sex, pure fucking, friction, motion, I get it all for posterity. She wishes to please and wants pleasure returned in full measure. The bedroom is filled with enough mellow light to capture healthy skin tone, definitions of muscle, Ann's luscious pliant contours; a vase stuffed with anemones sitting on the bureau offers an artistic flourish. My wife and her latest conquest are a tangle of sweating, undulating flesh in the middle of the bed. Oh to capture in my camera the anticipation, the tension, the turmoil roiling about this bedroom. True eroticism found in the emotional resonance, the radiance of heated bodies, the invisible sensations no camcorder sees. Eroticism locked in the dimension of the senses. I love recording Ann's coupling, chronicling all these buffeting bodies bouncing merrily about the bed. In her satiation, by gratifying her lusts, Ann is so good humored. In complying with her wishes I find my own gratification.

After finishing, another man, a pair, possibly a trio visits, fucks her and finish. My trusty camcorder gets it all. One man fucks her; he spills his sperm into all three of her orifices. Three men will assume positions in each hole. The bedroom will be filled with grunts and moans, the protestations of male supremacy. So much time spent on her back.

My not being at home does not stay my little woman from her coupling. Not anymore then you may prevent a pair of dingoes fucking short of killing them. No, she is too addicted to her pleasures. I am accustomed to this proclivity. She stirs me up, tangles me in her tender mercies.

Often I return home in the morning needing a hot shower and a close shave in front of my misted over mirror, the comfy pleasures of my bed. Ann is still going at it with one man or several men. I grab my camcorder; catch the last hurrah of these carnal exchanges before worrying over any morning ablutions.

From the garage where the warm Lancia sits close by Ann's finely appointed Ford Escort, I enter my castle. The morning's sky is a fleshy pink, banded in blue, tangerine, lemon and lime green. Melodious song birds sing in my backyard's trees. A stranger already dressed for the day, sits at the dining room table drinking coffee, eating a scone I purchased at Foodland; Ann is under the table sucking his cock. She may be sitting on the sofa; her legs spread wide, another stranger naked as a jaybird is eating her pussy, digging his mouth into her sodden gash. Ann has this phenomenal ability luring nocturnal denizens into our suburban home, the policeman, the fireman, the EMT, a locksmith, an elfin-faced, asthmatic night porter from the Red Lion Hotel. Ann is democratic. They all seem to find a way to step away from their duties long enough to stop by and fuck Ann. She fucks them all before they leave, fills them with hot coffee; they have filled her with hot sperm. In this exchange of fluids, I find my own relief reflected in their coupling. In the watching there is pure joy too.

Some mornings I drag my ass home from work to find a man wearing my ratty blue terrycloth bathrobe. Standing at the bathroom sink, he is using my razor and shaving cream, looking in the mirror, his chest thrusting out the picture of a satisfied rooster. Ann is down on the tile floor between his hairy legs, her head hidden under the robe sucking his cock for all it is worth. At other times she is still in bed with a man. Bound together, they sleep cheek to cheek, his cock in her slit. Or Ann's sweet little hand is firmly gripping the man's shaft; its bloated eminence ready to get down to business soon as the pair opens their eyes to meet a new day.

Yes, of course, in the early days of our marriage I was insistently conventional and expected a faithful, subservient mate. My name was David and Ann was my wife and the two of us were a couple who slept in the same bed and did what husbands and wives do in their marriage bed.

I have passed from youth into middle age. In this passage from boy to man when Ann's errant behavior became known to me I was hurt and angry. Only after our marriage opened up and Ann admitted to her needs to more men then just I did my voyeur's compulsion, my skill with a camcorder flourish. I also discovered a certain reserve in my sexual nature but as a cuckold I found eroticism in my wife's infidelity, descriptions of her frolicking quite enticing. I still tend to be quite hapless when close to Ann's boudoir clientele. They totally intimidate me. They always go first. I watch. Especially the nappy haired, musky scented black fucking machines my wife dearly craves. She refers to them as her Mandingo men. The United States Navy visits, Ann grabs up a group of lean black swabbies in starched whites, fucks them, and sends them stateside with glorious memories of one insatiable Australian woman. In their dotage they will remember her. They give me blue ball caps with the name of their ship written in yellow script above the bill. I mount each one on a wooden peg in the kitchen. The bush-headed aborigines with their strict social posturing, so many reckless tattoos burnt on their flesh have been known to ridicule me. The Maori far from their homeland squat around my home fires in total reverence to my wife while showing revulsion of me. Polynesians, Moslems from Indonesia and quite naturally a legion of yellow skinned oriental men distributed in this part of the world spurn me too. I am a humorless cuckold, merely the pimp negotiating Ann's fares, doing whatever she needs done, letting her use me up, no longer able to appeal to her desires, to protect her from the hostile take over these dusky men seem so intent on. I take some nastily delightful pictures though, me the ever faithful video diarist.