Say good-bye to evenings out, say good-bye to middle managements slobs, Veronica said to herself. She'd had enough of all that at this juncture. Three downers followed by a fair-to-middling degenerated into the pits was almost too much to take. Sam Barber was smooth, no doubt about that. He came on like an ad from a men's magazine, but then it happened. Vern already had the script memorized: (1) this is an affair; (2) my wife doesn't have to know; (3) you don't have to play second fiddle.
Second fiddle! – more like symphony janitor.
So now Vern had her mind all made up. Days would be the usual office nonsense – the light chatter, the senseless flirting, the search for Mr. Right – but nights, she would be pure auto. Vern surveyed her body, and was pleasantly impressed. Her breasts were huge, her hips curved in the right place and her ass was outstanding enough to cause takes in the office, even on Monday mornings. She had a good apartment, too. The bed dominated the studio, but she had the necessities, like an eating area, and a sitting area, and best of all, a fireplace to warm whatever might be in need of simmering.
Vern's eyes skidded about and then settled on her package. It was a big package, but not that big. But not that small. Actually it was one of the most important packages the girl'd brought home in quite a while. Thinking of the contents made her tingle, first through the spine, then in more favored spots. She looked at it and fingered it. Vern walked over to the curtains, then she put the bag on the table. Vern needed a drink. Martini in hand, she soon returned to her little surprise. A smile escaped her lips. Come now, this label's a joke, she said. Vern looked at several pictures of a wholesome lass holding an elongated structure, applying it to her back and upper shoulders.
The caption read: "Learn how to relax. Let Vibro Lax let you sit back and unwind."
Vern began to hum to herself: "Dum da-dum, da… dum, da…" Removing the package, the young secretary's voice became lower, like a breathy moan. Oh, I am a young wench and I'm going to get mine!
Slowly, Vern opened the top, then began to slide her accessory out of the box, already conjuring her imagination, remarking on the vibrator's phallic qualities. It's all mine, she thought. No jilts, no wilting, no wives, no mornings after at the office, and best of all, now Vern was captain – it was her show. Vibrator in hand, Veronica walked over to her full-length mirror and decided to bask for a few minutes in her own reflection. Not bad, she had to admit, not bad at all.
Vern felt something deep inside of her cunt send some desire up into her skull. Sure, she was horny and she was proving she didn't need some corporate stud to keep her going. Why, she was a machine, a unit unto herself, the captain of her own sex ship.
She gazed upon what most men would feel compelled to look at twice, and then do more than look.
Then she moved closer to the mirror.
Vern delighted at her form, the way her brown hair fell on full shoulders; her eyes were large and brown, and if we make take the liberty at this juncture, a hotbed of power, when activated, bringing a man down on his knees, ready to beg for the box; then there were her breasts, large, in the eyes of some positively huge, but best of all, firm and proud; the rest of the young lady was on the thin side but strategically formed.
What did the Greeks call it? Pollution? Laying the body waste? Not at all, said Vern with a sly smile across her lips. Suddenly, gripped by passion instigated by looking in that mirror, Vern grabbed her breasts and began to squeeze them, knead them, push them together and then to the side, manipulate them until she could feel her spongy nipple getting hard, pushing into her palm, becoming redder and larger. Oh, ooh, she moaned to herself, engulfed in her own passion, and we might add, momentarily losing interest in her new toy.
Vern fell back on her rug and landed on several cushions, breaking her fall (it could not have been better if she had poised, aimed, and fired). Instantly male names and faces raced through her mind as her hips moved upward, as her hands wrenched her undies down below her knees, exposing her luxurious pubic hairs, and when she spread her knees apart, a seething, pink honey-box. The names passed: Jack Waterhouse, Marty Ingleton, Ross Ruens, Doug Meunier; bodies: fat, tall, athletic (ectomorph, endomorph, mesomorph) – one after the other.
Vern couldn't remember being so horny, because besides the comfort, they were all so real and all hers for the choosing. Pressing her hips up into the air, churning and twisting, eyes rolling slightly up ward, the lady conjured her scenes and then in a moment of recognition settled upon her material: John Winston, John the Con, the man with the schlong, or as the steno pool used to say, "Sshhh… it's long." Now he was all hers to live out again, this time without the jilt of an ending. She remembered.
"I'd like to defoliate you," he said.
"Is that right?"
"I'd like to defoliate, violate, and not even mitigate," he'd quipped.
Vern remembered it as if it were yesterday, the way she shamelessly bared her breasts beside him in the front seat, the way she placed his hand on her breast, right over the nipple, the way she cupped her hand and placed it on top of his crotch, feeling his manhood grow. She remembered everything. Placing her hand inside her slit at this point in time, she recalled the billboard outside the car, the way the "O", was missing from "COUNTLESS WOMEN USE DIAL", the way she laughed just when he was penetrating. She remembered how red he became, then joined in when he turned and noticed what tickled her.
Vern's fingers were moist now. Her finger had be come John's cock, fat and full. Vern felt her body from head to toe, pushing her fingers through her hair, ascribing circles about her breasts, then pushing downward on her sides (feeling the curve of her hips). Her mind's eye was dynamite, bringing dialogue into play until she wasn't sure what was fact and what was fancy. "Put it in John, put that big cock inside all the way." She could feel its tender, pink head penetrate and then the way the entire shaft seemed to enlarge once inside. Rolling her eyes, Vern tried to flatten her breasts, but the tissue was so firm – had such consistency – that they defiantly remained protruded.
She was in the front seat now: 'CUNTLESS' outside the window, rain pouring down incessantly, John's snipe thickening the air, "You're no frump," coming at her with his hot breath. The scene was chiseled like a fresco: John the Con's hand pushed from her stomach, then settled in the dark place under breast. They were naked (that was one thing Vern still couldn't picture – how the hell had they managed it?) and Vern managed to perch her leg over John's thigh until her knee was just over his groin. At the very moment she applied pressure, at the instant she could feel his member pushing into her skin, she pushed her titty upward, positioning his finger so that her nipple came forward, begging to be sucked, even bitten, anything! The more Vern pushed on her knee, the harder John squeezed, the wider Vern opened her mouth, the more tongue and spittle she received from that dynamo.
"Baby," he'd interjected, as if so excited he could no longer hold his tongue back, "I've had a lot of women, you know that; I'll be honest with you: secretaries, management people, lady execs, academics – a French teacher at Sorbonne to be exact – political chicks, but Vern, you're completely unique." Vern egged him, until he continued, "It's not just body, it's something about you, those… those eyes." That's when Vern realized that was her main weapon, drawing card, seducer, invoker, revoker, whatever the situation may call for. Some pash, she thought, but then she was overcome by what this man was doing to her.
John pushed her back on the seat until the back of her head rested against the window (she didn't even notice that the door handle had begun to dig into her back, indenting her otherwise perfect form). "You were born to love, Veronica," he'd said, "You're my baby, let me put my stem inside you all the way," he'd said, and then he'd said some weeks later, sorry Ron (Veronica was called by many a name, an advantage or disadvantage of polysyllabic nomenclature), the wife calls, and I'm getting too much heat. "But enough of this," Ron said to herself as she pulled against her couch – she'd write (right) the script now.
It was pure action in her mind's eye: she had her thigh pushing against John's cock with such pressure, that she began to think that his stem was penetrating her skin. The executive buried his face into her breast then licked, then licked the skin just above her nipple. Ron could feel her swollen nipples craving for man handling, and she felt the ecstasy of his tongue warming and seething her cherries. John managed to move his body (turning it completely around) so that he was now on the bottom, his long and lean form dominating the upholstery, gradually lubricating it with his rank yet manly sweat. The stud was able to position his lovely atop his form – which he negotiated by holding onto her buns and pressing her, almost wrenching her against his groin section. He cupped his fingers then pushed his pinky on Ron's dark, steamy underside, gradually moving forward until he reached her anus (was he unaware if he was coming or going?). But Veronica knew he was intentional in his obscene movement, and was even a little surprised at the pleasure he evoked in exploring her asshole. Pushing his finger up from the long slit between her buns, he settled in the triangular spot just above the crevice and pressed on her until Veronica almost laughed. Wrenching Veronica about on her side, then turning her over completely, the young woman lay with her ass perfectly positioned over John's cock. She could feel his stem settle into her crack. She could sense his heaving chest push against her own. She could sense his distended, huge balls push against her thigh, the prickly thin skin sending shivers straight through her spine and into her nipples.
Veronica kept finger fucking herself, kept orchestrating the pattern of her encounter. There was even dialogue: "Baby, you're the greatest. I want you all over all of your fucking gorgeous body."
"Do it, fuck me all the way."
"Ooh, yes, yes!" Veronica could see his eyes vividly, two fire balls. It was close now, dangerously so.
The young woman was writhing off her couch, falling onto the rug. Once again she could see her form in the mirror and before continuing her reverie, she spread her legs in order to view her pulsing pussy. She was a raggle, and knew it, an eye full of steamy, woman meat who could make any male lose his cool. Just look at that, she said to herself, narrowing her eyes, breathing even deeper – positively excited by the sight of her inner womanhood. Veronica thought fleetingly of literature – after all, she was an English major at Sarah Lawrence – of Fitzgerald's convoluted love affairs, of Hemingway's hunts and the desperation of Capote's characters in their sadistic and sexual longings. But when she looked right into the heart of that pussy, she knew that it all boiled down to that, the least common denominator, male and female meat.
"Cuntless women" – hah, thought Veronica, that can't be this college bitch. Veronica was captivated by her own body, by the convolutions of her steamy cunt, the folds of skin and the moist, glistening tissue. (We might add that as Veronica was known for her fantastic ass, and gigantic mammaries, her reputation had also risen in certain corporate circles for having exceptional vaginal lock powers. Her ability to open up, and then put on the steam – as some put it, the "clamp" – was almost uncanny.)
Just then the saucy lady realized she'd been neglecting her essential accessory, the piece of equipment which guaranteed her liberation from male domination. It lay on the table, virginal in status, yet expectant in condition. The broad turned the power switch then touched the top of the mechanism and was delighted with the resulting tingle. But even better than that was the fact that she could feel heat, quantums distinctly emanating from that phallic, as Ingmar B. would say, symbolska. Veronica put it against her heaving bosom, and loved it. Then she pressed it straight into her nipple. Dare she press further? She did. As a matter of fact, Veronica pressed the electric dick into her until the blood began to take its leave, and she began to feel pleasure degenerate into pain. She pressed harder, until she couldn't stand it, and only then did she have mercy and allow her breasts to take their original form.
When Veronica pushed the vibrator downward, below her pubic hair (it looked like some monstrous war machine plowing through guerrilla terrain as it parted her bushes) she could not help but think of John's magnificent cock. She was able to bring to mind that magnificent penetration. John hadn't been at all handicapped by the cramped quarters, spreading out and going to town as if in the most expansive of double, queen or king beds. After what seemed like an eternity of tit sucking, he finally released his grasp and lowered his head to her midsection, blazing a trail to the south with his probing fingers. Sniffing and inhaling extremely deeply, John the Con moved his nose through the pubics, obviously basking in the erotic itch created therein. Veronica remembered the ultimate pleasure of his hot, wet tongue, splitting apart her labia and entering the depths of her insides. As a bird flies, so did our Veronica, inhaling with total passion, exhaling in preparation for greater highs: sexual highs. As John pushed into her and continued to eat, he moved his hands upward until he was again atop her mountainous melons, until he was pressing against them which did nothing if not heighten her pleasure.
The girl was on the floor again, in the warmth of her studio apartment, with dildo in hand, yet she might as well have been in that car on that rainy eve, for that was where her mind (and cunt) was at. She couldn't forget that John had driven her mad with desire, especially by means of his genius for holding her off, making her ache for the real heavy action. After sucking her cunt, the man put his key in the ignition. "Where are you going?" our friend asked. The man answered they were in need of stimulation and proceeded to Pacific Grove, to a place with the most awesome view in the entire Cisco area. Without further exchange of words, he pushed Veronica almost against the window pane. John, holding his cock proudly upward, was able to penetrate in this manner, from the rear. (It had been a first for Veronica – she'd never even imagined a guy could get it that way.)
"One, two, three…" John said, "And here she goes!" – with that the stud shot deep within her, and even managed before shooting his wad to pull his cock out and cover her buns with his precious night juice.
Veronica lay in her apartment, spent but unspent, satiated but hot as hell, half cocked in the feminine sense. Well, not bad, she thought, I've got the throttle in hold this time, simple as that. The cock's completely under my control and I can drive myself as high, as far and as long as my little heart desires. Vern rose and looked in the mirror. She could tell she'd been through something. A few of her pubic hairs were pasted against her thighs. Several drops of sweat had formed in key places – her upper lip, under her breasts, between her legs just under the cunt.
The woman pushed her body against the mirror until her protuberances touched, forming a hot vision as if two nymphs were preparing to make it. Two huge nipples pulsing against each other; two palms stretching out making contact; and then, two ominous looking white dicks moving toward each other. Vern had to smile a little as she watched the vibrators coming near and then touch. Well now, you two look like you're quite the friends, quite the friend. But my story's not over, not just yet. Vern knew then that what she really wanted, what would make it all worthwhile was nothing less than a reenactment of her entire recent love life, from John on the entire macho repertoire. But this time there'd be a twist: a happy ending.
What will it be, thought Ron. Perhaps a ball with John, or maybe conjuring that hot party she went to in L.A., that den of inequity with all the drugs; hell, anything was available from hashish to hard acid. No, thought Ron, she wasn't quite through with John left. There was more to that story.
But Ron was a bit preoccupied at that moment by her own reflection. Who knows, maybe she was falling in love with herself after all, she loved her body. She liked carrying her weight, liked the way her skin felt all over. She even liked the manner in which her tits flopped against her midsection. But was that love? – she wasn't ready to ponder the imponderables.
You are one broad; she said almost out loud. At that point, she squeezed against the mirror, more effectively flattening her knockers than any of the inflamed attempts of the myriad of studs. No, she knew when, how and where to press. She'd never seen flattened nipples before and it fascinated her. Ron liked the way they became redder, right in front of her very eyes. She imagined they were two red eyes. They spoke to her. They told her she was one sexy bitch. "Oooh," she moaned – this time completely out loud. Ron could see that her breasts were spread out so that they bulged out her sides, two sacks of pleasure flesh, seemingly bursting out ward. Observing the top action, the woman suddenly wished she could stick her cunt on the reflector and have it come back at her. That was it; she wanted to be fucked by her own cunt (amazing what these electronic devices can do for a woman).
Ron felt the curve of her hip then pushed her hand around her front until her curly, dark pubic hairs were parted by the probing of her fingers. She wanted to be inside herself again, to finger fuck until her imagination would take over and bring her back to John.
How had she become so horny? Maybe it was her environment at work, the sterile contrast from her pastoral – intellectual life upstate in the East, maybe it was the fact she knew everyone in that insurance office had action on their minds. No, she'd never forget the first day on the job. Being attractive, standing out in more ways than one, she found every male trying to orient her with their foolish excuses. John had come in, asking if she knew where the water cooler was. He brought Ron over, then asked her out, just like that. He didn't believe in the old beat around, just right to the heart of the matter, as if he didn't want to waste his time by pecking up the wrong branch. Mr. Danielli, now there was a case. One afternoon Ron spied him in, to put it diplomatically, an excited state: "Please do not disturb" said the sign on his door, "disturb" (if your name is Veronica) maid the sign on his face. Perhaps he unconsciously left his door open, but for whatever reason, the crack was just wide enough for Veronica to get the idea. He was just sitting at his desk, arms wrapped around the back of his head, but protuberance clearly visible in his pants, just sitting there.
Veronica, Ron, Vern, as the case may be, was in a dangerous mood and simply rose out of her seat and knocked at the boss' door as she quickly improvised an excuse to break his little dream state.
"Oh, Miss Jenkens."
He was a touch surprised.
Vern looked down at him. Sure he was a bit hot with his cock between his legs and his hands in his pockets as if making a shrewd move of a cover-up. "Miss Jenkens, will you take dictation?"
"No, but I'll take a dick," she thought.
That's when she knew what the insurance business was all about.
Or, the first office party – holiday spirit and all that sort of thing, letting loose when the clocks are disconnected, a little raz-a-ma-taz and all that jazz. Not one of the execs was happy: that was the lesson. Vern soon came up with her own theory. The higher you go up the ladder of success, the worse the marriage. Jenkens law. Administrative assistant: "Hey, Vern, would you like to go out with me, I mean, just to get away from the office for the party, you know what I mean."
Assistant Vice President: "Miss Jenkens, I'm free tonight, this evening to be exact. How about coming around to my private apartment."
Vice President: "Fool around?"
President: no verbiage necessary.
And our friend Vern had gone the whole (hole) route. But more of that later.
For now, Vern confronted herself in the mirror, liking and positively turned on by what she saw. After all, she thought, I'm not a bad piece of ass. Vern slid down the edge of the mirror until her buns rested on the hard part of the floor where the rug ended but the wall did not begin. Nice, really nice, she thought. Vern didn't mind the hard, cold floor. Vern didn't mind being alone. Vern was a piece of ass.
Back in her car with her John, Vern's imagination was able to sequence the events with more detail. A simple ball was not the end of it and for that matter was not even the beginning of it. John had reached a height of passion he'd never experienced in the past. It got to the point where the stud couldn't hold his energy down. Slithering around the seat, he soon lost all restraint, digging his teeth almost painfully into our young friend. He worked his way down from her nape until he reached the lovely large part of her upper chest, just where her breasts began, the place which gets tan while the more scrumptious parts are hidden. He reached below that point, passed the Mason-Dixon dividing white from tan then made for the sure ground of her womanhood. Pushing her left tit upward, he made contact with an open mouth which was just able to take in the tip of the iceberg. He heard the girl moan and tried to take in more at the same time he readjusted his legs so that they were so intertwined with Ron's as to allow freedom to kick and cavort to taste. The rain began to come in torrents, smashing against the windows until it would have been impossible to see two feet outside (if they'd care to look).
"I'm gonna fuck you everywhere!" he groaned out. Vern noticed that the softest part of the sentence was "I'm" so she knew he meant business. She had to admit, he was the greatest ball to date, even if he wasn't a top-level exec (small chickens actually, middle management).
Vern felt his hands move in fast motion from the front of her chest, down below her navel and through her mat to the slit below. The man opened her up as if possessed. She felt his hot, steamy breath go into her opening and penetrate her channels at the same time she was aware of the intensity of pressure around her neck. It was a trip to feel his man hands manhandling her delicate neck. She did have a delicate neck. It wasn't a scrawny neck, but it was a delicate neck, a feminine neck. He'd even told her she'd a nice neck, but she barely paid attention, so enraptured was she in carnal pursuits.
"Ravage me, go animal, go animal!" She'd said with more air than chords – or perhaps it was airy chords. She felt his hand move down and his tongue lubricate her already moist insides, his saliva mixing with her woman juices, creating an ambrosial fluid which John imbibed with greedy passion. Veronica almost wished she could go down on her own pussy, but aware of the impossibility of the fantasy, settled for some nice thick cock – he did have an exceptional cock.
Veronica knew it was a natural high – no drugs, nothing artificial except that big, manly body. He was a specimen of a man: big, thick thighs covered with black hair; swollen, distended balls, and an Olympian cock; to say nothing of his massive shoulders and a chest which resembled a rain barrel – after The Flood. He was all hers too, or at least that's what she thought at the time, a prospect, a fancy, a desire which satisfied her enough at the time.
She knew the stud was about to come when he started to grind his teeth (a tip she'd picked up in a powder room a long time ago – one of those drunken affairs when the ladies, especially the older ones, start babbling about the mouth). When the teeth grind and a man starts to sweat in funny places (like the upper and lower lip, or the navel) then there's no two ways about it: prepare for the explosion.
Veronica knew this would be heavier than anything she'd known previously, so she wanted to draw it out as long as possible, a strategy which could work for or against her depending on the disposition of the man and the condition of the woman. In this case, all factors clicked in the right direction. Taking the aggressive, Ron pushed him up until he was fairly sitting on her thigh. In any case, she could now see the entire scene down there and fixed her gaze on the bottom of his shaft. He was pumping so hard now (didn't even seem to notice when his legs fell off the seat and he was kind of half standing on the rug) that his cock penetrated and then was released until it was half visible, before taking advantage of the return ticket, given the special excursion rates. She'd never seen a cock as thick or sure. His scrotum became visible given the various angles associated with his thrusts, a fine hunk of well spread thick skin. Veronica went on to do something she'd never negotiated, never cared to. She pulled and yanked at his buns and then slid her finger between them until she could feel his ass heat. She could feel the slightly harder textured skin inside the fold and delighted in the manner in which his buttocks tightened as she felt him up. She knew he didn't particularly go for her exploration. But what the hell.
"I'm fuckin' you now little lady. I'm fuckin' you!"
"Let it go, spurt inside now, spurt again."
She realized just then this would be the big two. One had come not more than minutes earlier. What was it with men, anyways? Some acted like they'd just climbed a mountain after coming, as if they needed a cooling out period – in the form of a cigarette, a trip to the john, a deep snooze, whatever. But this middle management type, this real John of hers, acted like he wanted more, and at that point, she guessed she might be able to squeeze another round out of him, a potch on the ass and he'd be hers for the night.
The closer John came to come, the more he dribbled from the mouth. "Baby, you're the greatest, the best around," he blurted in between a feel on the belly and a caress to the tit. John moved down and pushed her body to an angle until he felt just the proper angle and pressure against his man stem. "Yeah, baby, oh… ah!" he ejaculated. "Oh," he panted, "I knew the moment I saw you behind that slectric that you had this kind of stuff in you, the way you held yourself baby… class, real class." He didn't care that Veronica was hardly listening. He didn't care that it was raining, that the mud surrounding the wheels outside could trap them for the night and ruin the Thursday morning (supposedly back on the job). He didn't care at that point about the tell-tale lipstick on his face, or the nail marks on his back, or the assorted hickies from his buns to his blade. "FUCK ME BABY, FUCK ME ALL THE WAY!"
"Come on me."
"Wha…"
"That's right, come on my stomach." That's the way Ron wanted it. She didn't know why. She didn't care why.
"You sure you want it that way, Ron?"
"I rarely make a mistake when I'm feeling this way."
"Here it is." He took it out. "You like that, you like it, don't you?"
Ron looked at it, enraptured. She liked it.
"I like it."
"I know you like it."
She looked at the way a few drops of jism lay on the tip, like they escaped or something. She looked at how it was beyond red hot and was crimson hot, purple. Shhh… long, she thought, and almost giggled. But she stopped in time to see his final preparation heave, a massive constriction of his entire form, followed by a reddening about the face, an increase of blood pressure, all punctuated by a fantastic groan: "Agghh… oh, oh OH!"
He came like lightning, all over her stomach, in fantastic spurts which reached all the way up to her breasts. She'd never felt like such an animal and even in college days would have been turned off by her own behavior, but there was no stopping her at this point. Opening her mouth all the way, she pointed his penis her way and managed to score, right into the orifice. It was salty, and creamy, and viscous, and bitter all at the same time. She couldn't remember anything as tasty, anywhere and she was aware this was the kind of thing a man doesn't forget.
"I'm still on," she said.
"You bitch, what is this? I come twice and you act like you've had a date with a hairy banana. You must be kidding."
"No I'm not kidding." Then Vern doffed her panties from around her ankles, took her leave, and ran into the rain.
It was cold, but not that cold. Nevertheless, the stud yelled out, "You're crazy!"
A moment later they stood side by side, drenched to the bone, but their enthusiasm squelched not a bit.
Ron continued her dildo action on that Friday evening, warm and comfortable. It was almost better than the real thing, she thought as she began to slide the unit into her slit. Slowly she moved up her thighs, feeling the drops of woman juice which persisted along the white, smooth sides. Feeling the cold floor begin to dig into her buns, the woman rose and jiggled over to the rug. Ron could feel the rug dig into her as she prepared for her buscar. She fell downward, putting her hands in front of her mammoth breasts just in time to break her fall. Then she pulled her hands away, luxuriating in the feel of the rug strands adding to her jollity by pressing against nipple and tit. She even pushed herself into the rug, as if she were making love to it, as if it was alive and fucking.
Then Veronica turned around and sat on her ass as she looked at her reflection. "Ron, Vern, Veronica," she said loudly and distinctly, "you're one hell of a young broad." With that, she spread her legs into a "V" and then suddenly, violently, stuck that stick all the way inside. "Ooooh, ah," she moaned.
Gradually, she brought back the scene behind the car, the way John's hair was drenched and matted, the way her own dark locks stuck to her front, covering the tops of her breasts like a Haitian. She'd run from the stud; he didn't like that a bit.
"Come back here you bitch!"
"Come and get me!"
She'd run a good fifty yards before he overcame her. Ron looked back with amusement – his cock was still erect and slowed him and his distended balls were a little absurd jiggling like two sacks of potatoes. But it was a complete turn-on to Ron who immediately ran toward him and clasped her legs around his midsection, kissing him on the lips as hard as she could. They fell back into the mud and became filthy – two animals that they were. There was even a slight incline, and they tossed and turned all the way down, completely encasing their bodies in mud and slime.
"Bitch!" he yelled all the way down.
"You love it, you love it, company man!" He didn't have an answer to that one. "Now, now."
For at least the fifth time that day, John stuck his manhood as deeply inside her as possible. He could feel her vaginal walls parting to accommodate; he could feel her dynamite grasp (how she was able to tighten, especially in that atmosphere mystified him – talent, he guessed); he could feel her heave her breasts up almost into his face, a reminder of the full glory of her womanhood.
Drenched, but not cold; dirty, but not dampened in spirit, the couple copulated without a care or a thought that they might be observed or their energies could be excessive. "You're excessive," she told him as a bait. He ignored her, and if anything increased the strength of his thrusts.
Harder, faster he thrust into the woman, almost with a vengeance. Ron grasped at the weeds which surrounded her, the pivoted her hips in such a way that she was able to push upward until she succeeded in lifting John's form, a form whose apex was his manly ass. She tugged, pulled, yanked at his buns until the rains could pour into his asshole, then she pushed him flush against her own loins, hip against him, cemented. What followed was the greatest orgasm she'd had anywhere. Not even an orgy at school came up to this kind of satisfaction. It might have been the added excitement of the rain, the sensual drenching of the cold, dirty water which engulfed them mercilessly.
We may observe our Veronica, lying on her own floor, the buzz of her pleasure stick a low hum, her lights turned low and the sweat of complete concentration beading on her upper lip as on a workman. We may venture a guess that she had a good thing going, and be on sure footing.
Veronica slowly rose to gather her senses and take a stab at the situation. Let's see, she thought. I've got an entire weekend and one love life to review – that should be simple enough. She made up her mind: a dirge, a marathon (sexathon), a situation of please do not disturb, for there was a relationship to draw with John, but this ending, the ending in her mind's eye (which was as real as any if it could get to her cunt) would be far better than actuality: she'd add her own twist.