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Literary Smut

The Watcher

The whole episode began with a tapping at the door. It was more like a raccoon nosing around in the crap that builds up on the landing: tick, tick-scratch, tick. Ok so I fumbled around for the button that mutes the VCR then looked through the peephole. It's a woman in some little Miss Muffet outfit. I've got a good view of her forehead and the top of her nose all smooshed together on account of the distortion of the peeping glass. Nice nose. She's looking at her feet--no doubt because something's stuck to her shoe that she's picked up from the sidewalk in front of my place. She's probably mad as hell.

Normally I'd just slither from my post behind the peephole, unmute "Babes In Boyland" and get on with my business. But this one was so much different than the ones you usually get in my position--you know, the ones on the cover of Enormous Tits and Shaved Pussies looking straight out at you, screaming in a titillating red typeface, "I just wanna rip your jeans off and suck you drier than sand." I mean, she radiated purity, being kinda virginal-looking and all.

So I cracked open the door. She looked at me with big, brown, doe eyes and I was smitten. Slick as a cardshark She fanned before my eyes a trio of magazines.

Watchtower. Every last one of 'em.

Damn.

Before she could get started I shot out a preemptive strike—just like the goverment uses at a press conference when they don't want the journalist to ask a deeply disturbing question, "I wanna know about Onan."

She blushed all red and purple like a desert sunset.

"Well," she stammered in a high, sort of sing-songy voice, "he wasn't a very nice man."

"How so?"

Well, he spent his time...sort of...how do you say it..." She paused for a second, apparently waiting for me to let out with a litany of self-lust terminology which I just couldn't come up with on account of the enticement of her forehead, which was beginning to bead up with an alluring dewiness. It was dangerously close to my lips. You see, I was standing directly above her, still in the house while she was a half-step down out on what we call the porch which is really a bunch of rotted planks held together with Rottweiler crap. But anyway, I was really feeling like planting a little brotherly but quasi-lusty kiss on her forehead at that moment and I really didn't know why, because the last thing I think I would be in lust over was some virginal woman's forehead, albeit dewy and smooth as a stream cobble. But just then she muttered the word "masturbating," and when I glanced down at her--I suppose a little quizzically since she had interrupted the reverie shooting between my brain and my lips and her forehead--she explained a little more, an explanation that sent watery bullets from that place I wanted to kiss, "you know--Onan was caught, um, jacking off."

So I made her open the good book and read. This took some time but I figured we both needed it to cool off. Meanwhile, I got a nice look at the outline of her tits through the silky white blouse. Perky.

She fumbled through some pages and began to read the entire story of Onan while my eyes roamed from her forehead to her nipples, which were now growing into little dark points that tented her white blouse on account of the fall chill or something.

"So," I said when she had finished, "You see, the story isn't about Onan jacking off. It's about him not, excuse the expression, fucking his brother's wife so she could get pregnant. It was the law."

She was evidently dumbfounded by the look of her, which apparently caused her fingers to start playing with the second button on her blouse, the one which if disengaged could reveal some real cleavage.

This distraction didn't keep me from blathering, "He spilled his seed. Ok, so maybe he and the woman wanted to have fun for a very long time. Maybe she liked the way he felt inside her and wanted to do it forever. Maybe Onan was a real jerk and she couldn't stand to have his cock inside her or even imagine having his jerky offspring. So the real point is he didn't deliver his seed inside of her. That's why he was doomed."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize," she whispered virginally. She creased the page in her bible importantly and went back to playing with the button that floated deliciously between the swell of her breasts.

"Ah, you don't have to be sorry." I said gallantly. Secretly I had to admit I liked her submissive reply. So shoot me! I didn't have time to think about this very long; my eyes had wandered back to her nipples, now rosy and yearning or perhaps I was imagining this, not being able to see real well under the fabric of her blouse and all. Then suddenly I became aware of some background noises.

It wasn't the dog. It was Babes in Boyland and the Babes were winning. Ghastly whining filled the embarrassed silence between us.

"What's going on in there?" she finally asked.

I couldn't lie but secretly cussed the damn malfunctioning clicker. "People are fucking."

"Ooh."

"Not real people. They're on tape. They're grainy and two dimensional."

"Gee, I've never seen one of those tapes before. Can I come in?"

My jaw dropped. There was a God!

She whipped past me into the living room and planted herself on the couch. Two men on the screen with enormous erections where contemplating all possible options with a silicon-enhanced blonde who looked like she was just wishing they'd poke something somewhere and be done with it.

"So, do you, uh, jack off when you see these things?"

"Uh, yeah. But I usually fast forward to the good parts." She kinda killed me with her candor.

"So show me," she cooed.

So I'm thinking she meant show me the technique I use so I figured "what the hell" and unzipped my jeans and just when I'm reaching in there she screams "no, silly, show me the good parts of the film!"

So I jammed mr. happy back in and reached for the clicker which, by the way, is all sticky and I tried to push some buttons and suddenly one of the guys on the screen plants his cock between the gal's hooters and is rubbing that thing at a breakneck speed so fast-forwarded that I'm thinking he's liable to start a fire right there between her tits. And soon--I mean real soon on account of the fast forwarding--there's a couple of scene changes and then there's the blonde again all alone with her hand strumming her clit. I jabbed at some buttons at random and finally the thing slowed down to normal.

"That's what you like?"

Not willing to admit that the VCR had stopped at that scene more from my nervious incompetence with the clicker than from genuine lust at masturbation, I managed to stammer, "Well, yeah...I guess." I can be real suave when I want to.

"Wow!" she exclaimed.

Now I felt I had to explain, "I figure I could learn from this. She's doing what feels good. If I watch her, then I'll learn how to pleasure a woman. I'll learn the nuances." Then I'm thinking, "maybe I'll actually get me a steady and willing woman some day, and on the slim chance I ever do I'll get to try out the techniques I had been studying for years."

"I suppose you'd like to see me do it?" she said, turning away like she might have been afraid the answer would be "certainly not!"

I'm sweating bullets now--giant rounds of salty antiaircraft shells shooting from the moister parts of my deteriorating body.

"Yes, that'd sure be swell." I said.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, and oh yes," was what I was thinking.

I'm not kidding--she began to strip off her clothes just like it was the most natural thing in the world to do, draping them artistically over the back of the couch, being careful to avoid the mozzarella artifacts left over from the last pizza which had decided to slide out of the box as I lunged for the VCR's pause button during one of Fallon's squirting orgasms, no doubt as retrobution for my chronic VCR induced sinfulness.

I looked at her aghast. "I do it all the time," she announced in a surprisingly perky manner, her hand combing through the thatch of light brown pubic hair before parting those swollen pussy lips with her middle finger and settling down into a soft strumming of her clit. "I think about doing it even more. Like when Lindsey--that's the woman I usually go around with but she's sick today--starts to talking about her hubby and how he'll meet her at the door after a session of talking to people about God's love and start ripping her clothes off. Of course, she's all dressed up because God likes a good, tailored outfit--but underneath she's got this garter belt and silk hose. She doesn't wear panties at all and she's completely shaved down there if you can imagine."

I can. Her eyes are closed and the fingers strumming the clit have worked themselves into a blur.

"He's turned on by that virginal/whore thing. That's what Lindsey thinks but she's no shrink. Anyway, as she tells it, buttons fly off her blouse and pretty soon his head is nuzzling between her massive breasts—she's really stacked—while his fingers work their way up her thighs and then into her sopping wet...twat. He's been playing with himself waiting for her to come home and his thingy is hard as a rock. She told me it was ten inches and it was hard to imagine so I bought a ten inch dildo mail order and boy that's big! It almost split me in two but after a while it's nice...you know."

She's having to take enormous gulps of air between sentences on account of her passion which is also distorting her beautiful face into a lusty palette of woozy undulations.

"So he gently lays her down on the rug right in front of the door and buries his face between her legs. The way she tells it so realistic and all, I can almost feel his tongue inside of me. So in-between the houses we visit I'm imagining this tongue looping around my clit and then plunging into my hot wetness and Jeez am I getting hot. I think all the people will hear the squishy sounds when I walk. And, I know it's not supposed to, but it turns me on even more and there's nothing to do but almost run home and peel off my sopping panties and do this."

Her hand is a blur, like the fastforwarded people on the screen. She can't talk now. There's just grunting. Then:

"Quick, a towel."

I'm rooted to the spot.

"You'll be sorry."

Somehow I doubt it.

Then her body arched suddenly like she was shot in the back and her hand clamped down hard on her pussy. Her juices flowed prodigiously from her swollen lips like the waters of life itself and mingled with whatever else was on the couch. It was like art, I'm telling you. I know it when I see it.

She settled down slowly. Her body spasmed for a surprisingly long time. Then she sorta draped herself over the contours of the sofa, her legs splayed out, one arm across the back of the couch, eyes narrowed into slits. "Venus Satisfied," I thought, and as I looked at her I admired the way her body was artistically composed and how the picture told a story and all.

Then I realized my own erection had withered. Too much staring at the composition of her body parts like I was at the Louvre wondering if I had put in enough time to get cultured.

Then I fucked her. No, I didn't, but I just felt you were expecting that because you had read all this way without a good solid bonking anywhere in sight. Really, I figured this was going to take some time. This was going to be a solid relationship, goddam it. I would nurture it. I would let my tongue linger over the smoothness of her thigh; I would taste her like a connoisseur tastes the finest wine, in small airy sips that enhance experience and drum pleasure into every pore; I would melt into her being like a song.

Then I'd fuck her. If she wanted it, I mean.

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