Car Sex & Beyond: Valet's Sex Life

"Ya do; whatcha got to do, to keep Charley cuming."

I can't afford a scandal, and I need this job. When I return downstairs from the eighteenth floor, I still feel Josephine's tight vag lips on my dick. I take a piss in the Valet bathroom and wash my dick and balls in the sink. A smelly dick is not a sound-calling card, and the day is young.

The young wives walk around outdoors with their custom baby carriages and infants. The women dress sexy; milk tits in halters, bellies bare, and wear short shorts with tight leggings to show off their asses and hide their vaginas. They just birthed a creature the size of an elephant's penis.

I think, "Ladies, keep their twats covered and rest it for a while."

These are upscale women. You don't know if their tits are swollen from breastfeeding or if it's their plastic job that gives them those perfect round titty spheres.

INDIAN POONTANG

Mr. Ghe was a smart dresser, but his posture seemed effeminate. Ghe was of medium height and had a rather prominent belly that pushed his Indian tie-dyed blouse out like a shelf. He resembled the classic Eunuch, overweight, and tentative. He spoke slowly the first time I met him. He had come down to the lobby and asked me to bring his car forward. As he devoured me with his eyes, his lips made a sucking sound. I thought he was very strange, but we provide residence for an assortment of eccentric individuals.

Ghe's wife, Shakura Khura, was beautiful and wore colorful sarees with a swarm of little birds hand embroidered. When I looked closely, I realized they were hummingbirds.

Shakura wore her sarees with one shoulder bare. She had small attractive breasts, unlike her mother-in-law, who visited at Christmas and resembled a bulldozer.

Large mammaries attract most men. Yes, I like big tits. Still, I thought Shakura's breasts were in perfect harmony with the rest of her body. There was another dimension to the Shakar experience; she smelled like the garden of Eden. Khura's perfumes must have been a sort of aphrodisiac. Standing next to her in the elevator was enough to give you a hard-on. She noticed your interest, and nothing escaped her scrutiny. Her third eye was centered under the dark penciled mark on her forehead; although it was invisible, I believed it existed.

She told me to call her 'Khura,' a less formal name. On the first occasion I met her, I carried a small package delivered from India into her apartment. She immediately sensed my attraction, and maybe it was my visible erection inside my elastic jeans. She asked me to follow her from the decorative entrance to her bedroom, perfumed like honeysuckle and wallpapered with images of hummingbirds. The bedroom opens to a round balcony where I could see she had several large hummingbird feeders.

She was direct in her desire to have sex with me. Without asking permission, Khura undressed me as if we had been lovers for years, and I did not resist. She positioned me nude on the bed and played with my cock.

"Oh, you are circumcised, we like that in India." All the time she is rubbing the underside of my dick.

Then she stood up, dropped her colorful outfit on the chair, and was naked. She mounted me, centering her vagina on my very erect penis. While she was over me, my 'beak' deep in her Yanni, I glanced out the window to the patio. Several hummingbirds were landing like helicopters to drink the red nectar from the artificial flower feeders.

I had asked her if I should wear a condom, and she said with a smile.

"If you wear a condom, I'm a happy girl. There is a box of Kohinoor condoms from India on the bed table."

I tried them on, but they were thicker than western brands and not as thin as the Japanese rubbers, but the Kohinoor's are very tight. For many men, I imagine they kept a tired erection workable.

When Shakar saw I wasn't pleased with the tight fit, she pulled out a white box filled with American condoms and asked,

"Do you prefer ribbed or plain? Please tell me?"

"Naked cock, I can always pull out."

"If I can trust you to pull out, please ejaculate in this."

She hands me a petite crystal wine glass.

"When filled, set it on the night table."

So there we were, fucking bareback. I kept my word, and also on subsequent occasions, I filled the small goblet with my viscous semen, running my dick's head against the smooth crystal edge to catch the last drop of sperm.

What she did with the sperm in the wineglass, I did not know, but I guessed someone drank or used it as a cosmetic.

"You know," said Khura, "Indian women worship Shiva and pray for a husband like Shiva. Shiva is a phallic symbol, but they can't talk about sex. I‌ consider myself a modern woman and have no difficulty with that subject, but I will only converse on sexual topics when I am in the bedroom, and we are on intimate terms. Many Indian women consider discussions of sex and intimacy to be taboo. We consider a woman who talks freely of sex a 'bad girl,' but hopefully, the more modern women are more permissive."

"Over the last two decades, that boundary is less clear. For some women, the minute she is vocal about sex or their desires, she risks being classified as a strumpet, but modern women feel a relationship with a man must include sex. They despise the idea of a Platonic relationship, as Plato did, unless, in his case, it was a young man's backside."

I just nod my head.

Sex with Khura was not quick, and I learned to take my time. She'd caution me to prolong our sex, holding back any desire to cum. I learned to maintain my erection as long as possible, tensing my urethra to stay erect inside her vagina. To have adequate time for our lovemaking, I visited when my lunch break started and rushed back to my station before my dick was dry.

My Indian lover spoke perfect British English but often preferred to communicate with post-its which she held up and then crushed. Perhaps she feared someone might hear her love talk. When we made love, she did speak, saying,

"Put your beak in my honey flower, my little hummingbird," and she patted my cock gently as if it was a little bird.

The last time we had intercourse was before she and Mr. Ghe returned to Mumbai. I spied Mr. Ghe hiding behind a curtain, watching us, dressed as a colorful hummingbird with a long beak attached to his face mask. Had he spied on us on other occasions? I never knew, but I am sure it was with Khura's permission.

One afternoon Kurha greeted me in a sexy latex outfit. She said,

"This is what the women in the Bollywood films wear to look classy, stylish, and chic."

"You look exquisite."

She reaches down and lifts a front latex panel revealing her bare vagina, as always, perfectly shaved.

"Here is your reward for being my lover. Fill me with your love pollen."

Her outfit and candor increased my desire. This time my excitement did not allow me to last long before reaching for the crystal goblet. When I had made my deposit of creamy thick sperms, Khura took the goblet from my hand and milked my dick, squeezing my balls for extra drops of my nectar.

"What do you do with my sperm?"

"It is a secret, but if you promise not to tell, it is for Mr. Ghe. He will drink it, and it will make him strong. He is fragile, but he likes you and approves of our lovemaking. You may have noticed he has feminine traits and the testosterone in your sperm helps keep his hormone balance from deteriorating. Our relationship resulted from an arranged childhood marriage long before we knew who we'd become. We love each other and do our best to deal with what the Gods have chosen for us."

"I understand."

"As a woman, I have certain needs that we must meet to be in harmony with the universe. That is why you are here. Life is not always what we choose; it is what we must make of it."

BULLDOZING THE MASTER BUILDER'S WIDOW

Among the inhabitants of the Wilshire Excelsior, are some exceptional personalities; an example is Olga Ozgood, once married to Harry Ozgood, the famous builder whose firm 'Ozo Inc.' constructed a number of the more impressive buildings on the Wilshire Corridor.

Like many of these pioneers, Harry was born a Jew, but while serving six months in incarceration, arrested as a teenager for stealing bricks, Harry adopted the name of his prison mentor, having learned that a Hebrew moniker is of no advantage in prison. He did not waste his hard time; prison was his high school for learning criminal behavior.

I won't chronicle Ozgood's grand success in the building industry; it is easy to trace on the Internet. I am more interested in Olga, Harry's fourth wife whom he married when he was 71, and Olga was 24. Their marriage lasted over 20 years, and Harry lived in relatively good health until he was 92.

If you had asked Harry about his previous matrimonies, he would hesitate, saying,

"It's hard to remember all my marriages. I was young, it was fascinating at first, but I learned that wives could be a disappointment both in bed and in the kitchen. Detailed memories get lost like spiraling strips of sticky flypaper. There are things I recall and things I'd rather forget. Often memories stay at the tip of my fingers, just out of reach, but some memories fade. I will say this, my current wife, Olga, is a keeper. ( a quote from Playboy Magazine 'Profile of Harry Osgood,' c. 1981)

From what Olga has told me, I can relate the following:

Harry met Olga when she was working in a Chicago bordello that serviced the elite patrons of the Legrand Hotel on Belmont Street. Like many 'eager to please' whores, Olga had a heart of gold. In her hands was a secret weapon, a prostate massage technique taught to her by a proctologist's nurse. Her magic fingers in the 'doo-dad' was a guarantee older men could still ejaculate. Olga's success rate was over 90%. If Olga could not get you off, chances are you died during the warm-up session.

Harry Ozgood appreciated Olga's talent. Harry believed ejaculating was a requirement of good health and the result made life worth living. Olga would insert her long fingers into Harry's butt hole and curl around Harry's prostate, which she said: "was shaped like a Heritage tomato." A gentle prodding refreshed his sexual memory giving him exquisite pleasure, and like a drunken sailor on shore leave in Shanghai, he didn't want to go home.

When Harry became addicted to Olga, he realized he could not live without her, or perhaps it was his prostate, so Harry proposed. Olga found herself in the Holiday Chapel in Las Vegas marrying the elder gent while an Elvis lookalike sang "Heartbreak Hotel to the newlyweds."

Their marriage lasted twenty years, the happiest of Harry's life. Some men like cigars, others like fast cars; Harry loved fast women, and he'd married one. Harry didn't care if his wife had sucked a thousand cocks or been fucked by the entire Marine Corps Band. He was looking forward to the joy that Olga provided.

As we know, everything in life comes to an end. Harry died in the middle of an intense sexual experience with Olga's fingers deep in his rectum, squeezing his ripe tomato.

Olga said, "We had a good run, Harry and me. On his last night, he was straining too hard to get the last milk can into the dairy train caboose. That was a Chicago expression. As a load of milk chugged out of Harry's cock and into my mouth, I swallowed and looked him right in the eyes. His blue eyes were bright, and his expression was pleased, and then, like pulling the chain on a light bulb, his lights went out. Harry Ozgood, the great builder, was dead, but his cock was still firm in my mouth. I swallowed his last milkshake."

Olga inherited several of his buildings and a complete stock portfolio. Frank Finecki, Harry's lawyer, was also an older man.

"Finecki spent a week with me in the Penthouse, teaching me how to manage the estate, what to watch out for, and how to decide what to buy or sell from the stock portfolio.

Frank said, "Review your portfolio every six months, sell off the losers, and buy more winners."

Olga continued, "Stock picking is a crapshoot, but even with occasional losses, I ended up with shares of Apple, Facebook, Walmart, and Amazon stock, which have treated me well. I blew out Pfizer when they showed a little profit after inventing Viagra, but I repurchased the stock in 2020 before the pandemic when vaccine research made it advisable."

"My gratitude to Frank convinced me to participate in a silly sex game that he liked to play. He claimed that the cure for elderly impotence was to stick a dildo, not in his consort's twat, but to stick it in his ass. He said the pressure of the rubber dick on the prostrate and connections to the ball sack was all he needed to get a hard-on and complete the act.

Being fucked by an older man was nothing new to me."

"If I was performing oral on Frank, or if he was on top of me, splitting my labia wings, I would look up at the mirrored ceiling that Harry loved and see old Finecki giving my quim a heave-ho while a flesh-colored dildo was sticking out of his ass. It was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud and ruining his performance. I didn't want to do that. From my days in the Chicago Bordello, I was aware some older guys liked to load up their butt before having intercourse." (Here ends Olga's musing)

(We return to the Valet's comments.)

As a valet, I'd had an above-average amount of sexual experience, but I must admit, my experiences were trivial compared to Miss Olga's professional pleasing of her clients. In contrast, I am only interested in pleasing myself and giving a horny housewife a thrill.

When I had had a brutal day fucking the condo girls and was afraid I didn't have any ammo in my cannon, I considered turning down Olga's request for sex. But I could see she was in the mood for a twenty-minute cock pounding, which would be my final fuck of the evening, and she always tucked a C-Note in my underwear.

"Let me prove there is still steam in the furnace," said Olga.

Olga told me to use an enema, and I dropped a deuce in her fancy Japanese toilet that, with warm water, sprayed me clean. When I turned over, Olga dabbed some lubed in my butt. Without telling me her plan, she slipped a ten-inch rubber cock in my ass, albeit, only three or four inches deep. The 'dildo trick' worked wonders. My ejaculation and climax were intense.

In subsequent episodes, with no regrets, she inserted the dildo in my ass as deep as it would go. I had learned how to push my body beyond my limitations. That is as close to anal sex as I ever got, but it prepared me for the eventuality, should it come to pass.

Whenever I finish my work, I have a standing invitation to visit Miss Olga. Her door is always open to me. Olga is in her early fifties and still a beautiful woman, slim with big knockers and a lively personality. She loves to talk about her life as a prostitute.

Olga was not a dumb blond. Here is a capsule bio:

Olga was a scholarship student studying chemistry at the University of Chicago when the Dean took her under his wing. The Dean was an expert at grooming young college students. His training led to a Champagne-filled night of debauchery at the Blane Club, where she ended up in a round-robin servicing the eight wealthiest members of the Club and paid $4000. Olga was reticent to describe what went on, but I gathered it involved all her inputs and two hand jobs. Realizing her potential earnings, Olga gave up her studies and concentrated on sex.

"Money," Olga said, "is something of value. I dropped out of school and stopped filling my head with science, and let older men fill my body with their sperm. By some miracle and sophisticated birth control, I never became pregnant."

"The men I frequented were the movers and shakers of the Chicago Mercantile Market. They would meet in a semi-secrete alcove of the hotel, once a week to pass insider market strategy and share prime young girls over the age of eighteen. I knew these men as the Chicago Eight Ballers. They would gamble for high stakes on the pool table in the banquet hall, and when they finished, there would be a fancy banquette followed by fornication on top of the pool table. After the felt surface was 'spermatified,' it was frequently recovered."

Olga said, "The first occasion I met Mayor Daley was when the director invited me to the Eight Ball Club during the afternoon. His Honor wanted to fuck me in private. Why? He explained that the Mayor in his younger days was a labor organizer. During a violent protest, he was beaten by a Pinkerton with a nightstick. The Mayor's penis was permanently damaged and he was too embarrassed to reveal his deformity at a public orgy."

Olga continued,

"When I arrived at the Club, the director conducted me to a private room, where his Honor was waiting with a large bouquet of roses. After some small talk, we both disrobed. To show I had no problem with his disfigurement, I took his pathetic penis in my mouth and blew him for several minutes until he was erect. Once he was able to seat his corkscrew dick inside my quim, he fucked me nicely. Neither he nor I had any complaints."

"Mayor Daily was very conservative in his sexual performances and made sure his wife never knew he was fooling around. Our trysts were not in public places."

Olga swore me to secrecy, saying,

"Daily had one of the ugliest cocks I'd ever seen, but it did function. During the Mayor's initial fascination, he would invite me for a day on Arthur Wirtz's yacht, 'The Blackhawk.' An ex-coast guard cop would pilot the boat as we'd cruise Lake Michigan. He'd take me by the hand at a certain point, and we'd slip below deck. There, His Honor would spread a blanket on the galley table, and I would lie back and do my best to satisfy his Honor and his corkscrew penis."

"The Mayor always preferred the missionary position for sex. If his bad back was acting up, he'd lie down, and I'd get him hard orally, and then like a cowgirl, I'd get on top and ride the old guy until he would cum. Believe me; his testicles were the largest I had ever seen on a man without a hernia. Bouncing on his big balls was his greatest pleasure. Even in old age, Daily's sperm production was prodigious."

(Leaving Olga's history the Valet comments)

"Olga mothered me. She worried if I drank or smoked. Under her admonishments, I gave up the recreational drugs frequently offered me as tips. I'd leave the drugs on the table in the Valet lounge, a hole in the wall where Valets could eat or rest. The drugs always disappeared. I never knew who took them, and I never asked.

Olga had a tiny white hairy dog, I never knew what kind he was, maybe a Maltese. The little guy was constantly cleaning his dick.

"What's with your dog, Olga? He's always licking himself."

"He's doing what you boys should do, keeping his cock clean. Some of your weenies taste like piss."

Olga's apartment was all glass and stainless steel. A famous artist did a few paintings of the desert tundra, and a large nude looked like a young Olga. There was also a photograph of an ancient Greek vase on her bathroom wall. It showed a Greek warrior, erect penis in hand, pursuing a vanquished Persian archer. From the expression on the archer's face, you knew where that warrior was going to plant his cock.

"Why is that photo on the wall?"

"It's a photo from the Getty museum of a vase over 5000 years old illustrating that anal sex since the beginning of empires was a punishment and a tool. Men are still doing the same thing today, performing anal on women and jamming their cocks in young women's assholes. Why? To subjugate the female and keep them in their place. No man will ever put his cock in my ass again," said Olga.

"So, you have experienced anal sex?"

"Yes, in the Chicago bordellos where cocaine ran free, occasionally they took me by force. Now I am older, and my ass has a few wrinkles where once it was smooth. My skin is looser where it once was taut. I could pay a visit to a plastic surgeon and have the wrinkles on my ass ironed out, but it is best to leave well enough alone. I've heard of people dying from butt surgery."