Extra Large Combo with Everythingbygossog©
"Thanks. Hey, when are you going to do something about those eyebrows, W?"
"Get outta here," Winston laughs, and shuts the door. He checks his watch: plenty of time before his blind date. He decides to walk toward downtown, see what might be good for lunch.
A block away, he encounters Iris, a divorced 30-year old enjoying being single. His neighborhood has a few more like her. She looks like she was swimming not long ago, or maybe just thrown in the pool: bare feet, bikini bottoms, and a white T-shirt that's not quite completely soaked. Iris is attractive, and this is the most revealing he has ever seen her dressed.
"Hey Wince," she says jovially. "Looks like you just got laid!"
He hesitates for a moment, paranoid. Does gossip travel this fast? "What do you mean?"
She laughs. "The glow on your face, spring in your step. I don't know. You just have that look."
He is relieved. Iris has an off-color sense of humor. She has teased him before and meant nothing of it. "Naw, I've been a good boy today. So far."
"Good for you. Hey, could I ask a favor?"
She folds her hands behind her back. "Do you have... one of those squirt nozzle things that goes on the end of a hose?"
"Yeah, back at the house."
"Could we borrow one? Mine's busted, and it would save a trip to Home Depot."
"Sure, I'll go grab it."
"Thank you so much! Here, I'll walk with you." Her T-shirt clings to some nice curves. Winston sneaks a peek every once in a while.
"In the middle of a project?" he asks.
"Yeah, washing our cars. Me and two girlfriends. Something broke in my nozzle and now it won't spray, so we're stuck with three cars covered in soap suds and three women soaking wet."
"I see," says Winston.
He finds the nozzle on his workbench. Purchased just last weekend, it hasn't even been used yet. It's rugged and bright green, with six different settings selectable by rotating the head.
"Wow, that's high tech," Iris says. She's standing quite close to him.
He chances casually putting an arm around her. "Let's go wash some cars."
Iris's driveway curves toward a garage set into the side of the house, out of sight from the street behind a copse of pine trees. This is a good thing: when Iris and Winston arrive, her friends Julia and Kirsten are playing around, spraying each other with the hose. Julia wears a striking black bikini bottom. Kirsten's outfit is even better: white bikini panties, soaked and mostly transparent. Both women are cute, drenched, and topless.
Ho ho, Winston thinks.
"I guess they got bored waiting for me," Iris says.
The women notice him and stop right away. Julia drops the hose and reaches for her bikini top, spinning around to face away and put it on. Kirsten looks around but apparently can't locate her top. She covers her breasts with her hands and shivers. Her pubic hair is still easily visible through her soaked panties.
"You didn't say you were bringing a guy back!" Kirsten says.
"He has a nozzle thingy," Iris says. "Plus this," she jokes, holding the nozzle up.
Racy sense of humor, Winston thinks.
Julia turns to them, her top now back on. "We're done, though. We sprayed things using our thumb." She mimes placing her thumb over the open end of a hose to force a spray.
The dropped hose still gushes water onto the driveway.
"Might as well hook it up, give everything a once over," Winston says. Kirsten runs to the spigot to turn off the water. Julia takes the nozzle and twists it onto the hose.
"Okay," she tells Kirsten, who turns on the water. "Let's try 'Shower'," she says, and dials the nozzle to that position. She aims at Winston and gives him a full blast in the chest. The spray soaks him from head to waist.
"Works great!" she says, releasing the trigger. Her smile is full of mischief, daring, and defiance.
Winston smiles gamely. He got a peek at her tits (and a nice pair indeed); surely getting sprayed at is only fair.
"Let's try..." Julia says, clicking the nozzle head to another setting, "... jet stream." She unleashes a narrow, sharp stream of water directly at Winston's crotch. Her aim is good. A moment later, he cups himself with his hands and turns aside.
"Girl, that stung!" he protests.
"I'm Julia," she says. "That's Kirsten over there. Iris should have introduced you but she has no manners."
"I'm Winston," he says, but Julia is already dialing up another weapon. On his own nozzle! That's just wrong, he thinks.
He looks around for a weapon or shield and spots the bucket of suds. He is hit by some sort of water stream (Power Wash? Gentle Rain?) as he plunges a hand in and fishes out a large yellow sponge. It's waterlogged, and foamy as a badly poured beer. "Time to get you cleaned off," he says, with as menacing as an expression as he can bring up. While trying not to laugh.
Julia is not prepared for this; perhaps it's been years since she's been in a fair fight. She shrieks and sprays him, but the setting is too weak and he advances easily. She retreats to the hood of her Toyota and stumbles backwards.
"I agree, she's been a dirty girl," says Kirsten, who pulls on the hose, yanking it out of Julia's hands. Kirsten has forgotten about modesty, and the sight of her bare breasts almost distracts him from his goal. The three of them surround Julia, who tries to fend them off with flailing hands.
"Don't, come on, don't," pleads Julia. "I'm sorry, I take it all back!"
As far as Winston can tell, she's still enjoying the game, doing a little playacting. He hopes that if she's really unhappy with things, one of her friends will notice and call things off. "Don't worry, it's only soap," he says, swiping the sponge across her bare tummy. He's very gentle, but she flinches and squirms like he's going to scour her with steel wool.
"You've got to get her all the way clean," Kirsten says. She yanks up Julia's top a few inches, just enough to free her breasts. Julia looks down in horror. "In fact," Kirsten says, nudging Winston aside, "let's get her prepared for this."
Julia can easily break free -- no one's physically restraining her -- and she can easily convince them that this is no longer funny and they need to stop. Instead, she stays where she is, and keeps to feeble, ineffectual pleas for mercy, which are gleefully turned down. Kirsten leans forward and unhooks Julia's top before pulling it over her head.
Winston's brain is about to announce to himself that this scene is indeed very hot when Kirsten kneels down and strips Julia completely. The girl is nude and in considerable peril, and enjoying every minute of it.
"Where should I start?" he asks.
"You shouldn't start anywhere!" Julia says.
He starts with her feet and works his way up. After a few strokes with the sponge, he decides it's getting in the way, and afterward simply dips his hands in the suds and applies them to her body. She's squirming quite a bit when he reaches her thighs. He pats her pubic mound, saying, "How about we save this for last?" She nods.
He moves to the torso and arms, and soon all of her body below the neck is soaped up, gently applied by his hands. He spends a little extra time with her breasts, getting her nipples nice and firm. "Ready with the spray?"
"Yep," says Kirsten. At some point, while he wasn't watching, she has taken off her panties, and she's naked too. On the Gentle Mist setting, she directs a fine spray to sluice the suds off Julia's slippery body. He helps with his hands when it seems necessary, which is nearly all the time.
"She clean?" Kirsten says.
"Let's see." Winston leans forward to her right breast, and licks the nipple, taking it briefly between his lips. Julia sighs. "Tastes a little soapy." He stands up and Kirsten gives her another spray.
This time, his taste test shows Julia is clean. He tries both her breasts to be sure. Julia is happy with the results too, at least by the way she is writhing and moaning.
What follows is not all connected in Winston's mind as a continuous thread. Things just happen, and what he remembers later are vignettes and single events. Most of the time he can hardly believe his good fortune.
While he's licking Julia's breasts, one of the other girls pulls down his shorts, and then has her hands underneath his shirt, caressing his back and chest. He might have had plans for more foreplay with Julia, but her hand guides his hardness inside her, and he begins thrusting.
Later, he is on his back in the grass. Iris, now also nude, kneels above him, her snatch in his face, his tongue between her labia, while he reaches up to fondle her hanging breasts. One of the other girls is going down on him. The other is doing something else with his ball sack. It's hard to keep track.
Later, he is on his side, screwing Kirsten at a 90-degree angle, while Iris and Julia sixty-nine each other. Numbers, numbers.
Still later, he is resting, with Iris on his lap. His hands idly play with her breasts, feeling their softness and warmth and weight, keeping her slightly aroused. They watch as Julia and Kirsten make love in the grass, rolling and wrestling. Sometimes they play surprisingly rough. Are they girlfriends? Or is this something they all discovered today? Winston has tons of questions, but now seems not the right time to ask.
Many authors ask, "How can I keep my story from shooting its wad too early, with nothing left but four pages of the old In and Out?"
The key is constructing an effective build-up. Provide likeable, realistic characters, add some anticipation, mix in a plausible plot, and your readers will enjoy the ride. After all, getting there is half the fun!
The following plot development is too fast:
Point A: "Now, Miss Bishop, on your resume it says-"
Point B: "Fuck my love hole NOW! I need your 9-1/8ths inch cock inside me!"
You need some stuff to happen between points A and B.
Ideally you want realistic people doing realistic things that somehow (realistically) leads to some fun sex. In other words:
Step 1: Interesting setup Step 2: ... Step 3: Sex!
Your job as an author is to fill in step 2.
HUMOR & SATIRE
During a sweltering D.C. evening, the still air is humid with the slurping sounds of oral sex.
"Don't stop, Rhianna," cries Dick Cheney's daughter.
"Don't stop, Fox News," cries George W. Bush.
"Don't stop, Rumsfeld," growls Satan.
( . Y . )
Janie's mom shuts the bedroom door behind her and stands in front of the bed, arms crossed, furious. She wasn't born yesterday; it is obvious what Janie was doing. "Get up," she commands.
Janie climbs out of bed, looks for some clothes to put on.
"Too late for that now," Mom says, sarcastically. "Get over here, I need to talk to you."
Janie walks barefoot over to her mother, eyes already starting to tear up. She knows she's in serious trouble. Mom can probably smell the love juices still in her pussy, see the glistening wetness there.
"Who was it?" Mom says.
Janie doesn't answer. She'll be grounded anyway and who knows what else for punishment. But if she reveals Winston's name, a lot worse could happen. Police visiting his house. A trial. Winston in jail. Mom and Dad deciding to move away. No way. She can't tell.
"Dammit, we already know what happened here. Who was it? Brandon?"
Janie tries to keep a straight face, but she realizes her first time wasn't even with her boyfriend. She had been fending off his advances for months, and now she slept with someone else.
"It wasn't him," Mom says. "Then who? I'm your mother, just tell me who!"
Janie stands her ground, even as she starts to cry. She hates being in trouble. It's like she's four years old again. She seems to have never grown out of that.
Mom finally loses patience. "I'll find out anyway." She shakes her head. "Janie, you promised us. And you lied." She waves her daughter away. "We'll figure out punishment later. Meantime, you don't leave your room except for meals and church." She turns on her heel, leaves through the door, and slams it.
"What's the matter, Diane?" Janie's father Craig asks. A towel is wrapped around his waist. He has just returned from the municipal pool, where he swims laps every Saturday. His usual routine after getting home, to shower, change and have a late breakfast, is interrupted as Diane storms into the hall.
"Your daughter had a boy in her room," she says, fuming.
"Again? She just promised..."
"Well, she lied to us. And this time, she doesn't even have any clothes on."
"You said 'a boy.' So not Brandon?"
"No, someone else. And she won't tell me. You know, you go talk to her. I'm through with her."
"I need to get dressed first."
"Go talk to her NOW."
Okay, he thinks. You're the boss. Let's find out what really happened with Janie, if anything. He knocks on Janie's door, hears a soft "yes?" and steps inside. He freezes there, as the door swings shut behind him. His daughter is facing him, sitting on the side of her bed, naked.
Diane didn't say anything about this, he wants to protest. Then he remembers she did, in passing. He should have paid more attention.
He hasn't seen Janie naked since she was about five years old, old enough to bathe and dress herself. He has painstakingly avoided even glancing at her body too directly since her mid-teens, when it was obvious she was developing into a stunning beauty. It's not fair, he thinks, how daughters seem genetically engineered to be younger, hotter versions of their mothers. And the things they wear nowadays...
Diane is still a pretty woman, always will be, and he can see much of Diane in Janie's face and smile. He recognizes Diane's body there too, the slim waist and long legs; but Janie is even more gorgeous than Diane was at the same age, when he took her to the senior ball. Her breasts are larger, her pink nipples look even more tasty. Between her legs, under a trimmed bush, oh god...
He feels his dick getting stiff underneath the towel. But something about her getting trimmed bugs him; she doesn't to his knowledge have a swimsuit that would require this. So either she secretly wears more skimpy things or she's concerned about how she looks naked.
Keeping more than one secret from her mother and I, he thinks. He finds comfort in a more familiar emotion: anger.
"Who is it?" he demanded. "You wouldn't tell your mother."
"I can't tell anyone!" she says, starting to cry. "I just can't!"
Ironically, he is pleased that this pisses him off. Anger is much easier to deal with than lust. Maybe there are a few things a daughter might not want to tell her father. But she won't tell Diane either. This can't stand.
He pulls the chair from her desk, spins it to face her and sits down. "Kneel down," he says, pointing to his lap, and for a moment he fears she will interpret this the wrong way. But she remembers enough spankings from her youth to know what he means. Tears running down her face, she kneels at his side and leans over his lap. It must be at least ten years since I've done this, he thinks. And she's always had clothes before. Her tits are squeezed against my leg. Maybe she should...
Almost automatically, his right hand has given her a swat. "Ow!" she exclaims, and starts to cry in earnest. She squirms as he delivers another one. He watches her bare bottom jiggle slightly as he smacks it.
"Even though you're 18, you're still our daughter, you still live here, and you still follow the rules," he says, punctuating each phrase with another spank. Her bottom, once a pale pink, is starting to redden. She might be saying something in return, but all he hears are her sobs.
She writhes and squirms as he delivers three more spanks, crying more loudly with each one. Probably loud enough for Diane to hear. Hell, a spanking might be what Diane wanted him to do anyway.
Janie's bottom is very red now. He figures it's time to stop, or at least let her recover for a bit. Her long hair spills over her shoulders to his left. She's still squirming, even though his hand is now resting gently on her bottom. He lifts it. The red welts will not fade for a while. Her pubic thatch scruffs against his right leg, just beyond the fringe of the towel. Her legs are apart; he watches her muscles flex and release.
He touches her bottom again, gently, as if checking her forehead for a fever. The skin does seem as warm as its red color would imply. Maybe that's enough spanking, he thinks. Though her crying is softer now, she still squirms as if fearing more pain, even though he is lightly massaging her buttocks now, more like caressing, willing the blood to circulate out and the skin to heal. He slides his hand to rest on her inner thigh, just out of the way. It does seem like the redness is fading. Good. He finds his fingers stroking along her thigh, even though he has not spanked her there and the skin is smooth, lovely, unblemished.
Janie pushes herself farther up onto his lap, perhaps tired of kneeling. This causes the knot in the towel at his left hip to come undone. The flap of towel leading from underneath his buttocks now dangles toward the floor. No problem, he's sitting down; only a few inches of towel have come loose. He'll have to retie it when he gets up.
Her breasts are no longer compressed against his leg, but now hang free. He's supporting her weight now. Her legs are off the floor now, bent a little, pointing mostly straight out, and separated. This makes her ass even more round. He follows its contours, hoping his gentle touch will continue to restore the skin. He feels guilty about marring it earlier.
With his left hand, which had been resting on her shoulders, he scoops her hair out of the way, from left to right. She still faces the floor. She whimpers a bit, and writhes. Her chin is damp from tears. He places a hand high on her chest, just below the neck, to help steady her.
"Are you alright?" he asks.
"Uh huh," she says. She doesn't sound entirely lucid.
His right hand has been caressing her bottom and thighs, really wandering around a bit. The shallow dip in the small of her back leads to her rounded buttocks; his fingers trace this path, reaching the summit, and gliding down to her left thigh, closest to him. Halfway along her thigh, his touch reverses, moving back upward. She tenses, although he is being very gentle. His left hand has slid down a little bit, but is still just above where her breasts begin to cleave away from her chest. Her heartbeat is rapid. Well, getting spanked is always traumatic, stressful.
His right hand does not climb her butt cheek again, but drifts straight between her legs. A finger now rests on her pussy lips. She is very moist, and squirms even more, as if fearing he might start spanking again right away. His hand stays there for a moment, feeling her warmth.
He realizes he is very hard, his boner still safely underneath the loose towel, but poking against her abdomen. Maybe she isn't hurting at all anymore. He inserts a finger experimentally inside her pussy. She is moist and hot.
She responds instantly, her upper body shifting. She's not really sobbing anymore, though she is breathing hard. His left hand, steadying her, slides down and cups her left breast.
It's larger than Diane's, soft yet keeping its shape as it hangs, its lovely smoothness and weight almost filling his spread hand. Her hard nipple pokes between his spread fingers.
He removes his finger from her pussy and gazes at it. It's beautiful. The lips are puffy and opened and glazed. His cock is very hard now. He puts his finger back inside her and gently inserts it as far as it will go. She gasps.
His conscience is silent -- no voice telling him this is wrong -- but another voice cautions him of the consequences should Diane walk in. Yet he convinces himself that the chances of her doing this in the next five seconds, say, are very small.