A thick strand of drool glimmered in the light. It stretched from his cock to her hungry tongue as he playfully pulled it from her eager mouth. She was naked, lying flat on her back on the dining room table, each limb tied to a table leg. Her head was not allowed to rest on the table; instead, around her neck she wore a collar and he held the chain attached to it. At his whim, her head would drop away or rise to meet his cock. She was being fed cock and then denied it; she cried out and begged for it, her cunt, with its striking black pubic hair, was also desperate for attention that it infuriatingly and deliciously was not receiving. Her husband let her taste his cock, and then, because she begged again, he really let her have it, thrusting expertly and deeply, choking her and making it impossible for her to get anything but short, unsatisfying breaths.

In a spacious closet not too far from there, a woman was packing things in preparation for a move when she stumbled across a box of unlabelled DVDs. In a pair of red shorts and an aged Bruce Springsteen t-shirt, she placed the disc in the DVD player and sat down to find out what was on it. Her nipples began to push into the thin fabric of her shirt as the content of the first video became clear. It was her husband, naked in his office, getting his marvellous cock sucked by a supple Asian woman in black knee socks and impossibly clunky shoes. The girl was really going after it, taking it deeply into her mouth, rubbing the sloppy mess over her pretty face. All thirty two DVDs were the same; there were a number of different women, but that Asian bitch showed up in at least a third of them. The scenes were unquestionably hot. She was not mad, how could she be? She knew her husband, his gifts and talents and she could only savour these films that capture his grandeur so well. At the sight of her husband's cock coming over and over again, she removed her red shorts and t-shirt and then, naked in the flickering light of the television, she spread her legs on the couch and started to furiously masturbate, giving her hot pussy whatever it wanted.

Across the river, a woman, naked except for her gorgeous stilettos and a pair of fabulous elbow high latex gloves, was disinfecting and putting away a series of dildos, whips, clamps, masks, balls, and other oddities whose use can only be guessed at. As she went about her work, she allowed her shoulders to slump slightly, returning her to the pose of an ordinary forty three year old woman, and not that of a dominant leather clad bitch. The work was still satisfying; it was just the posture that was a killer. The sybian machine in the corner caught her eye, still appetizingly wet from her last client, a woman who had certainly ridden it with distinction. "Why not," she thought to herself. Lowering herself over the ungainly attachment, she revelled in the way it slipped right in, slick with someone else's gratification. "All these climaxes," she thought, "and here I am, left to fuck a machine." The machine, however, proved to be an excellent lover, and her malaise was quickly swept away, as her cunt began to undulate with the movements of the cock. Rubbing her pussy with the sensual smoothness of the glove, delighting in her body, sh enjoyed the way her juices moistened her inner thighs and pooled in her ass crack.

The sun had long ago set; the night was darkly ripe. A young man, dressed in a dangerously tight pair of blue jeans and a white t-shirt, which hugged the curves and shallows of his slender body, received a pitcher of beer, muttered a thank-you and pulled his Carolina Hurricanes cap lower over his eyes. He didn't want to be seen. For him, the shame was the thrill, as much as the dancers at the Gloryhole were. He loved to permit his wild desires to take over, to force him out to this dirty club that had sat dishevelled at the edge of town since he was a child, beckoning him inside. At last he raised his eyes to the stage where he saw a beautiful black man, his face obscured by a Phantom of the Opera mask, thrusting his cock forward, then turning around and slowly dripping glittered oil down his open ass crack. As the oil rolled down his crack and over the smoothness of his dark ball sack, he moved his body expertly to the rhythm of a layered beat, which had been appropriated from more wholesome settings, but took on a whole new meaning here. The man in the Hurricanes cap found the body of this completely self-possessed and free man to be alluring in the way it seemed to be just a body, free of the strings of emotion—an object of gloriously rippling muscles and well-placed lines and dimples, available for consumption in a steamy bedroom somewhere.

Elsewhere, a young lawyer was still at his desk, dressed in a slightly wrinkled suit, trying to catch the attention of the firm's partners. From somewhere in the distance, he heard the vacuum cleaner, powered by a young woman wearing black knee socks in comically clunky shoes and a shapeless grey smock handed out by the cleaning company. Like a dog trained to drool at a bell, the blonde lawyer looked up from his work and felt a familiar fullness rising in his pants. As she entered his office, she asked him if it would be alright to vacuum and he told her that it would only work for him if she did it naked. Laughing gleefully at their little game she unzipped the ungainly smock and let it fall to the ground, walked leisurely to his desk, pulled herself up in front of him and spread her legs. He loved the way her knee socks accented her skin and even somehow seemed to define her round ass; he loved her confident posture as she walked over to his desk, throwing her shoulders back and pushing out her small dark nipples. The shadows of the dimly lit office played off her body and her shoes began to scuff his oversized desk as he began to feast on her open cunt. She pinched her hardened nipples roughly, tossed her head back, and allowed a quiet gasp of pleasure to escape her lips. After he pushed his tongue expertly into all the right places, the dips and bulbs of her ecstasy, making her wet and ripe, she got down off the desk and with one fluid motion she released a truly divine cock. Before she could take it into her mouth, she paused to admire it, then to tickle the underside of his ball sack, and tease him tenderly. Quickly she pushed his cock to the back of her throat and then pulled it out; a shimmering stand of drool connected them as their late night madness developed intensity under the blue light of the office after hours.

This is Williamsburg, South Carolina, a town where madness reigns. Williamsburg was established in 1823 by John Williams, a shady hotelier from London who immigrated hastily, with his family of rogues and whores, to avoid some angry debt collectors. Even then it was a place where the politicians, artists, students and business men came to live out wild fantasies at the legendary Williams Inn, mixing with an unsavoury crowd of rough lumberjacks and farmers and even rougher, dirtier women. In Williamsburg, nothing was too unusual. That spirit has persisted, being passed down to generations, and Williamsburg has remained infamously untainted by the puritanical mood of the rest of the country. Sex is in the air here. It seems to be an all pervasive occupation, a remarkably subversive philosophy. For proof, just walk down the street and look through the foliage of the big leafy trees and into the picturesque bay windows. It is not uncommon to see tits mashed up against the window, faces contorted with the pleasure of some unusual and wonderfully unwholesome tryst, mouths salivating in the madness of the moment.

There is a legend that supposedly happened in Williamsburg. It is told by the curator of the local museum as if it is absolute fact. One hot day in May, a girl opened the top three buttons of her flannel nightgown, trying to get some relief from the stifling heat. She was immediately excited, just to be in her own room with her nightgown open, her tits barely covered, her nipples exposed. But, there was no relief from the heat. So, she opened the window. A summer breeze blew across her body, caressing her tits and making her feel better. She also noticed that she was aroused by the fact that she was now hanging out of her window, her tits exposed to the world. There was an intoxicating feeling: a mixture of the fear of falling and the shame of exposure as she thought of passer-bys who might see her nakedness. As the summer progressed and got as hot as any summer in South Carolina, the girl became more and more brazen: she unbuttoned more buttons on her nightgown and went all the way out her window, standing on a thin ledge outside her bedroom—as much as a cooling breeze, she was seeking that same intoxicating feeling of fear and shame that had so excited her a few weeks earlier. Each night she had to go further and further out on the ledge to find that feeling. One night in August, she was completely naked, seeking a shame that never really came, her tits thrust out into the world, just the backs of her heels were still on the ledge and she was only touching the wall of her house with the back of her wrist and her shoulder blades, but still it wasn't enough. She took a step. To her surprise, she realized that she could walk on air. It was a bittersweet freedom. She would never feel the fear of falling no matter how far she went out. But, she could fly.

Theoretically, the town is too far inland to attract many tourists, but the tourists that come to Williamsburg don't take many pictures. Williamsburg boasts the most strip clubs and swingers venues per capita in the United States; behind every window shade, there are ecstasies that would be kept secret in every other town, but in Williamsburg, they are as casual as an after dinner smoke. The town has grown into its reputation and profited from it. The rough and raunchy is buried a little further beneath the surface. These days, Williamsburg looks like many small towns in the United States. The lawns are large and green, the streets are wide and the pace is slow, contented and retiring. But in office buildings, on dining room tables, on couches and back rooms, there is a simmering, unchecked lust that is almost palpable.


Just after sleep had come to the restless souls of Williamsburg, the sun made its way onto the scene, drifting in through the blinds, sparkling in the dew on the big green lawns.

As the morning heated up, the men and women stepped out into the muggy air dressed for work. Mr. Ryan, with his young landscaping assistant, Doug, parked his maroon pickup in front of Ms. Dawson's house. Mr. Ryan was dressed in a tight grey tank top and a stunning pair of exceedingly white jeans. A landscaper wearing white jeans is certainly a statement, but Mr. Ryan liked to make a statement; at the end of the week, he tossed all five pairs in bleach, and they are stunning again. Doug, dressed in a thin pair of blue sweats and a just-to-small t-shirt, looked down at Mr. Ryan's hand resting on his upper thigh, his fingers dangerously close to Doug's crotch.

"Well, Doug. I guess it's time to get the day started," he said, giving meaning to the hand resting on Doug's leg by emphasizing his point with a soft slap of his thigh.

"Mmm. Fridays always seem to take so long," said Doug, stretching and shifting so that his balls did rub against Mr. Ryan's fingers, and so that his shirt rose up above his belly button. Both men got out of the truck and threw their sexual tension at their work. Doug loved the feeling of sweat running down his nose, down the indent in the middle of his back, into his ass crack. He loved noticing the way it darkened his shirt and gleamed on his thin, wiry arms. He saw his boss take off his tank top as he wrestled with the lawnmower. The beads of sweat formed on his boss in the humid morning, presenting in rivulets running down his body in the lines of his defined stomach muscles, glinting like diamonds against his black skin; Doug felt his cock rise slightly at the sight, swollen against his thin sweatpants. He never wore underwear and it was his daily test to watch Mr. Ryan in those stunning jeans without getting completely and obviously erect. He usually lost.

After throwing off his shirt, Mr. Ryan looked toward his young employee, and though he couldn't see in the sun, he imagined that Doug might be arriving at his customary erection. He chuckled. It was only May, and this college student would be with him until he went back to school in September. There was time now for "accidental" rubs, for gazing, fantasizing, and wondering; a game that Doug seemed all too willing to play. Soon, Mr. Ryan was confident, they would be fucking.

On the street, Paige and Anthony were finishing their morning run. Paige was dressed in a pair of tight cotton shorts and a baby blue tank top, through which her erect nipples were clearly visible. Paige was nearly six feet tall with rich black hair, arresting eyebrows and full, strong features. Her olive skin wrapped smoothly around a pair of large full tits; her hips, ass, thighs and calves were a pleasant array of comfortable, womanly curves.

Her husband Anthony was dark and serious: he had beautiful dark brown eyes with long eyelashes. His dark hair was trimmed close to his head; his body was smooth and clean with a perfectly flat stomach, a strong round ass, and shapely thighs.

Paige ran strangely, her legs pumped up too high, her tits bounced helplessly, her hands were fists. She was not a natural athlete, but she pushed herself to be active and to keep in shape because she was very much in love with her body; she loved catching glimpses of herself in the mirror after a shower. Her body had sometimes been troubling to her, it was always so big and full and in grade eight, all the boys were a couple inches shorter than her. Now though, she found her dramatic bones, her full curves and her striking black pubic hair to be sexy and worth getting up early to maintain. Anthony, for his part, loved to watch his wife work out: her white shorts darkening somewhat as her ass started to sweat.

This morning, they had decided to finish their run at his mother's house, which, although he loved his mother, was somewhat disappointing to him, since they usually finished these runs with a session of sweaty, utterly satisfying sex. It really was the sex that turned them both on, the feeling being dirty; the sex seemed more intimate, their bodies took on new tastes and smells that were strange and unusual, but unique and memorable. Anthony loved to have the smell of his wife's asshole, moistened with sweat, in his nose all day long. On their honeymoon, they had agreed to not shower for their whole vacation. That ripe smell was something neither of them would ever forget.

In the town of Williamsburg, South Carolina, Ms. Meg Dawson ran a house of ill-repute. And yet, the activities that took place there were so discreetly managed, the house really only had a reputation in those circles where whatever happened there would bring the house a positive reputation. Anthony and his mother had shared a special, unspoken relationship ever since she had caught him giving a naked massage to his friend David one afternoon after soccer practice. Because he thought he might slip and speak the unspoken, he had always felt a little uncomfortable bringing his friends, and now his wife over to see his mother. To Ms. Dawson, bodies were bodies and sometimes in her dreams, all the bodies she had seen paraded naked in front of her, their faces obscured mysteriously; this dream was occasionally frightening, but mostly it was freeing to be a body in a parade of other faceless bodies. She had tried to make her son understand this philosophy—that when she sucked his cock it was just a body fucking a body—but for him, it was precisely the face attached to the body that made it so enthralling.

On this Monday morning, as Paige and Anthony came panting through the door, Ms. Dawson wore a pale, purple thong and a thin, semi-transparent purple robe that was more often open than closed. Paige really didn't mind. Ms. Dawson was blonde and tall, with dark eyebrows and thick eyelashes; she was as tall as her daughter-in-law, but much finer in all her features, her legs and arms were muscular, but lean; her tits however, were full and heavy and barely seemed to have been affected by her age. Paige had been incredibly intrigued when Anthony told her about his mother's profession. She had frequently imagined, and revised, a scene that involved a mercilessly wielded rubber cock.

The three said their good mornings. Ms. Dawson directed them to the couch and, as she served them tea, her robe fell completely open—Paige saw through her sheer thong that she had shaved her pussy since the last time they had seen her—Ms. Dawson didn't apologize or flinch. Standing there with her robe open, she put her hands on her hips and asked if they need any cream or sugar. Before she was able to serve it, the doorbell rang.

Outside the door were Mr. Ryan, the landscaper and his assistant Doug. Both had their shirts off, and were glistening in the sun, their lower halves desperate to escape from the dampening constricting pants they both were wearing. Mr. Ryan noticed that Doug's sweatpants were getting lower down his waist, as they did each day as he worked and sweat. Mr. Ryan noticed the line of Doug's pelvis, sculpted and clearly visible on the young man's tanned wet body. He unconsciously traced the curve of Doug's back, the indent of his spine, up to the shoulders that rippled with new muscles formed in the heat and the various rigours of the job. At the same time, Doug looked at Mr. Ryan's white jeans and thought he should get a pair like that, as they might be cooler. His eyes moved slowly up the jeans and noticed the bulge of Mr. Ryan's cock, the logo on his belt-buckle, the way his stomach moved away from his pants in a perfect flat plane up to his belly button; he observed the way the sun shimmered off his black skin like the glitter the boys apply to their body at the clubs he attends when his new wife goes to her mother's in St. Louis. He wanted to touch and taste that glitter, but like at the clubs, he only looked.

Ms. Dawson opened the door.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Ryan, how is the work coming?"

"We are finished for today. But, I've got to collect the money you owe me. It's been two months and your tab is at two hundred dollars."

"Well," she said, her robe open, her hands on her hips, "do you offer any alternative payment plans?" And with that, she moved one finger over her pussy. Her other hand moved suggestively to his belt buckle. Mr. Ryan didn't need much more of a signal.

"Absolutely," he said, opening his pants. "We accept that sort of payment whenever we can. It's tax free and that's a bonus." His large dark cock fell out of his pants hanging there waiting to be dealt with. Doug felt his own cock throb within his pants as Ms. Dawson knelt down, her blonde hair rustled slightly by the wind, looking redder in the sunlight. Her smooth ruby lips took to cock into her mouth deeply, and then she pulled back and sucked softly on the head. Doug noticed the way her thick eyelashes caught the sun and cast a shadow over her lightly freckled face; as she began to perspire slightly in the heat of the morning sun, her heavy mascara ran, almost imperceptibly, but enough to make her seem somewhat taken advantage of. Her knees rubbed against the cement as she began rocking her body to the rhythm of Mr. Ryan's cock. For her, two months of free lawn care for a blow job now and again wasn't such a bad deal. By now, she was holding Mr. Ryan's cock out of the way as she went to work hungrily on his smooth balls. He groaned, and clenched and tried not to come right then. Ms. Dawson licked wetly up the entire shaft of his rock hard cock, tasting the sweat of the morning, feeling the heat of his lust. She paused to play briefly at the edge of his foreskin; turning her tongue to a point, she moved it just under his head, lubricating the sensitive, often neglected flesh; all the while she jacked him off with her experienced hand moving along his elongated shaft.

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