Phineas Phinephallus's Phun Pt. 01

(Note to Readers: This story is being posted in THREE PARTS, all of which have been written, and they are to be posted every few days. This is a shameless wish-fulfillment fantasy. I saw no reason why it shouldn't go completely over the top. It may not have all that much humor, but in its rendering of the desires of a cis het male writer of smut, it's definitely satirical [of myself]. Everyone in the story is at least 18 years old, and lives in a world where pandemic worries have waned, steps are taken to avert STIs and unwanted pregnancy, everybody happily bangs as many adults as give enthusiastic consent, and nobody gets hurt. The sex includes M-to-F anal fucking, F-to-M analingus and light anal fingering, FMF, FFMF, groups, swaps, interracial, titfucking, and a vast amount of straight vanilla and oral, some of it in public. Enjoy!)

***

October 2

I've agreed to take my first trip ever to the fan convention held by my publisher, Ecstatic Esthetics. My agent has been prodding me for years to attend. What finally convinced me was what she did when we finished a face-to-face meeting, a few hours ago.

"Chet, you don't know what you're missing," said Lucy, crossing her legs within the confines of her pencil skirt. "I shield you from a lot of distractions, because you asked me to. But there are fangirls out there who are slavering to meet you, and, um, thank you for what your writing has done for them. Don't you think you owe it to the people who are making you rich?"

I backed my chair out from behind my desk, swiveled it to face Lucy, and spread my hands. "What can I give them, except my writing?"

"You physical presence," she said. "Your, um, personal contact."

I was puzzled. "Lucy, you never mince words or dodge subjects. Why are you doing it now?"

She sighed, looking at the ceiling. Then she looked at me. "Gloria told you, didn't she, that she wants you to go, and do it without her?"

"That's another thing. Why should I go there without my wife?" I had a sudden memory flash from the previous month, on an excursion with her: Nude Gloria, as she cowgirled me on the beach at an all-whackcess resort in the Caribbean. The warmth of the air paled next to the heat of our gushing genitals. The sun gleamed on her black hair, her sleek skin, and her massive, jouncing breasts--

"Chet!" snapped Lucy. "I need you here."

"Sorry," I mumbled, separating my legs to make room for my erection.

"Gloria told me that she wants you to understand how your fans really feel. Like how she feels."

I couldn't hide a smile. "When she reads my first drafts, and, um, responds favorably, I know I've done something right." The thought added to my phallic thickening.

"Who's mincing words now?"

"Please, Lucy, some things are personal."

"And I don't need the details, but Gloria shares a lot of them with me anyway." Lucy stood, and untied her neck scarf. "She also asked me to give you a very specific example of what's waiting for you at the convention."

She set her phone on the table next to her laptop. She fingered the phone briefly. The phone began playing a really nasty version of "You Can Leave Your Hat On." Lucy started shimmying, and undulating her arms.

She hissed, "That's a nice pair of pants." She brought her hands in to unbutton her blouse, while her hips rolled to the music. "Gloria would be very upset if you let anything bad happen to them."

My eyes widened. Yes, Lucy and I banged now and then, and Gloria was okay with it as long as I then gave my wife what she called 'apology bangs.' But I tried to be discreet about my side fun. I never banged Lucy at home. Yet now we were in my home office!

Lucy spun, swiftly and smoothly despite high heels. At a sudden stop she leaned over me and grabbed my belt. "Lots of these women are younger than I am. And the older ones are probably in good shape."

She thrust her face at mine. In reflex, I recoiled, but couldn't avoid her kiss. This got my butt up from the chair, and it stayed there while I welcomed, enjoyed, and returned the kiss. Before I could sit again, she had undone the belt and the zipper, and dragged the pants and my skivvies down to mid-thigh.

She glanced at my crotch with a smile, and said, "You've never said anything in print about how you, personally, are equipped," said Lucy, yanking the garments along, and thus lifting, my legs. "Don't worry. Your fans won't be disappointed." Two quick finger-flicks dispatched my slippers. "Quite the contrary."

Still working the music, she threw my pants and shorts back over her head, then unzipped her skirt.

I had a boner, and I wanted to use it on my agent. Who just happens to be a total doll, forty going on twenty-five. Short red hair with blond streaks, piercing green eyes, pouty lips. Slender build, but with delightful curves. She was the physical model of one of my most popular characters. As for Lucy Carmody herself, she's sharper than every tack in any box, and when she decides to have body fun, her energy is boundless.

Almost wailing, I asked, "What does this have to do with the convention?"

She shimmied the skirt to her ankles, and whipped off the blouse. I barely saw her red-and-black bra, and matching undies, before she draped the blouse over my head. "Your fans send you striptease videos all the time. At least twenty will be at the convention. You'll have to be, um, friendly to them."

I had the blouse most of the way clear when I jolted up, even higher this time, from the wet tongue sliding up my shaft.

It was even more of a jolt when the tongue departed. Lucy knows many ways to tease and edge me.

I flung the blouse away just in time for the bra to take its place. Lucy knelt on the chair, astride me, and rubbed her crotch slowly along my vertical cock.

"You expect me to screw total strangers?" I wheezed. As open as my marriage is, I feel best about getting well acquainted with a woman before asking if she'd like to become my sex partner.

"If that's what they want," she said, then nipped my ear. "Maybe bareback. Maybe in public."

I moaned, and then my mouth was stoppered by the nipple of a perky breast.

"Very good," said Lucy. "Any other tit man would have cum then. All you did was flex harder." She rolled and ground and swiveled her trunk, her panties smearing my cock's underside with her joy juice.

My ridiculous brain generated, Flex Harder? Maybe a character name? Amid lavish licks of her goose-bumped breast, I said, "And what, will you, be doing all, this time?" I gripped her back, kneading it, hoping to give her pleasure. My hope for every woman on Earth.

"Counting your orgasms and making you pace yourself. I'll have to find some other way to get myself off."

She ripped the side strands of her undies, hauled the scrap away behind her, and lofted her labia onto my glans. Still in time to the music, she lowered her wondrous warmth to enclose my agonized pillar. Don't cum yet! I demanded to my urgent body. More, I had to give her more, satisfaction, ecstasy--

"This is what they want from you," said Lucy with a lopsided grin. "Your giving. Your desire to please women, whatever it takes." Her eyes closed, and her grin went open-mouthed on her whole face. "Ohgodohgodhowdoyoudoit? The, the readers jill off to what you write, f-fantasizing about the men you create, hoping against huh, hope, that they'll find one in the real world." Laughter pealed from her as she met my eyes. "And wait'll they find out about the love muscle you're packing! How you get it into every womanly crevasse, and how it stays on duty as long as she wants it. And after it blasts white gunk, how it doesn't take long before it can please the next deprived pussy!"

Then we were kissing. I'm not sure who started it. I was dimly aware of the sweat soaking my shirt. With firm palms and gentle fingers I held her to me, caressing vertebrae, shoulder blades, butt dimples.

Limited in how I could move, because of her tight coupling, I flexed my butt cheeks to find different angles for my dork, as it penetrated her, seeking out all of her sweet crevasses. As I did, whimpers came through in her kiss.

"Have you convinced him yet?" came a laughing voice.

I looked over Lucy's sweating shoulder to see Gloria leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. She licked her smiling lips.

"Don't remember," mumbled Lucy, eyes closed, her body now bouncing, nipples flicking my collarbones. "He's fucking my brains out." Then she yelled, and I briefly lost hearing.

Gloria told me later that there passed another eight minutes, and another three Lucy orgasms, before I geysered nucleic acids into my agent.

My wife sat on a chair next to mine and said, "I'm being greedy, of course. Once word gets out about your physical skills, book sales will soar even higher. So by all means, go to the convention and give your public what it wants."

Lucy was ragdolled on me, giving nice pussy squeezes to my wang as it receded. "Goes for me too," she said through light kisses to my face. "My 10 percent will be even better."

Gloria tapped her on the shoulder. "Well done, Sweetie. Now please let him go. I want him to apologize."

***

This stretch of my journal is about the convention, but I can't leave that scene hanging (like my drained dick). I would go to the convention without my wife. I love her, I desire her, and how can I write anything that skips our lovemaking? So here's the apology bang.

Lucy gathered up her things and trotted off towards a bathroom, saying, "The condemned man will eat a hearty pussy. If he knows what's good for himself."

Gloria picked up my pants, indeed trying to protect them, and told me to pick up everything else. Then she led me to our bedroom. She told me to put the shirt and shorts in the laundry hamper, while she dispositioned everything else. Then she approached me, and put her hands on my shoulders.

"You smell of hot redhead," she said with a sweet smile. "Your taste in women is both excellent and eclectic."

My smile wasn't quite so sweet. "I look forward to your scent. May I free it from your clothes?"

"Not a chance. Your hands are unfit for any couture, haute or otherwise."

She disrobed, slowly, without music. Her smile settled somewhere between beatific and smug, as she relished my reaction to her prolonged tease.

I'm a grower, so when my protuberance isn't recruited for fun, it recedes to a modest rest position. It was that way now, but not likely to remain so, for long.

As Gloria unbuttoned the sleeves of her white blouse, she asked, "How hard did she suction you?"

"Enough to deflate a blimp." An apt metaphor, but in fact the sight of the beauty I married had my nether blood flowing again. I forced the muscles in that region to stay relaxed, and delay her satisfaction. Our marriage is cooperative, but sometimes a bit competitive. Purely for our amusement.

"Poor fellow," she said. She turned her back as her fingers moved to the buttons down her front. She looked over her shoulder, and again licked her lips. "I suppose I'll have to go to great lengths to revive your great length."

I barely kept my johnson relaxed. I couldn't prevent it from starting to enlarge.

Gloria opened the blouse to resemble a wide wing-span, then let it slide slowly down her shoulders and back, revealing gray bra straps.

With her head still turned so I could see her face, she knit her brow. "Hmmm...where did I put that hanger?"

I couldn't stifle a groan, as she strolled through the bedroom, still with her back to me, ostensibly seeking a hanger for the blouse. She is, truly, very careful about clothes, yet self-aware enough to mock that trait for the effect on me.

There were, in fact, plenty of hangers in her walk-in closet. Her hip-swaying move into the closet revealed part of what she was denying me: The sight of her breasts, magnificently full and round, even while confined in a plain bra. Saliva welled in my mouth, but my cock didn't twitch.

With the blouse hung, she returned with another hanger in hand, now letting me see her frontally. Unlike Lucy, who enjoys pretty undies, Gloria is all about comfort and durability inside the clothes she shows to the world. It didn't bother me at all that, when she slowly slid her pleated black pants past her dramatically curved hips, I saw (in addition to her stupefying cleavage) plain, white, opaque, flat-cut briefs. The sight of her cello curves was something else I had to prevent from erecting me.

Then, of course, Gloria made a show of fastening the pants to the clips on the hanger, then storing it away in the closet. While she wasn't looking at me, I was able to sneak in some rapid breaths.

This time, on the way back she unclipped her hair, shaking it free to the middle of her back, and stepped out of her sandals.

Which she then took to the shoe tree in the closet.

And then put the hair clip on her dressing table.

I grunted, in semi-real frustration. I thus gained the reward of a very tiny break in her straight face, a smile of tightened lips.

We had never tired of our playtime, which we began as college sophomores. I was a bookish nerd, a shy virgin who channeled hormonal intensity into attempts at literature. Gloria was pursued relentlessly by countless others driven by hormonal intensity, but somehow she took an interest in me, through the creative writing course we shared. When she read what I wrote, she told me that my understanding of the human heart was deep, and my rendering of feelings into words was strong--but my writing lacked the kind of physical detail that could evoke a visceral response in the reader.

She proceeded to instruct me on physical detail.

I nearly passed out the first time she undressed for me. I was flabbergasted by her reaction when I undressed for her.

That's because I knew nothing about what other men had. That never interested me. All I knew was, what I had felt good when I jerked it.

After a few frenulum pinches, Gloria got it to where it stayed stable long enough to make her feel good. With practice, I gained self-control, and could make Gloria feel very, very good. Which thrilled me as much as my own orgasms.

Soon, Gloria declared that my genitalia were a force of nature that had to be nurtured for the good of all womankind. I laughed, believing this to be one of her rhetorical flourishes. She insisted, however, that her experience with men convinced her that I was an outlier. Compared to what we saw in professional porn, I wasn't excessively long or thick, but I was generally larger than what was on display in amateur porn. Combined with my basic urge to help make a woman happy, and my stamina that arose from that urge, I seemed to be able to deliver the goods.

Gloria essentially demanded that I have sex with other women, so they could confirm that what I had, and did, took them to new heights of ecstasy. She introduced me to her friends, and encouraged them to look past my moon-calf face and pudgy body.

Gloria was right. I became extremely popular. I loved Gloria, however, and wanted to be loyal to her. She said she loved me in return, yet when we agreed to marry, she gave me an unlimited hall pass. She said, "Chet, I know you will be faithful to me in the most important ways. And I don't want my pussy to be sore. So please take your excess virility elsewhere when I need a break."

I insisted that she accept the same hall pass from me. She simply nodded.

And so it was that Gloria, and other partners in pleasure, gave me the experience base to write erotica that has become highly successful. When Lucy entered my life, she equated her encounters with me to winning the lottery.

Now, in our bedroom, Gloria stood three feet from me, and again turned her back.

The bra's strength, for its task, required five hooks.

She did some phony finger fumbles between each unhooking, saying, "Where is that one?" and, "That one just won't come loose!" And so on.

The removed bra didn't need a trip to the closet. She tossed it over her head and mine, to land on the bed.

Her thumbs hooked into the briefs at her hips. This slow, swaying slide moved not just her booty, but the outer surfaces of her freed breasts, still mostly hidden from me.

I erected, perpendicular to my body. She won. So did I.

After she stepped out of the briefs, she spun, flipped the briefs onto the bed, and hopped to embrace me.

My prick swooped up between her legs, and smacked into her perineum. She laughed, and forced us backwards onto the bed.

We kissed even more slowly, and steamily, than what I'd enjoyed with Lucy. We writhed together, in full body contact, on our sides. I stroked her shoulders, butt, and thighs, and she did much the same to me. For the zillionth time, I wondered how I had gained such a lucky life.

Gloria is generous and eager with her skin, and casual about the condition of my skin, once clothes are safely gone. Her quickened breathing and tightened grip told me that my body, and its recent wild fucking, didn't bother her at all.

The feel of her breasts, spread across my torso, made me gasp. My hands and mouth wanted them. Gloria knew this, having learned it on our first date (and about the men on all of her other first dates).

She pulled away to lie on her back, spread-eagled, her breasts rolling side to side until they came to rest. This sight made me gasp harder. (Flex's brother?)

"Your apology begins with worship at my temple," she told me. "I will attempt to make your pilgrim worthy of entry."

On hands and knees, I settled above her. I lowered my mouth to her hair-free vulva, while she directed my prong to her lips.

My second lick raised her clit from its hood, and she hummed while her tongue slurped away the evidence of my frolic with Lucy.

I circled my hands under and around her thighs, to finger into her temple while I sucked her clit. She shivered from the pleasure, but I knew the enclosure from my arms also made her feel wanted, and safe.

Her head lifted, to sink my glans to her gullet, and slide her lips to my pubic bone. Back and forth she mouthed me, drenching my cock in wet heat. As with Lucy, I resisted the urge to cum, and again succeeded.

Soon, Gloria released my putz, her head rearing back to wail. I kept licking her swollen bud, but slowed as her spasms did, ending with a wet kiss of her vulva when her body calmed.

"I accept your sacrifice to the temple," she said dreamily. "Now you may enter, and complete your task." She sloppy-kissed my sopping glans.

Gloria is one of those women who enjoys self-pleasuring most when she lies on her stomach. This is also her favorite position for sex, and she assumed it now.

This put her breasts beneath her. Far from me.

But in real life, as in my writing, I seek to give pleasure.

I knelt between Gloria's legs, and angled my rigid dick to her slightly-raised trunk.

I entered her temple, and no longer felt deprived of her breasts.

About halfway in, I again had to steel myself against cumming. Her vagina is smooth and slick, warm and welcoming, and able to apply powerful grips. I advanced slowly to our mutual limit, withdrew, advanced again. This remains true, after all our years together: My shlong, when at peak rigidity, has the length and girth to fill her completely.

Her head was turned to her right side. Her eyes closed. Her lips parted, and smiled.

We began another competition, her squeezes on my shaft and my stretching of her walls. Each gave thrills, and provoked greater effort. After several magnificent minutes, I saw her buttocks tighten, and thus knew that she was on the brink of accepting my apology.

I gazed at her as I sped up. Her hair was swirled in all directions. Her back flexed, and curled. Her mouth widened to allow rougher breaths. Gloria is big-boned, yet without a wasted ounce. She, too, is the physical model of a character of mine, an athlete who demands the utmost in physical love from her suitors.