Phineas Phinephallus's Phun Pt. 02

I made a mental note to inform Lucy, and ask that she find out if Mark Spivey was flirting just to show off, or had a genuine interest in Celestina. And, if so, what kind of interest.

The judges may have rigged the results, in declaring Mistress Amaranth the winner of the whole contest. It so happened that she had a new novel out, and scuttlebutt had told me that her previous effort had tepid sales.

As I sauntered out to the exhibit area, there were a few women who got friendly, and complained about how dressed I was, but nobody was foaming at the mouth to get physical. There were some breasty hugs, which I enjoyed, and I returned some fondles and kisses, which they enjoyed (maybe not as much as I did). My availability earlier might have satisfied the most avid curiosity and desire.

Spending time with other EE authors got me in the mood for more of that. I had not yet visited the EE hospitality suites in the hotel. In some of them, fans could mingle with writers. In others, writers and others in the profession could retreat for serious drinking, dealmaking, and complaining. This seemed like a good choice for passing the rest of the evening.

***

Hanging out in the suites was indeed enjoyable. To be honest, after a while answering the same questions in the suites with fans, I was relieved to slip into the VIP suites. There I saw my agent, still in her green dress, continuing the same kind of client promotion she had done at dinner. She egged on Celestina to describe to an EE book editor what was in her current project, and when it would be finished.

Despite what I hoped to tell Lucy, this clearly was not the right time. I hung back and mingled with writers.

Otis Mustbelove, who had opted out of the contest to make room for anyone who needed it, held court at one of the bars, with several writers hanging on his every word. He had sold Isabel on the idea of him editing an anthology of new stories, on the theme of sex-positivity. This would skirt the usual divide at EE, because it would be published as a book, with the authors paid.

"This way," said Mustbelove, "What we have to say on this subject will actually get attention." There was general light laughter over how the panel discussion had gone.

He raised his gin and tonic in my direction. "Can I count on a contribution from you, Phineas? Obviously, your name would be the first on the cover."

I smiled, acutely aware of how I was an 'In' at EE, while there were hundreds of 'Outs' who never got above the level of having their stories unpaid, and posted for free. "That depends on how receptive the editor is to unsolicited submittals."

Tom Essence said, "Everyone on the panel should be invited." He eyed Mustbelove. "Right?"

"Sure," said Mustbelove, now looking annoyed. "That ensures diversity of interest. Amaranth can show how everybody in a dungeon is sex-positive."

"I always do," said Amaranth, smiling. "As my devoted readers know."

Maybe seeing that this was getting out of his control, Mustbelove said to me, "How's this? If I open the book to fifty thousand words that aren't by invited writers, can I get ten thousand words from you?"

"That sounds fair, and visionary," I said. "Count me in, Otis."

With the tension thus draining from the air, I asked the bartender for a martini. Once I had it, I noticed Zenobia, on a sofa, looking at me with what seemed, oddly, like a smile.

As I threaded through the group towards her, she beckoned me to lean down. When I did so, she said quietly:

"You're a troublemaker. I like that in a man."

This close, I saw to my surprise that, facially at least, she didn't actually seem old.

"Thanks," I said, puzzled and probably looking so.

Her smile grew.

Intrigued, I asked, "Can we talk later?"

Her brows lifted. "Sure." She held up her cane. "Does it look like I can leave fast?"

I drifted again, and found Lucy taking a breather, sipping some wine.

I sidled over and told her about Celestina's contest story.

Her eyes widened. "Mark is definitely interested in her writing. He may not know how she's interpreting that. Thanks, I'll try to get them on the same page. Her ego is like a soap bubble, I'd really worry that she could get hurt."

"How was the dance?"

She grinned. "Could you hear any of the music, from where you were?"

"A little, now and then."

"Was any of it familiar?"

I shrugged, trying to recall it. "Seemed like the usual DJ dance mix stuff." Then a certain passage came to mind. And a couple more, from about the same time.

I stared at her, mouth hanging open. "Yeah. Some of it was very familiar."

"I suggested this a while ago to certain individuals," said Lucy, relishing her recounting. "The DJ was more than happy to go along with it. There were eight of us who started, but at least fifteen more joined in."

She traced a few fingertips through my hair. "It was pure performance. No touching of anyone else. Still, if I send you the video someday, you might enjoy it. We all had hats. And we left them on."

Then, absolutely certain of what she had done to me, she sashayed away, to find an editor or a client.

I needed two minutes, some calming breaths, and the rest of my martini, before I could pay attention to anything else.

In time, I was able to approach Zenobia as a fellow writer.

"I was riveted by Fortune's Warning," I told her. "Suspense all the way through, but never hinting at hopelessness."

"Fortunately," she said, "I can say something in return, without having to fake it. When the Orcas Migrate had me convinced that people really could be that good to each other, even when they don't start out that way." She chuckled. "Unfortunately, the book had to end."

I tried to maintain the light mood. "That's a relief. I always worry that someone might fake it."

She cocked her head, with a smoothness that again had me wondering if she was as old as she presented. "Do you really ever worry about anything?"

"I--" Then I stopped. I was about to fake something. I shouldn't do that with her. "Lately, no," I said, looking at her earnestly. "It's hard to imagine anyone in the world luckier than I am."

She blinked. "Thank you for that. I wondered if there was any self-awareness in you."

Her hand settled on mine. The hand didn't look old. Or feel old.

"Zenobia," I said quietly, "is there anything I can do for you?"

Her smile looked pained. "Can your life imitate your art?"

"Many of my male characters, dismissed in some quarters as candy-assed wimps, are patterned on me. I'd like to help you feel good. Will you give me permission to try?"

She took a breath. The look in her eyes seemed less guarded. "Yes. I will."

We didn't speak in the elevator. She didn't meet my eyes, and held her stooped pose, leaning on her cane.

When we entered her room, she straightened up and tossed her cane on a chair.

She smiled at me wickedly as she shucked off her dress, arms and legs deft and limber.

I stared. "Zenobia?"

"Call me Maureen. Yes, the cane and the stoop are faked, and the baggy clothes are the disguise for my smut-writing alter ego. I got tired of assholes hitting on me." As she reached to untie her hair, she said, "Are you just going to stand there with your jaw on the floor?"

I probably was, until my throbbing dick demanded attention. Her deft dispatch of her underwear showed that her body was classically proportioned, with few signs of age. Her breasts were small, which probably averted significant sagging, and they were close-set, giving them a strong presence. The inward arc to her waist was matched by the outward arc to her hips. Her pelvis set her legs so that even in a straight stance, her thighs didn't chafe.

I shook my head rapidly. I began yanking at my clothes in a way that would make Gloria blanch. Despite panting, I managed to add, "You love being able to do that to men, don't you?"

She grinned. "And women."

Which got a bigger twitch from my tool.

As she fluffed out her pubic hair, she said. "This isn't a complete fraud. I'm fifty-eight. But there isn't a damn thing wrong with me, except the sex stuff I've had all along. Pilates is now too much for me, but I still do yoga."

"Should I be careful with you?" I burbled. "Do you have any pains?"

"Nope," she said. "No osteoporosis. And menopause didn't make me any less horny. But it didn't make it easier for me to cum, either. You've got your work cut out, I'm afraid."

"I will gladly start however you like."

"Yes, you may eat my pussy," she said with a wan smile. "That always feels nice, at least. And I'll blow, it's common courtesy."

My johnson was now free, and wanted to take that as permission to launch into her mouth. But I said, "Do only what you like."

She reached to tickle my tip. "What I like is pleasing a lover. It doesn't matter what I like about specific actions." She looked at what was pre-cumming her fingers. "So this is what all the hubbub is about. Pretty impressive, as a physical object." Then she sighed. "But it's too big for the whoopee I might enjoy."

I frowned. "Really?"

"So many men think that all they need is size. I'm one of the legion of overlooked women who can't even receive average length or girth without pain. And the few times I've found a lover with the right size, he's had so little practice that he can't keep the erection long enough." She smiled. "It's okay, sometimes a lady friend with a teensy strap-on can do me some good."

I gave her a determined look. "Maureen, after we enjoy our licks, I'd like to try something."

She shrugged and said "Sure," clearly expecting nothing.

We shared an especially intense sixty-nine, in which I made sure to cum hard, sparing her somewhat by exiting her mouth after I started, and jerking hard and fast onto her torso. Fortunately, she came hard also, and didn't mind the glop she preferred to spit out.

Then I proceeded to use a technique I had developed for the sake of a few of my extramarital partners, whose sex with almost every man was painful. Having just orgasmed this heavily, my dick shrank towards its rest state. I squeezed the dick and balls in certain ways, including on the frenulum, so the cock stayed at that size but didn't go totally limp. This involves a lot of rapid, yet focused, breathing, and I wouldn't advise it for everyone. I haven't written about it, because it might be bad for the health of anyone else.

I got my partner spread-eagled, and knelt between her legs. The other key to this was the intensity of her orgasm, which I hoped had slackened her muscles and calmed her nerves.

I grunted, "Ms. Thistledown, I'm gonna fuck you!" With one hand I separated her sopping labia, and with the other I pushed in something that was flexible, and had some structural stability. I hoped it would last for at least a few minutes, without either withering or expanding.

He expression changed from bafflement to astonishment.

"W-what is that, your thumb?"

I held up both hands, which I was able to do for about two seconds before needing them to support me on the mattress.

'How is this--what--it feels, I don't know--"

"I'm fucking your pussy! It feels so good inside!" The palaver may have done nothing for her, but it helped me maintain this particular exertion.

"Y-yeah it does! I'm, I, what are you doing to me, Phineas? I never--"

"Call me Chet! Phineas is a fantasy, this is real!"

"Oh yeah it is! IT IS!" She rubbed her clit rapidly. "FUCK! FUCK YEAH!"

This was working better than I thought. Spending the afternoon banging my fans, and going off in Maureen's mouth, may have enhanced my dick's imitation of a shrimp. It was getting tougher by the minute, though, as her loins tightened. Yet she was having such a good time, yelling and cussing, that I had to give her as much as I could.

"You fucking bastard! Cumming in my mouth, so disgusting! You're gonna destroy my pussy! AAAAGGGHHH!"

She bucked like a bronco, but I stayed in the saddle, pushing into her with speed, but sensitivity.

This discouraged woman, hiding her suppleness behind a pose of fragility, bathed my dick with her nectar. This joy broke my spell, and my expansion began.

"Gotta leave!" I yelped, hoping not to cause pain, and sully her experience.

"Yeah yeah go," she said, settling to whimpers.

I exited her quim, then flopped next to her and took her in my arms. She wrapped me in both arms and legs, wheezing, and kissing.

A while later she asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I said. "I admit, that isn't easy. Like rubbing stomach while patting head, very contradictory."

"You have got to tell me, in detail, how you did that! I want to write about it!"

"Uh...okay, I'll send it to you. As I grower, I learned how to be useful as a shrinker. But I don't know if other men could do it. It might turn out to be painful."

"But for me, it wasn't!" she cackled. "I came on a cock, and it felt good! So glad I put moves on you, Chet-called-Phineas!"

"May I mansplain a little?"

That got her eyes rolling, but she still smiled. "No way I can stop you."

"The next time you encounter a man with a dick you can enjoy, maybe spend more time with him, if he's a decent dude. Bring him along. Give him the experience that women in general denied him. He may not want to admit what he hasn't learned to do. But maybe he can learn, and improve, and give you the effect of a teensy strap-on, while giving you companionship."

"Which I want," she whispered, stroking my stubbled cheek. "With a man." Then she gave me a frisky look. "Or several."

"Uh-oh," I said. "Have I unleashed a tigress on the world?"

"How should I phrase this on dating apps?" she wondered at me. "Dinky dicks sought for pinhole pussy? Sustainable erections a plus?"

"I'm sure that a writer of your skill will produce something truly compelling."

Eventually we cleaned up, dressed, and returned to the hospitality suite, where we drank ourselves silly and made the other writers wonder why.

(To be continued)