Post-Modern Love: 02byTonyZee©
Subject: Re: Re: Literotica Feedback
I am not in the habit, because I have not had a great deal of interest, in corresponding with Literotica readers who write me—good, bad, or indifferent—about the meager stories I've contributed to the site. My intent has never been to "meet" someone through my stories—hence me pseudonym and paltry, tricked-up profile. Maybe a thank-you e-mail, or in your case, something a bit more substantive to allay misconceptions that may run on inappropriately. This represents my third e-mail to you, and that's certainly a record for me where a "stranger" is concerned. But your last e-mail to me was so vividly written, so insightful at least as far as lust is concerned, so heartfelt, rich, and earnest, that I could not let it lay unacknowledged. I expect that you expected as much.
But I'm going to have to ask you to stop writing, please, because if your last message and the story it contained has not contaminated my imagination, then any subsequent recollections of yours are bound to. In other words, you've slightly tainted my fantasy life. My imaginary forays into infidelity are all I have. I live in Bath, Maine, for goodness' sake! I'm not going to have sex with a corrosion control technician from the Navy shipyard or a briny lobsterman. And even if I did, it would not be like having sex with someone like your "Zack," or anyone more sophisticated and interested in the finer points of lust and desire. No, I'm not going to betray my husband, as indifferent as we both may be to intimacy at this stage in our lives. When you've remained faithful as long as I have, against the current of conditions that have prevailed for so long, going off even half-cocked, let alone fully cocked, makes little sense. I'm trying to set a record for suffering and neglect. I can't blow it now.
So, as I said, my fantasy world is my most cherished possession. The seductions that occur therein are my most valuable (however modest) perks. My fictional men make love to me long and hard, and can't get enough. I, unquenchable, receive their physical devotions like a consort. Fluids are exchanged. Filthy words are uttered. God, in his heaven, is shocked to his infinite core. And then I retire chastely to the marital bed, unbarbed by even the merest glyph of real sin.
I envy you, what you've had, and how you've had it, your persistent memory of it, of your desire, and the quality of your erotic pain. But that's yours, the signposts along your path. And you're plainly more than capable of writing stories of your own; that's what I recommend.
That's what the rest of us do. Idealists. Lonelyhearts. Romantics.
Best of luck,
From: Aimee Paper
Subject: Getting fucked in the ass on Christmas Eve, among other things
Dear Fearful Cunt,
You recommend that I write "stories of my own?" Gee, let me see, oh yeah... I don't remember asking you for your frumpy hausfrau advice. Twat.
My subject line was going to be "You're so right, thank you thank you!"—fearing that the more authentic line that I ultimately chose might cause you to simply delete this mail unread. But then I had a moment of clarity. I'm on to you. You're not what you say or seem, methinks. I'm also itchily suspicious that you're not even a woman. You might even be Zack, or one of his golf buddies, though I'd be hard-pressed to give any of his golf buddies credit for a delightful prose style.
And unlike some of your other correspondents (I also don't believe that you do not lead others along with some phony tale or other—how many do you write to telling them how uncharacteristic it is of you to be writing to them?), I'm not so easily gulled. Your last e-mail was plainly full of subtle encouragements for me to do exactly the opposite of what you request: your claims of innocence and chastity; your choice of loaded words and phrases ("fully cocked..." "don't want to blow it..." et al.). The conceit that I'm deflowering your imagination, compromising your creative virtue, performing a seduction of sorts. And of course the abbreviation for your pseudonym: tz. Tease. Really. Is that extent of your cunning? Or maybe that's the only level of cunning to which you've needed rise. Maybe no one has bothered challenging this multi-level charade. Maybe they have, but you persist in it anyway. I guess there's no reason why you shouldn't. You're in a perfect blind. The Intenet. E-mail. Cyber-cuntery.
Your imagination be damned. What you need, lady, is a young and ardent lover. Oh, sure, maybe your erotic writing days would come to an end, but who do your stories really serve anyway but you? Becoming an object of desire would be a far more satisfying outlet. Believe me. I sit here cross-legged on my bed, presumably the best erotic years and episodes of my life behind me, reading porn and writing to you, and I think, "Well, really, this is no fun at all."
I'll tell you what was fun. Getting fucked by that man whose only ambition, for several years, was to fuck the living shit out of me. To indulge in as many carnal experiences as we could engineer. To do it under the noses of friends and family. To return to a table full of dinner party guests, having excused myself to put the children to bed, with a load of Zack's cum seeping into my panties, or the taste of his semen still steaming on my palate (he, having excused himself to use the bathroom, and waylaying me in the upstairs hallway of my own house, children still thrashing about in their Barney sheets just on the other side of the door, my husband and his wife downstairs at the dinner table along with one or two other neighborhood couples, yakking half-drunkenly about the Bushes [and later, the Clintons], while I knelt on the hallway carpet and replaced the taste of Cointreau with the taste of cock, Zack's cock, unzipping his Slates and wrestling out that hardon, throating it, licking it, pumping it with my fist, desperate to get that load on my tongue, the thrill of that taste and smell of semen swarming through my head—the measure of his desire, his lust. Him with his fingers in my hair, face-fucking me, fucking my lipsticked mouth while my husband sat downstairs enjoying his audience, me sucking hard on the end of his cock and stopping only long enough to beg for it—oh, he liked that, to hear me ask for that cream, to ask for it in my mouth, and then he would pump a gloriously large load over my tongue and down my throat, grunting out "fuck" and "eat it").
What is the underside of life? How does existence feel? A cock in your mouth that is not your husband's, but one that is nevertheless so fantastically yours to suck? Beautifully velvety and turgid. Purplish-red and ready to spasm. This was my subtext, the current running beneath all else. We were respected members of our community. Good parents. Responsible wage earners. Involved members of the church. Civic minded. Ethical. We loved our children and each others children and provided lovingly for our families. Cared for our parents. Voted and prayed. Exercised. Cooked healthy meals. Read The New Yorker and Bon Appetit and Atlantic Monthly and Metropolitan Home. Baked for the bake sales and associated with the local associations. Continued to learn and develop our minds. Yet underneath it all, or in addition to it all, we fucked each other like fucking each other was the only thing that mattered, like fucking each other was the logical end to everything else. Wrote my check to Amnesty International with the same hand I imagined jacking his hard cock; offered my upturned face to receive his spurting, creamy load with the same refreshing expectation I turned it to the soothing shower head in the morning. This, this made us feel alive somehow in a way that none of those other activities managed. In fact, those other activities only managed to take on their greatest meaning and import because of how well and meaningfully we fucked. They were all addendum, grace notes in the lush, lusty symphony of our carnality, our booming infidelity. Fuck me, Zachery, and make me whole, I thought. Fuck my holes.
Christmas Eve, 1997. I'm wearing a pink sweater, pearls, and tan slacks. Sonny is going straight from work to his parent's house for the traditional Christmas Eve dinner, and I'm packing up hors d'oeuvres, stocking-stuffers. The girls are watching a "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town" video in the family room, and the doorbell rings. It's Zack, making a neighborly drive-by of Christmas cheer, dropping off a bottle of Belvedere for me and a bottle of Glenfiddich for Sonny. Except Sonny's not here. I yank him inside.
"I can't stay," he says. "Really, I was just dropping some holiday cheer."
"I need some cheer," I say. "I could use a stiff one."
"The girls?" he says.
"Hypnotized by the magic of television," I say. "Come here. I want you to try one of my hors d'oeuvres."
I pull him into the kitchen. Fragrant candles still burning on the counter. The room smells like puff pastry, cinnamon stick, and burnt matches.
He takes me in his arms and kisses me, and I kiss him back, smoothing a hand unambiguously down the front of his trousers. I can feel him stirring already, and this alacrity, this almost immediate response turns me on more than I can possibly explain. To feel a man harden so quickly at your touch, in anticipation of your touch... it's like suddenly discovering you can read minds, or levitate, or breathe under water.
I crouch, unzip him quickly, extract his cock, and take it in my mouth. It's musky and delicious and goes from pussy worthy stiff to assfuck hard in nanoseconds—a diamond in that ripe pubic ruff. I linger there, bobbing on it.
"Fuck," he whispers. "Oh baby, I want to fuck you in the worst way."
Oh, I'm going to take him up on this, to be sure. Crouched there in my own kitchen, his cock in my mouth, his hips thrusting that hardon between my lips, I unhook my slacks and yank down the zipper. I'm up, my pants are down, and I turn around the grab the sink.
"Quick," I say. "Fuck me."
Then it's in me, the engorged head, the smooth shaft, sliding up into my slickened cunt. I can feel all of him, the ridge of his cockhead and the thick vein, this beautiful impromptu pas de deux. I can't believe how intensely primal I feel, how basic.
"Fuck. My. Pussy. Hard." I say, in time with this thrusts, but he's already doing it, already pounding me, I'm just narrating, his body slamming so hard against me he's parting the cheeks of my ass, I can feel the skin of his abdomen kissing my asshole. I'm so wet, so excited, I can barely feel his cock thrusting up into my pussy.
"Jesus, you're so wet," he says. "Did you just get fucked?" The notion, upon utterance, seems to turn him on, and he pounds me even harder, which I didn't think possible.
"Fuck me up the ass," I manage to gasp.
"Here?" he slows.
"No, not here," I hiss. "Up the ass, you motherfucker. Put your cock in my tight asshole. Now!"
Sweet man, he doesn't miss a beat, but redirects his cuntslick cock to my willing starburst and pushes. Twinkle lights spray my brain. My eyes fill with tinsel. It's the most wonderful time of the year. The nerve endings in my anus light up and scream Yes! His cock is in my ass one quarter, then one half. I reach back and spread my ass cheeks with my hands and he pushes all the way into my dark and spasming hole. Jesus, I feel like I have to shit but I know I don't. I reach below and begin stroking my clit double-time.
"You're going to make me come," I breathe. "You're going to make me come. Fuck. You're going to make me fucking come... Keep fucking my ass... Keep. Fucking. My. Ass-sss... That's it... that's it..."
I start bucking wildly on the end of his cock, clawing at my clitoris, my other hand reflexively grabbing the sink faucet and yanking on the water. I'm mental at this point, coming out of my fucking mind, wild and palsied, so fucking unbelievably fucking Jesus fucking ass fucking yeah boy fuckit...
"I'm going to come," he says. "I have to come."
"Shoot it on my back," I gasp. "I want to feel your load on my skin, shoot it on my back."
His cock comes out with a pop, as they say on Literotica. I yelp, and suddenly feel his hot, creamy load of cum jet over the small of my back, then a second spurt hit my asshole, and a third. If there was more, I couldn't tell. Tears are running down my cheeks. My strand of pearls are thwacking against the edge of the sink, I'm sweating madly in my pink sweater, trying to catch my breath, and he's spitting out whispery "fuck," "Jesus," "fucking," "crazy," "fucking," "bitch," "damn."
In all the years we were together, in all the times we fucked, Zack only fucked my ass 12 times. I used to think that I wish he'd fucked my ass more, but I realize that if he had, those 12 times wouldn't have nearly been as potent in my memory as they are. You can't have it both ways. No pun intended.
He leans across me and rips off a paper towel from the roll, and I say, "What are you doing? Don't wipe off that wonderful cum with a paper towel."
"What do you want me to do," he says, still panting.
I reach into the drawer next to me and take out a teaspoon, hand it to him.
"Scoop all of it."
He does. At which point I turn around. In my pink sweater and pearls, pants down around my ankles. He smoothes a hand appreciatively over my bare hip, sweet man. I looked really good then. Smooth and trim. I'm still no slouch, but back then...
I open my mouth and he feeds me the spoonful of his cum. I lick that spoon clean as you might expect I would, like a child. Until then, I'd never eaten his cum any other way than directly from his spurting cock. It tasted different. Cooler, and more bitter than what I was accustomed to. But I didn't care about the taste. He'd just fucked my ass, and I'd eaten his cum from a spoon. That's all I kept thinking. I do believe that if he'd put his hand between my legs at that moment I would have erupted into a knee-buckling orgasm.
"Thank you for that holiday cheer," I say. "Santa Claus comes tonight, too. You're in good company."
Later, at my in-laws, I sat at their holiday dinner table. The food was delicious, everything smelled and tasted divine, the house was warm and Christmassy, the children were sweet, it was all so warm and rich and dear, and rife with everything I'd grown to love about my adult life: family, the comfort of tradition, the love and acceptance of the clan, the self-awareness, the sense of the present. And all the time there, flashing through my mind, was the thought, "... and my lover just fucked me up the ass and fed me his cum from a spoon... fucked my tight little hole with his hard, hard cock... oh yeah..."
This is what you think. You think, she's trying to legitimize her moral degeneracy. You think, she's trying to normalize herself in the face of her depravity. YOU think, what a lost, empty, wandering cunt, what a homewrecker, what a selfish hedonistic bitch, what a narcissist. Lamentable wife. Unfit mother.
These might be valid appraisals. Well, my chaste judgmental darling, I often think the same things about myself, you may or may not be satisfied to know. Often, I wish it were otherwise. I wish I understood why I feel the way I feel, why I felt and did the things I felt and did. I often wish my life were a magazine cover, a Calvin Klein ad, an SUV commercial. Some folks may tell you that it was indeed all those things, but for the carnal subtext...
You write stories, fantasizing about the intimacies that you think will... what? Complete you? Complement you? Round you out? Or maybe you don't think any of those things. Maybe you just enjoy the illicit thrill of fuck stories, the safety and distance of them. Maybe you're just trying to understand your sexual nature, what it means and how it affects you. Maybe you're just trying to understand what it means to have a sexual nature, why people have it, why you don't. I only know that I wish that I understood this all a bit better. Because, you know, or I'm sure you suspected, that this... inclination (the devastated Sonny called it a "pathology") deprived me of the many wonderful things in my life that I cherished. That Christmas Eve dinner table. That warmth. That family. Oh, I can light candles and bake cookies and roast endless turkeys, but of course it's not the same.
But his cock in my ass? Well, there aren't many things quite like that, either. In fact, there's NOTHING else quite like that. Make no mistake. After all, it IS a hard cock in one's ass. Find an analogy. I dare you.