Sister Act

"All things must be examined, debated, investigated without exception and without regard for anyone's feelings."

― Denis Diderot

"Hold on," the Boulder Highway babe removed my friend's cock from her throat. Deftly, she dislodged a pair of teeth from her mouth, more false than the laugh track on a TV sitcom. Placing the dental work on the mattress beside her head, she continued sucking.

Hal's erection ― once carved in titanium ― disappeared like a plane lost in the Bermuda Triangle.

Viewing the proceedings, I gulped down the woman's precum, and worked her clit between my lips.

Kneeling at the edge of the bed, I watched as my buddy retracted his member into his Houndstooths, and quietly zipped up. Disgusted by the lass's lack of pearly whites, Hal slowly dismounted the box spring, so as not to arouse suspicion, and cause the senorita distress.

I, on the other hand, was more turned on than the family radio in the 1940s, during the broadcast of the World Series. So turned on, I abandoned my feeding frenzy, hovered my sizable schlong above the woman's face, and partook of a superlative blowjob. There were less teeth goin' on here than the completely stripped gears of a transmission.

Gazing down at this lithe lovely, I realized how unfortunate Hal was to have departed so hastily. This chick epitomized that White Trash demographic every married dude jacks-off to in secrecy, while his wife sleeps in the other room, dreamin' of anyone but him.

That slender jawline; hardened features carved from just enough self-abuse to create desperation, but not so much to destroy innate beauty for another 10 years. A taut stomach, resulting from regular hits off a crack pipe, as opposed to any workout regimen. A pair of muscular legs, thanks to hours struttin' up and down Boulder Highway, sellin' her wares.

Other guys donated social security checks, to receive the unbridled pleasure I was currently experiencing for free, here in a private room, of yet another local Vegas swing club. What the hell did I care if she didn't have any teeth?! "Could it get any better than this?!?" I silently queried.

Once I parted her sinewy thighs, and delivered my rubber-wrapped rod, I had the answer to that question. It definitely could get better, and just had. Her pussy superseded that dream I have of waking up on a planet where people had never heard the term "war," and kindness was the only thing folks comprehended.

The diminutive damsel took nearly my entire length, as I eventually befriended her cervix. I had no clue at the time, but this act alone would secure me pole position with yet another fantasy, and further proof that, "Yes, this could get even better."

Let's call this one a Whoopi Goldberg, if you will ― otherwise known as a Sister Act.

Who knew this horny honey had a sibling, and who knew said sibling was a porn actress of minimal acclaim?

Somebody had to, since the sister in question was deriving an income from her XXX exploits. I, however, wasn't made privy to this potential new Number, until being introduced to her at the same local swing shack, a month later.

Who was I? Hugh Mungus was my handle. I also went by Mike Oxhard, the fuck junky, and a host of other stupid sobriquets.

My real name? Didn't matter, since I was just another single swinger. Such stated, I was a single swinger with a goal: 5,000 women, or perish.

Upon meeting, it seemed the sibling in question — who we'll refer to as Heaven — wanted less to do with me than a cow does steak.

As such, I'd exchanged pleasantries, and departed into the bowels of the establishment, in search of easier prey. Little did I realize sisters talk, and these two had conversed about my friendly fuck stick in sublime fashion.

Hence, when I met Heaven again — this time at a hotel swing party, two months subsequent — it was preordained we fuck. And fuck we did, in a room filled with other dirty derelicts.

Leaning against the wall of the aforementioned lodging, I watched as Heaven disrobed.

"Had you seen my cock at the club before?" I queried.

"No, but my sis' told me about it," came her response.

"Your sister told you I have a big dick?"

"Yes. Mmm," she licked her lips. "I've been training my whole life for a cock like yours," she declared.

We're talkin' one of the top three most important conversations ever engaged in on the planet:

"Now that the oil has run out, where are we gonna find another source of energy as powerful and abundant?"

"So, all three reactors have melted down?! How the hell are we gonna save humanity?!?"

"Did you see the size of my dick at a local fuck club?"

When it came to the survival of the species, it was paramount.

Amid overturned containers of Mike's Hard Hangover in a Bottle, Heaven stripped. Nude, she sidled up to me. In the hotel room filled with other swingers, she swayed to some non-existent tune in her head ― probably Paul Anka's You're Having My Baby ― while she cupped my balls through $13 Kmart slacks.

Some interchangeable propaganda promoter — doubling as a "news" correspondent — vomited forth his soul, in exchange for a paycheck, on yet another hotel flat screen.

On the bed opposite, a Cox Cable repairman fucked a substitute teacher up the ass without lube, while the manager of an Outback sucked some dude on unemployment.

A tongue jammed down my throat; a palm wrapped around my cured Coney; a pair of 32-Bs pressed against my chest. Impetuous breath across my neck; a second hand gripping my sinewy ass, as Heaven and I collapsed on a Tempur-Pedic that had seen more cum than a sperm bank tech.

When the festivities came to a close, Heaven gazed up at me. "So, I have a question."

"Go ahead," I replied.

"Was my sister able to take your cock as well as I did?" she queried.

The continuation of the third most monumental verbal exchange in history.

"Your sister took my dick almost to the base. She was an inch shy of getting it all inside. That said, I didn't pound her hard."

"And me? How deep did you get with me?" the adult actress questioned.

"I was two inches from stuffing my cock completely inside your perfect pussy. That said, I did pound you harder than I pounded her."

A pause.

Were those wedding bells ringing in the background?

Naw. They were actually police sirens, as the cops would raid the event in question, because that's what cops do ― they steal happiness, and pierce its heart with a bullet before your very eyes.

By that time, though, I'd already entered Heaven, and returned ― soul intact.

— authored by Hugh Mungus