Stud Pt. 01

Stud (Part 1)

Kathryn M. Burke

My name is Peter Clarkson. I'm twenty-eight years old. I've kicked around at various jobs and various locales in this great country of ours; but lately I've become quite successful at a new job—which may end up becoming a career, at least for the next few decades—that I think I've pioneered on my own. Anyway, I've not heard of anyone else doing exactly this kind of work.

In short, I've become a stud.

I mean that quite literally. Oh, don't get me wrong: I think I'm pretty good-looking and well-built, and the organ that is the chief focal point—and selling point—of my work comes to at least eight inches, perhaps a little more. (I've never actually measured it.) What I'm doing, essentially, is selling my sperm to those ladies who may be too busy to find a husband (so many females these days are career gals who don't have a lot of time for romance) or want to have a child without a husband, or anyone else who can make use of my little men to generate offspring. I have damn good genes—I'm both smart and brawny—and so I think the children I produce from my seed will be fine, upstanding citizens and a credit to their communities.

You say there are laboratories that provide this kind of service. I'm sure there are; but I do so in a way that (I hope) provides a lot more entertainment both to me and to the women who want my services. And I'm a lot cheaper, to boot!

I'll demonstrate my method by telling what happened when one of my first clients answered my ad and wandered into my "office." Of course, I don't have a real office; it's just my apartment. But after she rang my intercom and I buzzed her in, she stepped tentatively into the place, her eyes wide open and fearful as if she were looking out for land mines.

I have to say she was damn good-looking. I'd estimate her age as about mine. She was about five foot five, dark-haired, and—since it was a warm, sunny day—the blouse and skirt she had on were pretty revealing of her figure. I admit that my eyes bugged out when I saw her.

She was a little spooked by the fact that this was a private residence. Looking even more scared than before, she said, "You—you're Peter Clarkson?"

"I am," I said in my deep, resonant bass voice. "And you"—I looked down at a clipboard, just to seem more professional—"are Sandra Winters?"

"Yes."

"Come, let's sit down for a little talk."

I led her to the sofa. She sat on the very edge of the cushion, at one end. I didn't want to alarm her any more than necessary, so I sat down at the other end, giving her plenty of space.

"So you're here," I began, "for the—well, for the purpose of starting a family?"

"Yes," she said almost inaudibly.

"Excellent. A family is a wonderful thing. Not that it makes any difference, but are you married?"

She unconsciously twisted the ring on her finger. "Yes."

"I see. Then I have to wonder why you need my services."

Now Sandra was blushing crimson. "Well, you see . . . my husband and I have tried for years to, um, get me pregnant, but somehow it hasn't worked."

"Ah. Very sorry to hear that. You think—?"

She looked down at her hands. "I think my husband . . . may not be quite up to the task."

"You suspect he's firing blanks, if I may put it so crudely?"

Her blush now spread from her neck to her forehead. "I guess so."

"His tadpoles have trouble swimming upstream?"

She didn't appreciate my attempt at humor, so she said nothing.

"Well," I said, "I hope I can remedy that."

She peered around the apartment, no doubt wondering why it didn't look like any fertility clinic she'd ever been to. "Would you explain to me how you operate?"

"It's very simple. For the fee that we agreed upon, I will provide you with a quantity of my sperm so that you can, with luck, have all the children you wish. You do realize, of course, that there is no hard-and-fast guarantee that this procedure will work, but I am prepared to supply as many samples as I can until you have achieved satisfaction."

I beamed at her benevolently. But she still seemed nervous and confused.

"But, um, exactly how will you provide your—samples? Will you give them in a test tube, or something?"

She had to know that that wouldn't be the way it was going to happen. There were no test tubes in sight. She still didn't seem to grasp how we were to proceed.

"Ms. Winters, you must surely be aware that this is not a laboratory. These in vitro places are, as you know, quite expensive—far more than the price I'm charging. In any case, I believe that such places are so cold and clinical. I propose to provide my seed in a far more traditional, holistic manner—one that has worked well for the human race for hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of years."

I gazed at her intently. If you thought she was blushing furiously before, you have no idea how red she turned when I'd finished my little spiel!

She became pale as a ghost. "You—you can't be serious."

"I'm very serious. I wouldn't joke about something so important as the creation of a child. We will be undertaking a sacred mission to generate new life, and that is certainly not a laughing matter."

She was fiddling with her purse, which she'd placed on her lap. "You mean—right now?"

I smiled genially. "No time like the present!"

And with that, I stood up and began to undress.

Sandra continued to gape at me as I peeled off my shoes, socks, polo shirt, Dockers, and then my briefs. When I was entirely naked, I displayed my impressive assets to her view.

Her mouth was still open, but it closed gradually—and then she started licking her lips. Her eyes were fixated on my groin, which was swelling and hardening as she watched. When it attained full erection, she placed a hand over her mouth.

"That—that's a little bigger than I'm used to," she whispered.

"I'm sure you'll manage. The vagina is capable of accommodating something quite a bit larger than this."

I walked over to her and extended my hand. Like a zombie, she stood up and allowed me to lead her to my bedroom. When she saw the bed she shivered a little, but otherwise remained motionless.

I guess she needed some help in the next stage of the operations. So I began quietly undressing her—shoes, blouse, skirt, bra, and panties. She let me do this with scarcely a murmur, and still standing as if she were in some sort of waking coma.

The figure she revealed to my gaze was just as scrumptious as I had suspected. Soft, sloping shoulders, nice round breasts, swelling hips (good for having children!), a nice butt, and so on and so forth. It was obvious she was a bit nervous ane embarrassed—and who wouldn't be? Stripping naked only five minutes after you've met someone isn't exactly a common occurrence. She fell into the usual habit of covering her breasts and pubic area with her hands, and only when I came up to her and wrapped her in my arms did she relent, throwing her arms around my neck and pressing me close. She felt really nice, and I made a point of stroking her neck, back, shoulders, and bottom to make her relax. And I squeezed her breasts a bit too. But she still seemed tense.

So, after giving her a few soft kisses on the mouth, I said:

"Listen, Sandra. This whole business won't work so well unless you—how shall we say?—get into the swing of things. The ideal environment for procreation is when both partners are enthusiastically invested in the procedure, and everything that leads up to it. Now, even though I'm prepared to repeat this procedure as often as necessary—no extra charge!—I gather you'd prefer that we succeed the first time around. Am I right?"

"Yes," she said in a small voice.

"I thought so. Well, that means you have to make believe this will be a transcendentally beautiful experience. And I'll do my part as well."

She did seem a little less nervous now, but I came to the conclusion that a sure-fire way of her making her feel ready for action is something that men all too often overlook:

Make her come first.

And so, after some more rubbing and stroking, I led her to the bed, where she lay down on her back. But she was still giving me this frightened look, as if I were—well, we won't say what. I smiled benevolently at her, then parted her legs and buried my head in her sex.

She squealed at the suddenness of the act, but pretty soon she got the hang of it. In the midst of my licking and sucking and nuzzling, I peeked up at her from time to time, and saw that she was peering fixedly at me, eyes wide open, as if she couldn't believe this was happening. But a slow smile was spreading over her face, and she was making little high-pitched mewing sounds that signaled her obvious enjoyment. And she was getting mighty wet—a lot wetter than I somehow expected. I love that in a woman!

After a while she threw her head back, her mouth fell open, and she clutched the sheets with her small hands. As she arched her back, her breasts rose up, their nipples hard and erect, and now she almost sounded as if she were choking or gagging. Her tongue stuck all the way out of her mouth, and she started tossing her head back and forth. It's wonderful to see women in the throes of sexual ecstasy—they all do it so differently!

Well, pretty soon I rung the bell. A sharp cry came out of her throat, and she banged the bed with her fists over and over again as her thighs quivered and more fluid poured out of her like a river. It took minutes for her to settle down—especially since I kept on licking and sucking, also grabbing her bottom with aoth hands, long after the initial waves of her orgasm began washing over her.

I slid up her body and stared down at her. "Was that nice?" I said.

Her eyes seemed unfocused. She gave me a goofy smile and said, "Oh, yes!"

I gave her a few more minutes to settle down, and then—I went into her.

Women are funny. You would think that, even after what she had just gone through, she would be mortified or appalled or outraged at being penetrated by a perfect stranger in the middle of the day. But instead, her body instinctively reacted to my entry: her legs rose up and, with knees bent, wrapped themselves around my hips; she threw her arms around my neck; and she gave me little kisses on the mouth and cheek as I thrust into her. It's as if a woman, rather than lying flat on her back and enduring the probing of her innermost recesses by the male organ, automatically gets into the best position to facilitate the process. Aren't women wonderful?

After all our preliminaries, I wasn't able to last long—in fact, I disappointed myself in coming in less than five minutes. It made me feel like a callow schoolboy! But her eyes, which had been closed in a kind of dazed ecstasy, suddenly popped open. Suddenly the reason for her being her came flooding back to her, and she looked both startled and delighted with what had happened. But I wasn't finished. Even though I'd poured a fair amount of my seed in her, I was far from satisfied. So I urged her to remain in place, while I continued to pump her gently, remaining reasonably hard. After a few minutes I gained a second wind and started pounding her pretty vigorously. She just gaped at me in amazement—I'm sure her sorry excuse for a husband had never been able to do this! Sure enough, in about ten minutes I flooded her vagina with yet more of my come!

"Wow!" she said. "Nobody's ever done that to me before."

"Two for the price of one," I said a little smugly. "You must bring out the best in me."

But even this wasn't the end. I slipped wetly out of her and rolled off, but in the process I took her in my arms and placed her on top of myself. I said into her ear:

"You know, for optimal results we need to do a little cuddling to ensure that the process is complete."

She didn't seem to mind in the least, and we spent the next ten or fifteen minutes in a comfortable snuggle.

Then, as I was massaging her tight, cushiony bottom, I said something else. It turned out to be a mistake.

"Sandra, I may mention that I can offer you a free bonus. It won't help with your main problem, but it might prove entertaining."

"What's that?" she said dreamily, burying her face in the crook of my neck.

"Well, you see, I could go into—here." And I pressed my fingers in the direction of her anus.

She stiffened immediately. Raising herself up to look me in the face, she looked venomously at me and said: "I don't care for that."

"Okay, fine," I said, kicking myself for being greedy.

But she had had enough, and I think the overall strangeness of the whole business was now overwhelming her. She pried herself out of my arms, snatched up her clothes from the floor, and rushed off into the living room to dress out of my sight. I sighed, got up, struggled into a robe, and followed her. She had dressed with amazing speed and was almost fully dressed.

"Remember," I said, "I offer unlimited return engagements in case this effort doesn't take."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said sourly, and stormed out of the place.

I never heard from her again. Either she in fact got pregnant or I had so deeply offended her with my unwelcome request for rear entry that she gave me up as (if you'll pardon the pun) a bad seed.

*

The next person to show up at my office was a woman, apparently in her early thirties, named Janice Miles. She was a blonde, full-figured woman with rosy cheeks and a seemingly cheerful demeanor, and I suspected I'd enjoy her a bit more than I did Sandra.

I started by saying, "I gather you're here because you wish to become enceinte."

My French pronunciation is atrocious, and she rolled her eyes at it. "That's the general idea."

I saw she had a ring on her finger, so I said, "Am I right in thinking that your husband can't quite get the job done?"

She glared at me. "My wife"—she almost spat the word out—"thinks you might be the solution to our problems."

"Ah, I see!" I said. I almost added, So you're one of those . . .

She eyed me keenly. "You don't have a problem with that, do you?"

"Not at all! I just hope you don't have a problem with it. I mean, for this process to work both partners have to be, um, willing participants."

"I get that. I think I can manage. Anyway, I've sucked a few cocks in my time."

"You have?" I said, surprise.

"Yeah, sure. Just for fun."

All of a sudden something else occurred to me. "Um, Janice, I don't suppose you still have your—?" I gazed at the space between her legs.

"My hymen?" she said, laughing jovially. "No. When I was twenty I played around with a dildo, and the next thing you know"—she made a popping sound with her lips—"there went my maidenhead."

"Well, that's something of a relief."

We got dressed pretty quickly after that. I have to say, for a lesbian she looked damn nice. That's not fair: a lot of lesbians look really nice (from the male perspective), just as a lot of gay men look nice from the female perspective. She had ample breasts, wide hips, and in general a body that a guy could really sink his teeth into.

But when I undressed, she gaped at my organ, and a look of worry came over her.

"That's, um, a bit large," she said, her eyes fixed on my groin.

"Oh, I'm sure you can handle it," I said.

So we got down to it. Once again I wanted to make her come first—but, curiously, she didn't want me to use my mouth. Maybe she felt it would be a kind of betrayal to her wife if she allowed that. Who knows? So I had to use my fingers—but, if I do say so myself, I got the job done pretty well that way.

We had a splendid time copulating, and as we were cuddling afterwards, I couldn't help coming out with my bonus offer.

She looked at me blankly. "You want to go into my butt?"

"Yes," I said, suddenly feeling like a little boy who's gotten caught taking too many cookies from the cookie jar.

"Why?" she asked.

"Um, well, I just like it."

"You know, of course, that I've never done it."

"I didn't think you had."

"I heard it hurts—a lot."

"Oh, it all depends. Anyway, you have to use lube."

"Yes, I figured. What lube did you have in mind?"

I paused a little before I said, "Cold cream."

She brayed with laughter. "You wanna put cold cream in my butt?"

"It works pretty well."

She continued to peer at me. Then, with a little shrug, she said, "Okay."

I was dumbfounded. "Really?"

"Yeah, sure. I mean, I've just lost my virginity—from the straight man's point of view—once already. I guess I could do it again from the other directioin."

I almost leaped out of bed and trotted over to the medicine chest in my bathroom, where I keep a jar of cold cream for just this purpose. I came back to the bedroom. Janice watched me as if hypnotized as I scooped out a liberal dose onto my fingers, then, instructing her to lie flat on her stomach, put the cream on her. She wriggled a little bit from the contact of the cold, wet stuff, but otherwise she took it pretty well.

Before I started, she said, a little alarmed, "You're not going to put that whole thing in me back there, are you?"

"Uh, no," I said. "I don't think that would even be possible."

So I went in—very slowly and gently at first. As could be expected, she instinctively tightened her sphincter as the tip of my cock slipped in, and I had to massage her bottom to get her to loosen up. After that, I had little trouble going in to the length of about five inches. I figured that was enough.

I was now entirely on top of her, almost covering her body with my own. I brought my hands around her chest and took hold of her breasts, and as I pounded her she let out little grunts or sighs or moans in rhythm to my thrusts. I wasn't entirely sure she was enjoying the experience (I, of course, was in heaven), so after a while I slipped one hand down so that it was in the area of her sex. I started fingering it, and her eyes widened at the feel of that. She was still wincing every so often, but the surge of pleasure that my stroking was creating was at least something of an antidote to whatever pain she was feeling.

When I shot my come into her, she emitted a little gurgle and stuck her slender little tongue out of her mouth. I was still holding her breasts in one hand and her sex in the other, and with my cock plugging up her butt, she was really and truly possessed. No female, however skilled she may be, could possibly do that!

When I was done, I didn't come out immediately. I enjoy the sensation of remaining firmly embedded in a woman—whether vaginally or anally—for minutes on end. But Janice had reached the limit of her endurance, saying: "Gee, Peter, can you come out of me?"

"Sure thing," I said.

When I pulled out, she rubbed her bottom and scowled at me. "That kind of hurt."

"I believe I warned you about that."

"Yeah, but it hurt quite a bit."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't know how anyone gets used to that."

She got up and dressed quickly. While she mopped up the fluid leaking out of her butt with some Kleenex, she did everything she could to keep the juices in her pussy from trickling out.

I actually ended up doing her one more time a few days later. And a few weeks after that, she announced that she was really and truly enceinte. Another job well done!