Three Men Who Get a Lot of Pussy

Some warnings: if you don't like violence, skip the Dick sections, and if you're easily disgusted, especially in a moral sense, skip the John sections.

I have no idea how to categorize this story. Originally I'd gone with romance, and I'd still argue for that, but it's definitely not what a lot of people look for in "romance."

I guess "non-erotic" makes sense since a lot of people won't find this story a turn on. But I hope it's a good story, and, really, I think it is. For now it might be the best I've published on this site, but I hope I will do better better in the future!

(Please don't mix me up with the narrator. I'm just the author. Hopefully the narrator's more interesting than I am.)

Anyway, feel free to let me know what you think.

Enjoy!

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Preface

We've all seen statistics about a few dozen old men having more wealth than the bottom 95% of the people in the world put together. That really shows two things: a few people have literally inconceivable weath, while a literally inconceivable number of people have nothing or even less than nothing.

Obviously not everyone loves this situation, and since a little violence would redistribute things, and at least some people are eager to make that happen, such extreme inequality has to be sustained by even greater violence, or at least the threat of it, as well as constant propaganda to persuade people in the middle that their interests lie with "the haves" rather than with "the have-nots."

Pussy inequality is fortunately not quite so bad, but it does exist. We usually don't consider it a polite topic of conversation, probably because the men who get a lot of it and the women who give it to them strongly influence what we consider polite conversation, and they don't want the deprived men to realize how unequal the situation is.

Why not?

Because they would murder people.

This insight has led some to wonder whether women ought to have sex with men in order to save the world from their violence, but we might also wonder whether men ought either to try a little harder to render themselves fuckable. After all, the world has plenty of lonely women and most of the time most guys only need one.

Be all that as it may, we wish to inform you (lest the title is too vague) that this is a story about three of the men who do get a lot of pussy.

That means, to be clear, that these three gentlemen have a lot of sex with women. Specifically, their dicks get hard, women open their legs, and these guys just slide their boners right up in those wet, slick pussies and jiggle around until their cum shoots out.

And they do that quite often.

So without further ado, let's meet our heroes.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

John

John looks around, wondering where to wipe the booger off his finger. He's only renting the Rolls, so he doesn't care, he just wants to hide it from the driver. Or the chauffeur. Whatever.

He rubs it on the side of the seat just in time, just before the driver opens the door for him.

"Thank you, sir," John says, handing the guy a twenty.

Getting out of a car isn't as easy as it used to be. John eats well, very well, big hotel buffet breakfasts, whatever's for lunch, and quite often steak for dinner. But the most exercise he gets is when he decides he wants to be on top, which only happens two or three times a day. And unless he cums pretty quickly, he goes back on the bottom and lets the girls do the work.

He's rarely actually seen his dick go into a woman. There was a time when he was ambitious to seduce women and worked out a lot, but paying was just so much easier, so why bother?

And, ironically, paying was cheaper, too. Trying to impress women, he'd bought a big mansion in Beverly Hills, seven thousand square feet, with a swimming pool, wine cellar, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of furniture. Back then he'd owned his own Rolls Royce, as well as a Ferrari and a Jaguar. He'd had his own driver, chef, and household staff.

Such a fucking waste of money. Now he's much more efficient. For legal reasons, he maintains a small permanent address in a tax-friendly state, but he spends all his time and money traveling the world as a big-tipping sex-tourist. He fucks hot girls who are never trying to decide whether they want to be with him. No, they do their very best to please him, and it's easy for him to stay under budget.

He still dresses well as a man of his shape can. He stops back in London about twice a year for the tailors to measure his ass and gut. It's not a bad place, London, plenty of girls from all over the world.

Today we find him in Sydney, making his way from the car to the doors of Dragon Ladies Massage. The tinted glass doors open automatically in front of him, and as soon as he steps through, a tall middle-aged white woman greets him:

"Ah, Mr. Jackson again! What an honor! We've missed you!"

"Thank you," he smiles bashfully, like a little boy embarrassed by a compliment.

He hasn't been here for about three years, and they still remember him. That's what money can do.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Blake

Blake closes the bedroom door behind him.

"They're all asleep now," he tells his wife. "We got all the way through the stories of Samuel and Saul, though."

She closes the magazine's been reading — this month's issue of Christian Motherhood magazine, with a picture on the cover of a pretty white woman having a picnic with two pretty white children surrounded by article titles: "Biblical Discipline and Submission," "Housekeeping Tips from a Pro," "Speaking the Truth in Love? Or Nagging?" and, "He has Duties in the Bedroom Too" — and puts it on her nightstand.

(On his nightstand we see the book The Antichrist: Biblical Evidence. The cover promises to prove that he is alive today and that he is a Democrat and a Socialist. The image of Satan on the cover looks suspiciously like a darker-skinned version of Barack Hussein Obama, but if Obama wanted to look like Anton LaVey.)

"I started my period today," she looks up at him, obviously eager to see his excitement. "You know what that means...."

He smiles happily. "We need to hurry these prayers up."

She gets up and walks around to his side of the bed, where there is more room for them to kneel together. They kiss each other's lips, pull their bodies close together. He wraps his arms around her, feeling her soft skin through her thin cotton nightgown.

"I love you, Candy," he sighs.

She rests her head on his shoulder and breathes in his scent. Masculinity tempered with domesticity. "I love you too, Blake."

He won't be wearing those dark blue plaid flannel pajamas very much longer, for Candy is the kind of Christian wife who believes that Christian wives have a duty to ensure that godly men have even more fun than evil men. As a result, every month when she starts her period, she performs oral sex for him, and he always returns the favor on her fertile days, warming her all the way up before trying to do his own duty: giving her another baby.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Dick

Dick is initially only mildly annoyed to find a Camaro in his driveway, preventing him from parking in the garage. He pulls up right behind it, intending to punish whoever it is by forcing them to ask him to move for them to get out.

He takes off his aviator shades and checks his hair in the rearview mirror.

Big night tonight. It's been months since he's seen Adriana, but their youngest is two now, and she looks pretty fucking good again in the pics she's been posting online. So he's surprising her tonight, showing up unannounced with a diamond necklace as a gift.

Why tonight? Well, she's about to ovulate — he knows because he tips the maid to keep him updated on her periods — and he intends to get her pregnant again. He's got a few days free before he has to start preparing for the job in Somalia, so he's going to spend them boning the fuck out of her while their three kids run wild.

The kids don't seem to be home, though. Usually they recognize his big black Navigator and run out to him, shouting "Daddy!"

That's how all the kids in all his families usually greet him, because their all mothers know who pays the fucking bills.

He presses the garage door opener and gets out. Still no kids running out to greet him. They must not be home.

He checks out the Camaro on his way past. It's an old classic, kept up pretty nicely. He doesn't know Camaros well, but he'd guess mid-80s. T-top, standard transmission.

Something about it feels wrong. Adriana might have bought it, but it somehow seems like a man's car. But why would another man's car be parked in his driveway?

He closes the garage door behind him and goes through the side door into the kitchen.

"Dick!" Adriana says, rushing to embrace him.

Her kiss tastes as good as ever. He picks her up by her hips, sits her on the edge of the sink, and opens his eyes just in time to see a tall, skinny guy run across his front lawn to the Camaro. He must have just gone out the front door.

"Well he's not going to be able to get out," Dick says, pointing through the window with his chin.

Adriana turns, guiltily, to look.

"He's just a friend," she says quickly. "The babysitter's brother."

Dick and Adriana watch the skinny guy assess the situation. After a moment's thought, he just runs off down the street.

"He could just ask me to move so he can get out."

Adriana is unbuckling his belt, trying to get to his cock.

"He's got to come back for his car eventually," Dick shrugs.

He tears her blouse open, sending little plastic buttons flying in every direction. "You're looking good," he whispers, pulling her panties down as she pulls her bra off. "Push-up bra. Plunging neckline. Tight skirt, perfume. Bright red lipstick. Funny to think you weren't expecting me."

"Oh, god, Dick, I've missed you," Adriana moans as he slides inside her.

He grabs her hair, pulls her head back, not to hurt her so much as to threaten her.

"You better fuck me like you mean it," he growls.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

John

John wonders how much he'd have to pay to fuck the woman who greets him at the door. With any woman, as far as he knows, it's always only a matter of the right price.

She's older than the girls, maybe even as old as he is, but she has something — perhaps dignity — that they lack, and perhaps he'd enjoy trying to fuck it out of her. She was probably one of them once, she probably knows her way around a dick better than most of them do.

Maybe, maybe not. It doesn't matter anyway because he doesn't have the courage to ask her. Even though he's paying, she seems to be in charge, and for some reason he wants to please her so that she'll think he's a good customer.

"How many ladies will your pleasure require this afternoon?"

"Four, if that's all right."

"Of course it's alright!" the woman winks as he hands her his credit card. "Shall we just hold on to this and keep a running tab?"

"Yes, please."

"Very good," the woman says. "We'll start with just the first four then, but you know you can always have more."

"Thank you."

She leads him through another set of automatic doors and down a dark hall into a room where a few dozen young women sit on sofas that wrap around the room. As soon as John and the attendant enter, the women rise and shed their robes, revealing their bodies, naked now except for chains around their waists with little badges displaying their numbers.

They look at John with exactly as much enthusiasm as you would expect given that he is a short, bald, almost comically overweight man with a badly pockmarked face...

... with exactly as much enthusiasm as you would expect, that is, given all that and the fact that they all know he regularly tips as much as two thousand dollars for a good root — several times more than the actual cost.

That's big bickies, as they say, so his reputation precedes him. It's easy money, too, since he apparently doesn't want anything particularly kinky. Sure, he enjoys watching girls sixty-nine each other, he loves facials, and he doesn't mind if they tie a girl up for him, but he doesn't like her to pretend that he's raping her. He doesn't even like rimjobs — some girls have tried, and he asked them not to!

Very vanilla for a guy that tips the way he does. But of course they understand this kind of customer: he is lonely, sad, he just wants to feel loved.

Whoever said that the stomach is the shortest way to a man's heart didn't know about the dick. But these girls know.

And they know it is very, very important to satisfy him. He sometimes gets five or six "massages" a day, spending thousands and thousands of dollars, day after day, as long as they keep him happy.

But if they fail to fully satisfy him, perhaps even just once, he won't say anything, he won't complain or give them any instructions, he'll just sulk away and start going to another brothel, or even leave the country. They'll probably only be able to guess what they did wrong, and they never know if he'll come back. And if he does come back, it's two or three years later.

And for the girls who fail to satisfy him, well, the least of their problems will be that he doesn't tip them much on his way out.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Blake

"Dear Heavenly Father," Blake begins, his wife kneeling beside him, modest even in her own bedroom, her long brown hair brushed straight down her back.

They rest their elbows on their queen-sized bed, hands folded, eyes closed, heads bowed, looking exactly the part they're choosing to play in this life: ordinary, decent, God-fearing, humble, small-western-town, pious white working-class American Christians.

The country-style quilt on the bed was made for them by the ladies of the church as a present for their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Beside the bed are two simple wooden nightstands, each with an old-fashioned lamp and a wind-up alarm clock. Everything could be from the (way they imagine the) 1950s, before American society was (as they see it) ruined by feminism, civil rights, and liberalism.

"We just come before You tonight with gratitude for the beautiful children You've blessed us with," he continues. "May You keep them healthy and safe, and guide our hands as parents that we would know the way to bring them up to love and fear You."

"Yes, Lord," Candy agrees. "Amen, Lord. Amen."

"And I thank You, Lord, for my beautiful wife that You've blessed me with. You know, Lord, that I love her with all of my heart, above everything and everyone except You alone, Lord. I pray, Lord, that You will grant her the patience she needs to forgive me for my many failings, and that You will teach me to be a gentle, wise, and loving husband to her."

Blake's silence signals that he has concluded his prayer, so Candy says a short one of her own:

"Yes, Lord, thank You for the blessings of my husband and children. Please keep us all safe from the temptations of the world, and guide me in Your ways that I might be a good wife to the husband You have given me and a good mother to the children You have entrusted to me.

"And, Lord, please enable me to please my husband as he pleases me, tonight and every night, according to Your plan for Christian marriage. We know that You made us for each other and for each other's pleasure, and we seek to follow You in all things."

After a moment of silence, Blake closes the prayer: "In Your Son's precious Name we pray."

Together they say, "Amen," looking in each other's eyes and smiling.

Blake leans over to gently kiss his wife's lips, stroking her sandy blonde hair.

"I love you," he tells her again. "You're far too beautiful for me."

"I am not," she smiles, "you're a good man and I love you too."

They stand up together, embracing, kissing, and Blake pulls his wife's nightgown over her head.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Dick

Adriana lies on the bed, now, hips elevated on a pillow just in case a little assistance from gravity will help his sperm reach her eggs.

Dick sits up next to her, looking at her phone.

"So your boyfriend's name is Lon?"

"Dick," Adriana pleads, "I'm so, so sorry. It's just that you're never home...."

"Shhhhhh," Dick tells her, soothingly petting her head as he scrolls through the texts on her phone. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just lay there and keep your hips up. You had 'something special' for him, tonight huh?"

"I just meant —"

"Shut up, whore," he pinches her lips between his thumb and forefinger. "Are the kids really mine?"

She nods.

"All of them?"

She shakes free.

"Dick, don't say things like that!"

"Why not? I'm getting them tested. I don't trust whores."

"Okay, of course, Dick, of course. Anything you want. I'm sorry. I'll...."

"And for that matter, where are my children?"

"At a babysitter's. She's a great girl. Very responsible."

"Very responsible. Interesting that you thought to say so. How old is she?"

"Eighteen. She's a good girl."

"How long is she expecting to have them tonight?"

"Dick, it's just that you haven't been home in months. You have all your other women but all I have are the kids —"

He takes her face in his big hand, squeezing just hard enough to communicate a threat, not hard enough to hurt her.

"That's not what I asked."

"Eleven. Eleven o'clock tonight."

"That's a long time. Let's text our friend Lon."

"Why?"

"Come get ur car," Dick types on her phone, reading aloud for Adriana's benefit. "He will move his car. I told him ur the babysitters boyfriend lol."

"What are you going to do, Dick?" she worries.

"Have a chat."

She looks up at Dick, at his massive, powerful body, at the eagle, globe, and anchor tattoo on his shoulder. She knows the stories behind some of his scars, but not all of them.

Chatting isn't really what he's known for.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

John

Dragon Ladies is truly a global establishment. Sure, they have women from China, Japan, Philippines, Thailand, Vietnam, and so on, but there are also women from India, Brazil, Nigeria, Russia, Mexico.... All kinds of skin colors, breast shapes (both "natural" and "enhanced"), hair styles....

And all of them are beautiful. No wonder the prodigal son has returned.

John's feeling conservative this morning, so he begins by selecting two girls that he remembers enjoying before.

"Number twenty-six."

Number twenty-six jumps up and down, clapping with joy, and then runs out to hug and kiss him. She's definitely a true "dragon lady," a Thai woman with fake breasts and tattoos that he doesn't understand. John receives her kiss, and then, as she puts his arm around her waist, John points to another girl.

"Number nineteen."

This one is Pakistani. Dark, skinny, angular, with dark knowing eyes and breasts that are small but interestingly floppy, she greets him with a lusty embrace and a sultry kiss.

"Hello, Mr. Jackson," she drawls. "Welcome back."

Reassured by having his arms around familiar girls, he takes a chance on a new girl.

"Thirty."

Number thirty looks exotic. Maybe a Filipina, John guesses, vaguely Hispanic, and he hasn't had a nice spicy Hispanic girl in weeks. She walks to him slowly, licking her lips and showing off her swaying curves. Her kiss is hot and wet, and John's mouth waters. When she's finished, she turns around, pushing her butt into his crotch.

"And number eight."

She's a short and girlish blonde, very petite, her small breasts topped by pointy nipples. She skips up to John, giggling, giving him a very innocent little peck of a kiss.