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(Excerpt from a 30 chapter Vignette.)
My poor little pooh-pooh hole was still swollen from last night when my girlfriend, Sarah, and her new boyfriend, Tom, came over to my apartment for dinner.
Tom wanted to try a threesome, and that was okay with me and, apparently, okay with his girlfriend, Sarah, too–and that makes three.
Sarah’s boyfriends and I, whomever they may be at the time, share her. Between us; she’s such a little bitch, she can never get enough. Tut, tut!
Although, I, a lone woman, and my preference that of Woman, herself: I-will-have the occasional fling with a guy, just to clean-out my holes, that is; to clean-out my pie.
Usually, I use one of Sarah’s current boyfriends. More due to sheer laziness of convenience on my behalf, rather than out of jealousy, envy or the employment of trivial emotional chides.
I let Sarah do the prospecting, and I refine the rough ore, picking out a rare jewel, now and again, rejecting the slag, distilling—decanting-off the impurities, reducing the volume of the chaff; down–enhancing the purity unto the core.
Sarah has a rather regrettable affiliation toward “the slag”, but that is nothing more than an unfortunate character flaw in her. Basically, Sarah is a cunt, but she thinks she is something—more, than that: Therein lies the inherent problem…!
Sarah, and I, in all ways imaginable, share; but, of course, we only share between ourselves! The third party, gets nothing, other than what they are allowed—by the sheer physical participation in [our]–vignette. The very cheek of it all…!
I’m such an easy-going type though, and just lo–ve sharing, but I only “do-it” with “them” as long as “she” is there…Sarah, I mean; because, after her boyfriends unload into me, I insist! she lick all my holes clean–afterward: I like it, she likes it, he likes it—Hell, we all like it! …It’s what I call-Democratic Hedonism.
Sarah’s told me about Tom’s cock. Although it is not very long, only about six and a half inches when rock-hard, (we measured it one night; it’s an average schlong.) Nevertheless, I swear, I have never seen one so thick! It looks like a baby’s outstretched arm grasping at a hot-house tomato in its greedy little handy grip.
Sarah trawls the bars at night, picking up tit-bits of information, and delight: Here, there, and everywhere, from bar-tenders, acquaintances and those who simply haven’t got a care; about the size of men’s dongs: Based preferably not on rumor, but on actual-sight; listening intently through the jukebox music, through the cutting-edge of the ageing songs, of the night.
Sarah’s love-tunnel isn’t very deep, but I swear I could get into it with both my feet, if I tried. Her vulva is canlı bahis like a horse’s collar, and more-often-than-not, it smells like one too. I constantly have to remind her to wash it, but it’s an exercise in futility, I have concluded: I holler, but the shouting only creates—ennui, its true.
Her pussy is in such demand: In use so often, and regularly, that it’s a total lost cause, I feel–so I’ll be dammed!
I, simply, just don’t know how she handles the sheer volume of cumm that flows her way, in an average day, the calculation construed: The mind reels!
If Sarah washed her cunt after every time; she allowed men to use it, then the poor swollen vent, would be scrubbed red raw, in its prime, allowing for those who would, abuse it. So it remains–relatively clean, but somewhat…stinky, at all times. Sarah has a stinky cunt, but, if one loves Sarah, then, one has to love her stink too!
I have to admit, I do–sort of–get turned on by Sarah’s scent, but unless I stay on-top of her, well, let’s just think—“Fish Market!” at 5pm on a Saturday afternoon, after a busy day’s trading!
With practical supervision, Sarah can produce a scent not unlike, that of fresh sturgeon-row set on ice, sprinkled with a pinch of crystallized sea-salt, gathered from the very evaporation-pools found glinting, serenely, amid the setting suns, of wind blown days, timed-out, along a pristine, isolated, coast; along an encrusted-rim of the Caspian itself, garnished by a lone sprig of crushed mint leaf, and an adroit twist of lemon-peel zest…! It [is] rather—special.
Sarah hones in on men with short thick dongs, like a side-winder tomahawk heat-seeking missile: Rushing at the after-burner’s heat of a retreating, yet, doomed, inferior, hostile, fighter-bogie, infiltrating her legislated, territorial, sky-domain…and she never misses!
After Sarah’s initial-tactical-victory, where she either forces her [bogie] nemesis to land as a prisoner-of-war, into the open arms of her unconditional surrender, [and apparent–love], or simply shoots them down in flames, without as much of a thought, as she would have had in the contemplation of a chip of nail varnish, inflicted upon a single toe-nail, in the wearing of peep-toed sandals, on a trip to a rather tiresome beach, of greater pebble content, as opposed to, strictly, the general, anticipated, benign sandy version–of it: She either reels them in, or cuts them loose, with little, or no compunction, either way. After all, she has two mouths to feed, when all is told! Yes, I get hungry too! Bitch!
Eventually, like all relationships, when the defeated bite back, when the worm, finally turns…when they get tired of [the] cunt, and start probing [the] rose-bud, well, that’s where I come in. bahis siteleri I always know when it happens too. I don’t hear from Sarah for a week or three, because she’s–“in lo–ve”–Oh, God! Give-me-a-break! Then, out of the blue, she wants to introduce me to her new boyfriend, over dinner–at my place usually? Bitch!
Invariably, during casual dinner chat, “The Coke-Bottle Story”, just happens to come up in casual conversation! I know then, Sarah has brought her latest ‘concubine’ over to try and quench his thirst for fudge-packing. Sarah’s bung-hole, you see, is as tight as a crab’s ass at ten thousand fathoms, unlike her pussy hole…!
I watch her as she attempts to maneuver the whole focus of the dinner-party around to meet her own end.
She wants to borrow my bung-hole for the night, that’s what she’s after, and she wants to give [it] to Tom, in the fervent hope that this [new] beau, will-not-evolve into another ex-beau, as per-usual.
Poor Sarah, always, ‘…Looking for love, in all the wrong places…’
Sarah is lucky I’m a good friend–and that I just love getting my fudge packed–but that’s totally besides the point! She owes me, and that’s that!
I’m the very opposite of Sarah.
I have the longer, narrower, more slender type of love-tunnel, but can get almost anything into my ass-hole.
At a mutual friend’s birthday party: Where we all got a little too drunk, and the games–well, yes, they also became a little-too-naughty, as well!
…Sarah won-her-game category, by taking a rather large gourd deep into her pussy-hole: Some seven inches in diameter, it was! She didn’t bat an eyelid, the little trooper; a tear came to my eye, as I watched her “take-it”, and take it all, valiantly…! And I swear, the little brave bitch had room to spare, to be sure…to be sure!
I won my category, by taking a 2 liter coke bottle all the way up my bung-hole, blunt side first!
I came hard the instant it was pushed it into me, and sprayed the lot of them from head-to-toe, before they could move out of my firing range of my pee-pee hole.
It cost me a weeks wages in dry-cleaning bills, those bitches were pissed, in more ways than one, I guess?
After some considerable coaxing, (and I do so, so, love the coaxing), and a couple of glasses of wine, to boot, I was enticed into showing-off my party trick for Tom, after dinner: But,
“Not! on this occasion.”, I thought to myself.
No, not with the 2 liter bottle!
I didn’t want to have to deal with all the cleaning-up in the morning!
I had to be at work early, and I always cumm and squirt everywhere with the 2 liter size. So I used the wine bottle from the table instead.
As it happens, I might as well have done the bahis şirketleri 2 liter one anyway, and raked in the usual applause for it at the end, because Sarah grabbed the neck of the wine bottle sticking out of my bung-hole, and did my ass good and proper with it! OoOoOoOoOW!
It felt so good though, that I just couldn’t find the will [in me] to stop her. In fact I had both my hands grasped tightly around her wrists helping her thrusts! I wanted it all the way into me, hard and fast–blunt and relentless!
I was laying flat on my back in the middle of the floor: Tom holding my legs apart all way-up over and beyond my shoulders. Sarah, meanwhile, was pumping away at my ass-hole, with the bottle, like she was making butter the old fashion way.
…Long, and sure, with a sharp intensity, that opened my urethra wide!
My cunt was quivering: shooting blast, after blast, of piss out of me with each and every inward thrust of the bottom of the Chardonnay bottle, rammed deep into my bung-hole without quarter, until every fucking drop of warm golden rain was in the process, of being pumped out of my bulging wine-filled bladder, squirting high up into the air above us, like a reluctant, hesitant, fountain, malfunctioning in a sunny square, somewhere, in a courtyard of Seville.
The squirts were so powerful that they hit ceiling.
The sheer force of the stream intersecting a flat plane at a slightly oblique angle from perpendicular, resulted in creating a plume: A spray, billowing-out from the impact zone; raining-down over the three of us, almost atomized, until we were drenched to the skin, with my warm, lemon-colored, urine.
Sarah pulled the container out of my ass, the bottom-dimple packed solid with my mud.
The travel along the body of the bottle rimming-out, at about 8 inches up.
It made a loud pop as it came out, and my ass-hole slammed-shut, tighter than a virgin’s bedroom door, after the reception, of an arranged marriage; in the face of the eager, drooling groom.
A moment later, internal pressure that had been built-up in my anal chamber by the relentless, vicious, pumping of that bitch Sarah-on-the-bottle; finally got its release…!
It let-loose with a deep, protracted, fairly baritone fart: A humid wind, issued-forth out of my innards, with such immediate force; vibrating the over-stretched curtains of my bung-hole, in such a manner, as to closely mimic, a rendition, not unlike a sextet of trombone, mixing-it-up in a New Orleans funeral march parade. I blushed red with embarrassment!
…And the air was filled with a thick aroma of wet clay, mixed with honey, and cinnamon, coupled with that pungent smell, that comes off the steaming wet coat of a galloping horse. Sarah loves it, and make me ‘pooh’ in her face, with her finger, as she licks my slit for hours during an evening: I let her have her way with me of-a-night.
It allows me time to catch up on my reading, while she is quietly occupied.
I like to read.
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