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The Mrs.

By: voxincognito56



Their first time, when Chandler wanted to go down on Sandra, she'd objected, said she was "ugly down there."

"I know that's something men do to please women," she said, her clipped, mysterious accent, "But you don't have to do that, really."

And it was part of the game she was playing, or so Chandler assumed. 

So he turned out the light, none of her alleged "ugly down there" visible now, and found his way between her thighs in the dark. 

After some tentative exploration with the flat of his tongue, Sandra got up without saying anything, went to the bathroom and started showering. When Chandler followed, she was scrubbing between her legs with a bar of soap."

"Hon, let's face it it, that's where I pee."

Chandler took the soap and proceeded to lather her from head to foot, slow and calm. Then he'd shampooed her hair, rinsed, and finding that the instructions for the conditioner recommended leaving it in for several minutes, folded her in his wet arms and kissed her in the water and steam while the conditioner supposedly did its thing.

Then he turned the shower off and gently dried her with a big, starchy hotel towel; a different towel to wrap her hair in a turban. When he picked her up and carried her to the bed, it was as delicately as any bride over the threshold. 

He lay beside her, face to face.

"Let's get one thing perfectly clear," he said. "You're beautiful. I mean top to bottom. Fingers, toes, eyes, legs... The back of your knees... I mean, I don't know if what you said is part of your act, but if you really, truly think there's anything ugly about you, you're mistaken. You've goofed. As smart as you are about so many things, this is one place where you've plainly got it wrong."

This wasn't flattery. He was being honest.

And after he'd kissed his way down her breasts, tummy, pudendum, her cool, soap-scented skin beneath his lips, the springy hair of her pussy tickling his cheeks, she'd let him plow the furrow of her sex with his tongue, shivered slightly when he grazed the hood of her clit. 

Chandler continued, gradually drawing his tongue up over the little swelling, and when she responded with her hips moving and low moans and sharp intakes of breath, he took the chance of introducing his finger up inside her, started the steady, easy massage of that spongy, arching space inside, behind her belly.

She cooed like a dove before she came, wailed like a fire truck when she did, and ejaculated all over Chandler and the bed sheets.

Sandra.

Chandler had asked her name in the game and she'd responded with a train wreck of germanic consonants that Chandler would need to write down and practice before getting even close.

"You can just call me Sandra, if you like," she said, winking, and Chandler got it.

"Sandra and Santa," he said. "The Claus's"

And Chandler found that he liked the game--the whole idea of an illicit affair with The Big Guy's wife, an aura of naughty fun and no little mystery. 

"When can I see you again?" he'd asked.

"Again?" she asked, somewhat startled.

"Well sure." Chandler said. "I mean, if you want to, I'd love it."

She appeared to ponder, then smiled at him.

"Well, you know, this time next year, of course."

"What? Next Year?"

"Christmas Eve," she said, and seeing Chandler's confusion, took his cheeks between her fingertips, kissed his mouth and looked him in the eye to make sure he understood.

"That's the way it is, Darling. This is the one night on your calendar where he and I are of this world, the one night we can be here sampling what it's like to be... (She looked to one side as if searching, waived her arms in a slight juggling motion.) "Human."

After a while, Chandler finally got the nerve to say, "Sandra, that's crazy."

She laughed. "I guess I'm crazy then. But only one night out of the year. The rest of the time I'm what you'd call 'Fay.' And she laughed again, told him she would be here at the Embassy Hotel, the following year. She'd love to see him again, if he was up for it. (Pun intended.)

"By the way," she said, dressing, collecting her purse, slipping into her (certainly real) fur coat, "I've always wanted to try smoking. I mean so many people still do it, regardless of how bad it is for them. I've always wondered what the appeal might be." 

Later that week, or perhaps the week following, Chandler looked it up. "Fay" is one of those delightful words that has been around long enough to morph several accepted spellings and just as many meanings, and one incarnation of the word was indeed synonymous with insanity. 

Another one had to do with fairies and elves.

Chandler sat at his computer and laughed. In the adjoining office, his admin, Doris, overheard and asked, "What's so funny?"

"She either wants me to think she's nuts or a pixie."

Doris, who had no idea what Chandler was talking about, cleared her throat loudly and went back to work. 

The second time, and Chandler's financial affairs had flourished that year, earned him the right to consider his time valuable, but there he was on Christmas Eve with an unopened pack of Marlburoughs and a gold plated lighter on the table, ready to wait in the bar of The Embassy Hotel, ready to sit there looking foolish all night, ready to be pathetic should she never show.

Chandler waiting, wondering, the minutes passing... 

Then heads turned, conversations lulled. The bartender stood up straighter and broadened his shoulders. There she was walking through the room in her Gaultier blouse, Gucci leathers, her Gabriel Hounds jeans, seemingly (but not) oblivious to the tidal effect she had on the room's attention. 

"Hey Handsome," she said, sliding into the opposite side of the the booth, the booth that will be "theirs" as long as they do this.

"You made it," Chandler said, no attempt to hide his relief.

"And you did too," she said smiling. "I want you to know I really appreciate that. I know time is different for you."

Chandler squinted his eyes and furrowed his brow, and Sandra saw his confusion.

"Well," Sandra went on, "time's kind of like a tyrant for you, isn't it? Greedy despot that needs to be obeyed? For my kind, however, it's more an elected official that can be bribed. I mean think about it. How else would my husband get all over the world in one night?"

Ah, Chandler thought. Wake up Watson, the game's afoot. She wants to pick up where we left off last year. "Sandra Claus" it is, then. 

Was that the year she asserted she could close her eyes, concentrate, and actually envision where her mythical husband was? "See" what he was doing at any given moment?

"Do it," Chandler said, and there in their booth, she sighed, shrugged and closed her eyes. A moment or two later she flinched slightly, the way you do on a subway train that suddenly lurches. Then she shook her head, looked exasperated.

"What?" Chandler asked.

"This house in Germany," she said. "He's just got there. There's this chubby hausfrau and her daughter on their backs, laying on the kitchen table... They're both nude, giggling. Legs up in the air."

She opened her eyes, saw Chandler's look and said, "What? You thought it was milk and cookies all night?"

Chandler still just stared.

"Oh please, Hon. He's been doing these rounds for thousands of years. This isn't the first time he's stumbled into some mother-daughter action, believe me.

Chandler laughed. "You actually had me going there."

Sandra smiled. "What? Going? You find it arousing, do you?"

Chandler let that pass. Just to have something to say he said "God, I sure hope the husband doesn't show up with a shotgun or something. Imagine what a catastrophe that would be for Christmas."

"Oh no," Sandra rejoined. "The husband was there. And it wasn't a shotgun, it was a bottle of schnapps. He was sitting there naked, big grin, stroking his knobby hard on and urging them on."

Chandler laughed again, but then thought of something errantly funny and stopped short.

"Oh my god, Sandra!" he urged, his tone theatric. "Please don't tell me Santa Claus goes both ways! PLEASE DON'T!"

"Sweetie, believe me, if there was a third way, he'd be all over that too. Horny bastard." 

Later that evening, in their room, she wanted to fuck outside, on the balcony. They did it despite the chill of Bay Area December (that Sandra seemed not to notice anyway), despite their balcony overlooking the area around the swimming pool. 

Below them, in fact, several people walked through the courtyard, people who could look up at any moment and see Sandra bent over the railing, her breasts dancing back and forth to the rhythm of Chandler's thrusting into her from behind. 

Indeed, how is it that none of these bystanders heard the repeated, bouncy "plop, plop" of Chandler's groin playing a drumbeat on Sandra's ass? Chandler himself heard it echoing around the courtyard. 

Then Chandler was grateful to be in bed, warm under a blanket, Sandra backed into his arms, and she lay on her side and admitted Chandler from behind. They spooned.

And for a while Sandra twisted her head to kiss Chandler on the lips, and it was delightfully awkward, but then she gave this up, sunk into the trance of it, the pleasure of Chandler's cock massaging her insides, the bonus of him reaching around to fondle her breasts, strum the wet explosive of her clit .

Chandler, without stopping, saw Sandra in the mirror on the wall over the dresser, opposite the bed, and noticed something familiar about her expression. He played his hunch.

"Where is he now?" he whispered into her ear, his breath haggard as he plumbed Sandra's cunt without missing a beat.

She didn't respond.

"Where?" He insisted.

"New Zealand," she said, clipped and breathless. "Hospital. Night shift nurse. She's... 

"Yes?" Chandler insisted. 

He's got something up her ass... She's wanted... wanted it that way for... for... but... afraid to ask her boyfriend and... and my husband knows... knows everything and... Oh... Oh, Chandler, I'm going to..."

And when Chandler felt her shudder, felt the the spasms of her vagina tight, warm and wet around his rod, that's when he let himself go.

Another time she'd said, "Chandler, show me porn," and he'd shrugged his shoulders, arrowed through the bewildering menu of smut titles on the hotel TV and defaulted on something about vacationing couples switching partners south of the border. 

Sandra sat on the lower edge of the bed, watching intently, and then came to Chandler to imitate how an actress on TV performed felatio.

"Yes?" she asked, letting Chandler's erection plop out of her mouth momentarily.

"Yes," Chandler said.

And she watched how the actress sucked, used her hand the way the actress did, looked up to make eye contact the way the actress did, and Chandler found it just so awkwardly endearing that when the actor on TV grabbed the actress roughly by the hair and just fucked her mouth with wild abandon, Chandler did the same, quickly shooting his load all over and in Sandra's mouth, and Sandra was jubilant, giggling, just so happy to be owner of Chandler's pleasure.

That same evening, she'd gotten out of bed, turned her back on the large mirror over the dresser, parted the cheeks of her bottom with both hands and examining first the action on TV, then the brown coin of her sphincter, asked "Do you want me like that?" 

"It hurts at first," Chandler cautioned.

"She doesn't seem to mind."

"She's being paid not to mind, Darling. And she's probably used to it."

Sandra took a moment or two and then smiled at Chandler lasciviously. 

"Alright," Chandler said. "Come over here, you naughty girl. You've got an adventurous spirit, don't you?"

"You bring it out."

"Lucky me."

With some hotel conditioner as lubricant, he introduced himself into her gently as she lay flat on her stomach. Too gently perhaps, for after a while he sensed (incorrectly) that she was bored.

"Tell me how it feels," he asked.

"Full," she said, her voice husky and low.

"Do you want more?"

"Yes."

"Like this?"

"No, harder. Deeper. Yes. Oh God like that, yes. 

Yessssss."

And after a while Chandler said "Get up on your knees now," and she loved it, her velvety rump up in the air, the taboo offering of her asshole ripe to be conquered. Chandler told her to squeeze her rectum tight around his cock, and when she came she made noises Chandler had never heard from any woman before, and so fucking loud Chandler worried about the neighbors.

That year, Chandler had the opportunity to go to a Superbowl. He sat in a private box with a well-known actor and his daughter. The actor was publishing his memoirs and mentioned a publishing exec who was having issues with a trust fund she'd inherited.

"Kaitlyn DeBallardier," the actor said, relishing the woman's last name in melodic tones. "Marvelous girl. Makes me wish I was younger."

It wasn't a good moment for business--Chandler's team had gained their narrow lead by dumb luck and seemed bent on squandering it in useless penalties--but to be polite, Chandler gave the actor his card.

"Tell her I'd be more than happy to talk about it."

DeBallardier, Chandler thought, and imagined her with wealthy French ancestors; a congressman in the family; her bank account probably sweating enough interest to support her comfortably but she kept this publishing job just to fill the void.

"Kate," she said, a week later, over the phone. "When I was little, I used to plead with Mom and Dad to shorten our last name to Ballard. None of my friends could pronounce it without going into a kind of seizure."

And it was remarkable, the way you could "hear" her smiling over the phone.

"No," Chandler said. "It's beautiful. Very distinctive."

"Sure. Say it five times as fast as you can without getting tongue tied. I dare you."

Her trust fund, inherited from an aunt, didn't mature for two years. Meanwhile, she wanted to help bankroll her niece's education at Michigan State. Chandler ran some numbers, but found himself reluctant to offer Kate the mundane rates he could find for everyone else. Not that he would waive his fee, or anything.

"Let me make some phone calls," he said.

Later that month, on a private charter out of Connecticut, he met Keith Richard of The Rolling Stones. Surprisingly nice guy. He diagramed the guitar chords for Brown Sugar on the back of a napkin, gave it to Chandler. 

"It's more attitude than skill, Mate. There's only so many places to go with a guitar, anyway."

Chandler talked finances with Keith's wife, Patti Hansen, gave her his card.

The beginning of April: Kaitlyn called. She was in San Francisco for a convention. She wanted to thank him for the tidy deal he'd worked on her business and take him out to lunch. Chandler thoroughly enjoyed this and offered to show her some of the local sites. 

They kissed for the first time amidst a crowd of tourists at the base of Coit Tower.

June brought another war--The Government's spurious compulsion to spread democracy by invading foreign countries. Chandler read the news and discussed it at length with his colleagues, all of whom seemed mostly disinterested. 

Frustrated, he called Kaitlyn and found she had an admin whose son was in The Marines.

"I've started praying for her and her son," Kaitlyn admitted. "I mean, I'm not all that religious most of the time, but I see the look on her face and I think about her son, and I'm thinking, "Dear God, please don't let anything happen to him."

Wars and prayers notwithstanding, Chandler found himself thinking about Coit Tower.

Christmas Eve: Chandler brought an illustrated copy of The Kama Sutra, and they laughed while trying to mimic the weirdest of the positions. 

Needless to say, Sandra enjoyed "lower congress." 

Chandler found "Upper Union" intriguing (the soles of his feet supporting hers--surprisingly erotic), and "The Sporting of The Swan," The sight of Sandra's gorgeous bottom bouncing up and down on his cock. 

"Isn't 'The Leaning Position' supposed to be a joke? Comic relief?" Sandra wondered.

Chandler agreed. "Vatsyayana clearly had a sense of humor." 

He could see "The Bond Of The Tiger" intrigued her though. He cheated some by supporting the small of his back on an ottoman, then assumed the upside-down "U" position--his head and feet on the floor, his thighs and cock at the top of the arch. Sandra straddled, mounted, impaled herself on Chandler's erection, and began to ride vigorously, alternately grinding and bouncing on the saddle of Chandler's hips.

"I think I like Vatsyayana," Sandra said, squirming to and fro with her cunt full of Chandler. "I do, I do, I do..."

She came this way quite easily, and then let back-aching Chandler lay on the bed while she sucked him off. Then they rested and Sandra leafed through the book until she saw illustrations of men with multiple women, women with multiple men, and asked if Chandler ever thought about bringing some one else to their room. 

"No," Chandler said, quite honestly.

"Really? Sandra asked. "Why not?"

After they discussed it more, Chandler admitted he'd be uncomfortable with another man in the room, and they settled quickly on the prospect of feminine company for the next year.

That year, a former President passed away. Chandler had always respected him, but never voted for him. Philosophical differences. 

A famous, exceedingly wealthy actress got arrested for shoplifting. Chandler advised her lawyers which assets to liquidate for their fees.

"This hasn't hit the press yet," Chandler told Kaitlyn, over the phone, "So if I tell you who it is, promise to keep it under your hat."

"Hon," She said, giggling. You know I don't wear a hat, but tell me anyway."

That was the night Chandler hung up the phone wishing he'd asked Kaitlyn to touch herself for him. When she called back that same evening, saying she couldn't sleep, Chandler confessed.

"I've a slight confession of my own," Kaitlyn countered. "For the last hour or so, I've been one step ahead of you in that regard."

Kaitlyn flew out again to sew up an autobiography contract with a famous, retired film director turned vintner. Chandler was pleasantly surprised when she side-stepped a hotel and accepted his offer to stay in his guest room. Dinner with Director and his wife went well, and by way of celebration, Chandler took Kaitlyn to see Wicked at The Geary. 

Later, at home, he told her about Keith Richard and played the intro to Brown Sugar on his acoustic. Later still, he took her to his bedroom and made love to her for the first time. 

Fucking Kaitlyn, Chandler felt like Columbus discovering the new world, Cortez conquering the Aztecs. This was how Edison felt turning on the first light bulb. Yes, he'd hungered for Kaitlyn in the most painful and profound ways for so long and somehow been unaware of it. 

But even as Ms. DeBallardier slept in his bed, he was exploring internet communities devoted to open sexuality, on the prowl for a partner for Sandra and he. 

No, the notion of asking Kaitlyn never crossed his mind, even as he became frustrated with the handful of women online who expressed tentative interest but required pictures of Sandra that Chandler didn't have.

Then one of the aforementioned ladies blatantly asked if Chandler was willing to pay for it and it dawned on Chandler that he was. Not with that lady in particular, but certainly with someone else.

Days later, He reluctantly saw Kaitlyn off at S.F. International. In line to board the plane, she turned, smiled, waived and held her thumb and little finger up to one ear and mouthed the words "Call me." Then she moved on a little more, stopped again, turned with an expression that somehow bordered every emotion you can think of, and mouthed the words I love you.


The Mrs. Santa Clause



Good God, the Mall was crowded. 9:00... two more hours and hell night would be over with. I'd been working at La Boutique Du Lingerie for the last seven months and on my feet today for the last fourteen hours. I must have been out of mind when I agreed to work a double shift, but my paycheck was going to be huge! 

It was Christmas Eve, and all the shoppers would be gone, the last-minute freaks buying up all the tacky left-over gifts from the Christmas sales. God, I wanted a drink, a cigarette, maybe a game of pool or two down at the bar...whatever. Just a way to relax. 

I don't have any kids, so I could sleep in Christmas morning while all the other parents in the world were waking up bleary-eyed to kids begging their parents to get up because Santa Claus had come.

They would have spent the night assembling bicycles, wrapping presents, and filling stockings, while I planned to have a couple of drinks, shoot some pool, and maybe even get laid.

A woman rolled by with a baby stroller and a toddler in tow, screaming at the top of his lungs. "Jesus," I thought, "take your kids home and put them to bed, they're exhausted!"

There were groups of gang-banger-punks walking by, probably shoplifting whatever they could, knowing them. They never actually BOUGHT anything, just caused trouble and made noise. Girl-groups, loaded down with shopping bags, eyeballing the punks, giggling, gossiping, and posing.

"Sigh."

I rang up the last red satin teddy with faux white trim that we had and told Carol, the Manager, that I was taking my break. She winked at me and told me to stay out of trouble, smiling.

I ran out the back door to have a smoke. The Mall Santa was out there too. It was funny as hell seeing Santa Claus smoking a cigarette.

"I'll bet YOU'RE ready for a drink." I said, laughing.

"Yeah, actually, I think I'm going to go out tonight," he replied. "What the hell, maybe I'll meet my future wife." He joked.

I laughed and blew two smoke rings into the night air, as he crushed out his cigarette. 

"Everybody should get their wish on Christmas," he sad, smiling, as he turned to go back into the mall.

"I was thinking about getting a drink after work too," I said, as he reached for the door. "so maybe I'll see you later."

"Sure, meet me at the North Pole, and I'll buy you a beer." He grinned.

"Wow," I laughed, "I have a date with Santa!"

We laughed as I pinched out my cigarette, and he pulled out a roll of mints, and we went back inside, and I watched him to sit in his big gold chair at the "North Pole" and listen to sticky, children telling him what they want for Christmas, with a rosy smile on his face.

I thought about how great it would be to have a man that was so caring and good with kids, but definitely younger, and able to screw me as often as I needed it, so I could just be a stay-at-home mom. 

I sighed and went back into La Boutique and told Carol I had a date with Santa, as I signed back into my register.

"The Mall Santa???" She asked incredulously.

"Yeah, why?"

"Well he's what, 60?" She asked.

"No way," I said, "He's not that old."

Carol laughed. "His beard is REAL, and he DOESN'T wear padding. He's really that big!"

"Oh. Well, so what? We're just going to get a drink after close. No big deal."

She laughed as she walked off to straighten the panty racks.

The rest of the night was really slow, and I was bored to death with the sales tapering off to almost nil. I rang up what was probably the last sale of the night for a guy who bought a peignoir and panty set, gift-wrapped them for him, and as he left, Carol came back to the register.

"Here, she said," handing me a package and laughing, Merry Christmas, from me to you."

"What is it?" I asked.

"Open it and find out. It's for your big date," she said, moving in close and tweaking my left nipple playfully.

Carol and I always teased each other....one night we were both horny and we got each other off in the stockroom. It was really hot. We had been embarrassed and avoided each other like the plague for a week after that, but she didn't fire me, and when she realized I wasn't going to file harassment in the workplace charges, we both relaxed, and we had became close friends with benefits quickly. We had even talked about a threesome with her husband and herself, but it hadn't happened so far. 

She was so crazy.

Man was she ever hot, too! I thought of all the times we had been in that stockroom together after close, me sitting on the stairs looking down at her while she licked my pussy....oh, man. I shivered thinking about the orgasms she gave me.

I opened the Christmas gift. It was a Catholic School Girl uniform and a pair of rumba panties from our "Le Fantasie" collection. I rolled my eyes at her and slapped her on the shoulder while she practically fell on the floor laughing."

"Ha-Ha," I told her, "I'll wear this tonight and go up to Seattle after my drink with Santa and have a lot more fun on Christmas Eve than YOU will, drinking egg-nog and putting tinker-toys under the tree!" I smirked at her and she just laughed, and started totaling out her register.

An announcement came on over the P.A. that the Mall was closing in fifteen minutes.

"Phew!" I thought, "Thank God!"

I totaled out my register and Carol lowered the gate over the entrance to the store.

She gave me my Christmas bonus and I went into the dressing room to change, into the outfit she gave me, knowing that I probably wouldn't have a chance to do it later. I thought about how silly I would look, but I figured, what the hell? I was going to go up to Seattle and have some fun; I worked hard all day and deserved a kick for Christmas Eve.

The outfit was the right size, and actually, I thought I looked pretty damn cute in it. The little plaid skirt hung about mid-thigh, and with the white blouse and the knee-socks, it was a cool fetish-kind of a look. I parted my hair down the center and plied it into two long braids on either side, and headed up front to the door.

"Oh, wow!" Carol exclaimed, "You ARE going to have fun tonight. You look really cute!"

"Thank you, Reverend Mother," I replied sarcastically, smiling. Merry Christmas."

I flipped up the little plaid skirt and flashed the rumba panties at her as I paused for a moment just in case she wanted to spank the bad little school girl, and she reached out and rubbed my ruffled ass with a soft, firm hand. I walked out the door laughing. I felt so damn cute; I just had to smile to myself.

I met Santa at the "North Pole." He was still wearing his costume and was just hanging up his "GONE TO FEED THE REINDEER" sign.

"Ready for our drink?" I asked.

He turned around. "Holy cow!" He exclaimed, his eyes wide, "What are you all dressed up for?"

I could feel myself flushing and I suddenly felt embarrassed. "I'm uh, going to go up to Seattle after our drink.... I thought I'd hit a club or two and see what kind of trouble I could get into."

"Well," he grinned, "Wearing an outfit like that, I'd say you could get into a LOT of trouble!"

I smiled. "Thanks."

We walked out to the parking lot and decided to take his car. It was so cool, a fire engine-red Chevy Bel-Air convertible with chrome shining all over the place. 

"Wow, I exclaimed, playing Santa must be a pretty good gig!"

He winked and started up the car. "So," he said, as the engine purred, "Where to?"

"I give up, you pick. Santa's choice. By the way," I said, "what is your name?"

"Oh," He said, "It's Christmas, just call me Santa."

I laughed. "Okay, Santa, you're driving, you pick."

Santa and I drove to a bar on the North end of town that was featuring Karaoke and was festooned with gobs of Christmas decorations.

We walked in amid cries of "Santa!!" We laughed and found a table at the back, away from the karaoke speakers and the dart tournament, and sat down. I decided to start off with tequila while Santa opted for milk and cookies.

"You've got to be kidding," the waitress said, laughing.

I threw back my tequila with salt and a lemon wedge, and grinned.

"Jeez!" remarked Santa, "You want another one?"

"Why the hell not?" I laughed, "You're my designated driver!"

Santa ordered me two more shots of tequila, and I tossed them back, grinning at him with a lemon rind smile as I sucked the juicy pulp from the wedge.

He smiled and asked me if I knew what Santa did to bad little girls dressed in Catholic school uniforms who were on his naughty list.

I was feeling good, so I asked him if he bent them over his knee and spanked them.

He laughed and replied that he bent them over alright.

I shrieked with laughter and he ordered me one more shot. I don't remember drinking it. In fact, I don't remember anything after that at all, until I woke up in his car speeding along through the night.

"Oh, god," I said feeling like shit, "I think I'm going to be sick. Pull over, Santa."

"I can't pull over. Just throw up over the side."

The top was still down, so I leaned over the door, but where I expected to see the road, there was only clouds and the night sky.

"Oh my god, are we flying?" I asked incredulously.

I looked over at Santa. He wasn't the jolly old elf anymore, but still had white hair though cropped short, and a moustache. His beard was a white goatee, and he wore the same gold rimmed spectacles, but his body was trim, and he was HOT!

I suddenly felt perfectly sober.

"What the hell is going on?"

Santa laughed. "I had to carry you out of the bar, you'd had just a little too much to drink, you know."

I stared, dumbfounded. "Are you the same...are you the mall Santa?"

He laughed. "Yeah, it's me." He answered.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Well, I have to make my rounds here pretty quick," He said, "so I thought I'd just take you home with me, and let you sleep it off till Christmas morning."

I looked down over the edge of the car door again.

"Holy shit, we ARE flying!" I cried.

"Yup," He answered. "Pretty cool, huh?"

I looked up at the plastic reindeer hanging from his rear-view mirror, and then over at him as he drove, or rather flew, the car. Man...he was a serious hottie. I laughed out loud wondering if Santa ever got laid, and I saw him smile.

"Once in awhile," He said, as if reading my thoughts, "but not often, no."

Oh my god, he could read my mind. I decided to have a little fun, and imagined myself leaning over, unbuckling his big black belt and reaching into his pants for his dick. I imagined it was already getting hard, and that it was huge.

He looked over at me and grinned, unbuckling his belt.

"Go ahead," he said laughing, "It's not like I'm going to drive off the road."

I wondered how all of this could be happening; the flying car, his change in appearance, reading my thoughts...

"Christmas magic." He said simply.

I leaned over and kissed him, and he took my hand and put it squarely on the crotch of his pants. Wow, he was hard...and big!

"Damn, Santa." I said appreciatively, "You're HUGE!"

He leaned back in the seat as I reached into his pants and felt his big dick. It was so big and hard. I wanted to suck it so bad.

He closed his eyes and groaned. "Oh yeah...do it."

As we flew along through the night sky, I pulled his cock up out of his red pants and licked at the tip of it. I could taste that wonderful, delicious drop of precum, and I savored it as my tongue began to work around the head of his dick, and he moaned with pleasure.

I opened up my mouth and took the head of his dick orally, gripping the base of his cock in my right hand. Fuck, he was big! 

I went down on him deeper and further, until he was against the back of my throat. When I was past gagging, I pushed his dick past the point of resistance, and buried my nose in his balls, deep-throating him.

He put his hand on my head and held me there for a few seconds as I panted through my nose, and then let me up, and I moaned as I twisted my head to the left and right, moving up and down on his dick.

"Oh, my god," he said aloud, "I see you have a little Christmas magic of your own!"

I moaned as I thought of him holding me by a fistful of my hair and fucking my mouth, and before I realized it, he was doing just that.

Drool was running from my mouth all down his balls, and I reached for them, gently massaging them with my free hand.

I was being a naughty little girl, and I was loving it!

Santa stretched out his legs, and groaned as I reached under his balls and gently pushed into the thick tissues that made up the base of his dick with my knuckles, and rubbed it as I sucked him deep, to the left and the right.

Santa's breathing became shallower, and he gripped at my hair restlessly.

"Oh, no," I thought, "Please don't cum yet; I want you to fuck me."

Santa sat up and shifted the gear from Over-drive to Self-drive, put the top up on the convertible, and as we rolled up the windows, he turned on the heater. He laid down the back of the bench seat, and it folded up against the rear seats, forming a king-sized bed.

"Wow," I said, "this car is awesome!"

Santa kicked off his big, black boots, pulled off his red coat and pants, and came after me with more lust in his body than I had ever experienced, and I suddenly knew what it meant to be a bitch in heat.

He shoved me up against the dashboard, flipping my little plaid skirt up onto my back, and pulled my frilly rumba panties down to my knees.

As I gasped with excitement, he pushed a finger slowly into me, and began to turn it left and right inside of me.

I couldn't help myself, and began to buck back against his finger, causing it to thrust harder and deeper.

"Oh, God, Santa...." I moaned, "Oh, god yes."

Santa added a second finger and started finger-fucking me again slowly, and I whined, begging him to do it harder.

He pulled his fingers out so slowly, it was maddening, and as I moaned, he slammed them hard into me, and I cried out as I gasped for a breath, my pussy throbbing. Suddenly, I flew to the point of no return and stepped over the edge. I cried out as I convulsed in orgasm, and I came hard, my pussy gripped by wave after wave of pleasure. I squirted juices from deep within my body, and Santa pulled me straight away from the dashboard, and threw me onto my back on the great bed. I desperately needed him to fuck me, and I knew that he knew it.

He pulled my panties off and dove into my pussy, face-first.

It was pure ecstasy. I reached for his head and ran my fingers through his hair as he ate me, and after several orgasms, he leaned over me, and pulled my blouse open, buttons flying to the left and the right. I cried out in ecstatic alarm, as I felt his cock head touching my still-throbbing pussy. I immediately began to cum, and as I did, he pulled apart my bra and gripped at my bare breasts, his cock poised at the entrance to my pussy.

Santa stopped and looked me in the eye. "I can't go any further unless I know for sure this is what you want."

"Oh, god yes," I whined. "Fuck me!"

"No," he said, you don't understand. If I fuck you, you have to stay with me, all the time...all your life."

"Oh god, I don't care!" I cried, writhing on the bed, "Fuck me!"

"Do you want it, baby?" He asked again.

"Yes, yes! I want it, Santa, anything. Please fuck me...oh god, yes, I want it."

Santa pushed his dick into me slowly. It was so big...I cried out as his thick cock slid deep inside me, and I suddenly tightened around him as I reached for him, clawing at him. As he sank fully into me, I wrapped my legs around him and thrust my hips up hard. 

I saw a blinding flash of white-hot light, and I screamed with incomparable pleasure as my body shuddered and I could feel my cum bursting from the depths of my body, and drenching him. 

As I thought each sensation to him, he yelled and thrust hard into me. Suddenly his cock swelled even bigger, and I could feel a sensation like his cock was rippling deep inside of me. He shuddered, moaning, and gasping, as he filled me with an impossible quantity of semen, and collapsed on top of me.

We lay there unable to move, for what seemed a deliciously long time, and finally Santa got up, opened the glove box, and took out a towel, two cold beers, and a pack of cigarettes.

This was the best.

When we landed at the North Pole, Santa took me to his bedroom and handed me a Christmas present, wrapped in white, and tied with a big red bow.

"Go on," he said smiling. "Open it."

It was a red velvet dress trimmed in ermine at the neckline, cuffs, and hem. It was beautiful. I had never seen anything like it.

"Put it on." He said, smiling.

I stepped into the gown and he zipped me up. It was gorgeous.

"It's beautiful." I said, kissing him. "Thank you."

"Well come on, let's introduce you to my...our elves."

I understood suddenly what he meant when he said I would be staying with him all the time....all my life, as he took me to meet the elves, introducing me as Mrs. Claus.

So nowadays, I am still up at the North Pole, with my Husband, Santa, and he fucks me every night and every day just the way I want it, and I'm starting to be able to read his thoughts, too. Not as well as he reads mine, but I'm starting to get the hang of it. The sex is amazing, the elves make me everything I could ever ask for, and I don't even have to cook or clean. 

Life is great.



The Mrs.



Standing on the observation deck, watching Kaitlyn's plane take off, Chandler realized he felt the same.

And in weeks following, several attractive young women willing to take time on Christmas Eve (for exorbitant compensation) had lunch with Chandler. They were nice women, smiling at the right moment, skillfully guiding the conversation one way or the other, but Chandler soon had the notion they'd all been coached from what amounted to the same script. He was, in fact, quickly bored with their patent, professional approach, and worried that Sandra would be too.

He also worried that he was being selfish. He'd watched Sandra watching porn and noticed her interest flag or at best turn academic whenever there weren't any naked men on the screen. Watching two men and one woman was another story.

So what's the problem? Chandler thought. Worried you'll be attracted to the other guy? Irresistible urge to suck his cock, or something?

Chandler, native Californian, product of The Bay Area, had always assumed he was neither offended or attracted to the idea of gay sex. He simply preferred women the way other people always choose red wine over white. 

But other people have tried the white, Chandler corrected himself. They make the decision based on comparison. What are you afraid of?

What are you afraid of? That became a sort of mantra, a challenge to some vague yet resolute sense of who he was. A challenge to his manhood.

Come on, be brave for her, he thought.

And he'd come to all the call girls through phone conversations with this very polite, british-sounding gentleman who acted as their manager, scheduler--oh hell, let's face it--their pimp. Chandler liked the guy, so he called him and said "Scott, let me ask you something, what are you doing Christmas Eve?"

He laughed. "I'm married, you know. Home with The Mrs. A select cadre of friends. Surely if you've changed your mind on the gender question I can direct you to numerous, eager young studs who'd be delighted to round out your holiday plans.

"You've done similar stuff in the past?"

"I dare say, Chandler, emphasis on 'in the past.'"

Chandler did some quiet math, considered which stock he'd liquidate. It was just money sitting there, after all. He made Scott an outlandish offer.

"Whoa!" Scott said, laughing. "You can get a perfectly good rugby team for that kind of money. Sure your lady wouldn't prefer to play tag? The perennial gang bang?"

"Something tells me she'd like you instead. Interested?"

There was this pause on the phone that let Chandler know he was, and Chandler was ready to put some real estate on the table if Scott needed more persuasion.

"Not saying I will, not saying I won't," Scott said. "At any rate, there's a peripheral issue I think we should clear up before we proceed. Check your e-mail."

It was Scott's picture, after all, a web cam shot with time and date to show it was two minutes old and that Scott was this distinguished looking guy with grey about his temples. Handsome by any standard.

And Chandler wasn't sure he should express his surprise about Scott's ethnicity--there had been no clues in his clipped, British voice.

"I've found it's never wise to be niggardly regarding certain details," Scott went on (certainly wise to the pun). "To that end, I'm sending you several personal pictures I know you'll be discreet with."

These were shots of Scott nude, boasting an enviable erection. Seriously, the guy was splendidly hung. 

One of the shots, a full figure done in a bedroom, revealed a nude, middle-aged woman reflected in a large mirror on the wall beside Scott. She held the camera in front of her face, the nebular burst of the flash eclipsing her identifying features, but her figure was fully revealed and fodder, Chandler thought, for feverish erotic fantasy.

"What a beautiful woman," Chandler said. "Your wife?"

"Yes, and that brings us rather neatly around to the main issue. I mean, I know it's a bit of a cliche, but I'll have to air this proposition with her before we go any further."

"I understand."

"Meanwhile, a picture of your lady friend?"

"None."

"Seriously? Not even a snapshot for your wallet?"

"No. But don't worry, she's absolutely stunning. You'll have no problems with her."

"Not the issue, actually. It just seems rather strange..."

"Scott, I know it's a stretch, but try to understand, we only get together once every year. It's this game we play, if you want to know the truth."

And Chandler told him everything. Mrs. Claus. Delicate role play between consenting adults. 

"Marvelous," Scott said, laughing. "Seriously, can I tell that part to my wife?"

Chandler laughed. "Sure. And if that doesn't win her over, tell her the price is still negotiable. I've got some acreage in Montana, just sitting there. 

"Are you serious?"

"Absolutely. Just try me."

Scott's wife didn't like the arrangement, but she liked Montana. 

In their room, Scott immediately embraced Sandra, a long, soulful kiss; his big hands roaming the back of her clothing, fingers creasing the grey fabric of her skirt, squeezing her ass, pushing her sex into his.

And Chandler, normally up for one or two drinks, had matched his alcohol consumption to Sandra's habitual binge, had accordingly pushed the wrong buttons in the elevator, had been laughing when there was nothing to laugh at, struggling with his speech. 

Here in the room he dropped hard into a chair and realized it was what he wanted to do since he'd left the bar.

Now he watched Sandra put her arms around Scott's neck, made brief eye contact with her over Scott's shoulder. 

And Chandler could sense the precise moment she shut him out, allowed herself to be lost in the whirl of Scott's lips on hers, her breath in his. He watched Scott's body towering over Sandra's, watched her go limp in his embrace and understood what women mean when they talk about "melting" in a man's arms.

Chandler tried to remember if Sandra had ever "melted" for him. Was he so drunk that he couldn't remember? Or...

... a swimmer coming up for air, Sandra surfaced breathless from Scott's embrace, came to Chandler, took his face in hand and all but smashed her lips to his, grabbed his right hand, placed it firmly against her rump. She wanted Chandler to mimic Scott but Chandler, even as drunk as he was, found this annoying. Finding that it annoyed him, annoyed him even more. Angered him even. 

His thumbs inside the elastic of Sandra's waistband, he yanked it down over her hips, a rapist's savagery that surprised everyone, himself included. Then He had his hand inside her panty hose, the flower-petal smoothness of her bottom surprisingly cool in his grasp , and he squeezed too hard as he let the tips of his fingers stray between her cheeks. 

Sandra flinched, opened her eyes, stopped kissing, looked directly at Chandler, trying to gauge his emotions. Then she leaned forward, whispered in his ear: "Are you okay?"

A moment where Chandler couldn't answer. He wanted to say yes, but there was a reason she was asking, something in his demeanor that would make her realize he was lying.

And Scott was undressing, his lean, muscular body moving about the room with athletic grace. Much too soon, Chandler was aware that even as Sandra hugged him, she was watching Scott in the mirror at his back, seemingly transfixed.

"Go," he said. "That's what we're here for."

"Maybe," she said. "I'm beginning to wonder."

"No," Chandler said. "You know you want it. I can feel it in you. I can see it in your eyes. Go over there."

She leaned back and said, "I'll do it if you tell me to. I'll do anything you tell me to. Tell me what to do and I'll do it, tell me what not to do and I won't."

On the edge of the bed, leaning back on one elbow, legs spread, Scott, expression blank, idly fondled his equipment.

Huge, Chandler thought, even partially erect. Can it get much bigger? What if she takes him the other way? Will Sandra's tight little asshole ever be able to accommodate that?

And Sandra was still standing there, looking at him expectantly. Chandler realized she was waiting to be told.

"Go," he said again. "Get down on your knees, make him hard in your mouth."

It pained Chandler some, the way she didn't hesitate. She went for it swift, greedy, furious, slutty, unashamed. 

The fate of The Free World may as well have depended on mouthing Scott's big brown dick, and she wasn't going to let The Free World down. 

Kneeling before him, supplicant, she steadied his fat rod with her hand and first went with her tongue, slurping like it was a popsicle melting too fast on a hot summer's day. 

Then her lips around it, head bobbing , upper torso swaying, hands steadied against Scott's bare hips. Scott gathered her hair in one hand and held it back so he could watch. 

Chandler watched too. One foot in arousal, the other in pain. Chandler watched that veined ebony sliding in and out of Sandra's dainty little mouth and found vertigo in the contrasting mix of pleasure and insult. 

"Honey, don't leave those big brown balls out of the picture," he said, mostly to reassure himself he could still finish a sentence in plain english, but also because some part of Chandler, hidden until now, wanted to see it, was still trying to convince everyone he could go through with this.

Then Obedient Sandra was petting Scott's scrotum with the flat of her tongue, tasting it tentatively, looking at Scott, looking at Chandler, Scott's big member in her face, her nose continuously grazing it. And the growl she let out when she eventually had her mouth around his balls--Dreamy, trancelike. His balls were too big to get all the way in, but she took as much of his sack between her lips as possible, savoring it with her eyes closed, fingers around his shaft--still slick with her spit--and she and pumped it, a smooth, musical rhythm. 

Scott, meanwhile, ran his hands through Sandra's hair, growled a deep baritone and mumbled obscenities that only served to fan Sandra's fire.

"Enough," Chandler said, fully embracing his role as ring master. "Cut," he said, now the director of his own Hotel-TV quality smut. Was it only a matter of time before he yelled something so banal as "Lights! Camera! Action! Fuck?"

But instead, Chandler beckoned Sandra, and when she came within arms-length, he touched the generous puddle around the crotch of her pantyhose before he peeled them down over her hips, the tight hem creasing her buttocks and thighs as it descended, the delicate swath of her pubic hair springing in its wake. Stepping out of them, Sandra braced herself with both hands on Chandler's shoulders, kicked the garment away with something Chandler thought of as contempt.

One arm around Sandra's waist--that gentle indentation just above her hips--he probed her sex with his middle finger, plumbed the embrace of her cunt and found it faithlessly wet, a swollen vulva-shaped goblet overflowing slick and messy down the inside of her legs. In turn, Sandra pressed Chandler's face to the fleece of her pudendum, the tang of her arousal in his nostrils. 

In a more perfect world, he might realize she wanted him to slip his tongue into that welcoming groove without actually being told. 

But Chandler, back as the ringmaster, chided Sandra for not already being naked. She remedied this, sweater over her head, bra gone in that one artful motion that women master and men will always fumble. Chandler savored her nudity with his hands, "brailed" her like a blind man forming a mental picture. His hands all over the fullness of her thighs, probing the traitorous swamp of her cunt, the hollows beneath her breasts, the tiny erections in her nipples, the treasure of her lips, legs... 

Inspired by this flurry, Sandra moved forward again, the swollen, tingling tip of one nipple to Chandler's lips. 

"No," Chandler said, and now Sandra actually moaned her frustration.

"No," Chandler said again, more insistent. He pointed toward the bed, and instructed Scott to lay on his back with his head at the top. He then instructed Sandra to straddle Scott's face, her knees sunk into pillows to either side. 

Her back to Chandler, Sandra braced both hands against the head board, looked over her shoulder, her mouth open, eyes wide. She knew what Chandler wanted, waited to see if he dared ask.

"Ride it, Sandra," Chandler said. "Ride his face," and to Scott, "Show me what I'm paying you for."

The sight of of it from behind; the twin pillows of Sandra's ass down over Scott's chin; slight movement in Scott's throat betraying his tongue up in the warm, wet fold of Sandra's sex. At first Sandra just posed, the arch of her thighs in position, the inverted heart-shape of her ass, locked and poetry for the eyes. 

She was looking down between her breasts, watching. Making eye contact.

Then smoothly, like time lapse photography of flowers blooming, she leaned her head back, gaped mouth wide, and cut loose with the slightest most elegant tremor in the muscles of her legs, a miniature seismic shock, involuntary prelude to the full quake to come. She begin moving her hips, swaying as if to muffled music from a party downstairs, inaudible vibrations that only her cunt could pick up on. 

Scott was moving his head with her, the same rhythm, skillfully following the wet target of Sandra's clit with his tongue.

Understandably, Chandler had never seen Sandra's expression when she climaxed this way. His view of cunnilingus with Sandra was nothing but the tight, cushioned vista between her thighs. Now he struggled to his feet, wobbled up to the bed and peered into Sandra's face. 

Yes, Pagan priest of some obscure cult, he would read divine messages from the crease in Sandra's brow, the "oh" shape of her lips, the mystery of her closed eyes. Answers to life's most profound questions would be there in his lover's face as she came with another man.

Either that, or Chandler was shit-faced drunk.

But Sandra heard Chandler's approach and at that moment, and wanted nothing outside the world of Scott's virtuoso tongue plowing her furrow, swathing her clit. The distraction of being clumsily studied frankly annoyed her. 

She tried kissing Chandler, tried sharing the moment, bringing him into it, but Chandler wouldn't have it.

And now she noticed Chandler, still fully clothed. She extended an exploratory hand to his trousers and found his cock enlarged but limp. 

Was she failing him somehow? How could he be enjoying it if he wasn't even hard?

She disengaged her pussy from Scott's mouth, backed down over his six-pack and then used her hand to maneuver Scott's swollen rod into her vagina. 

Yes, she thought, If everything I've done so far had failed to arouse you, I'll up the ante. 

Bet the farm. 

Go for broke. 

Impaled on Scott's dick, the thick stiffness lovely and full inside her, she straddled comfortably, and rocked like a child on a hobby horse.

Now her left finger up to her mouth, and her eyes locked to Chandler's. She sucked that finger like a child's cock and then made sure Chandler watched her lower it to her cleft where she diddled her clit before reaching out to Chandler with the other hand, resting it on his cheek. Peering into his eyes, she tried, momentarily, to gauge his emotion.

But then it was happening...

The worship of Scott's tongue had already stoked the boiler behind her cunt and now with the deep swelling of Scott's rod, fat up inside her...

That roller coaster feeling in the pit of her stomach...

The sweet tension spreading from her loins and conquering the rest of her like warm electricity...

She was going to come. 

It was going to happen. 

She was quickly getting to the point where there wouldn't be be any choice.

And Scott, who knew the geography of women's response like his back yard, sensed it and was thrusting up into her from below.

And Chandler watched Sandra close her eyes, watched her turn from him in favor of some inner world inspired by that big, talented, pistoning cock up inside her. 

And this was when all that liquor in Chandler's gut was no longer happy to be there, the moment where Chandler had a decision of his own... 

He would move fast or vomit all over Sandra's orgasm. 

Did Sandra climax before she followed Scott into the bathroom? Just a little. It was there momentarily, like a signal from a distant radio station, the ghost of your favorite song, but then gone, making you wonder if it had ever been there. 

To be sure, she walked the short distance to the bathroom on treacherous legs; almost stumbled. 

And when Scott poked his head in to see Sandra and Chandler sitting on the bathroom floor, Chandler blank-eyed in Sandra's arms, he realized that he'd unwittingly wandered into territory best left private, got dressed and simply left. 

Sandra eventually accompanied Chandler to the bed, spent the remainder of the evening holding him in her arms, pleading that nothing with Scott, this total stranger, could ever mean anything unless Chandler was there to approve.

A lie of course, but Sandra was wondering what had happened, wondering what they'd done. Used to good booze, food, cigarettes, sex--a garden of tangible delights Chandler provided for her--she now waded in just the opposite--feelings of dread, sadness, regret--and lied so hard it sounded like the truth. Even to her.

Neither of them will talk about it the next year, though it looms over everything like a court summons.

"I need to tell you something," Chandler says, but Sandra is already fishing in her Gucci hand bag.

"I want you to have this," she says, pushing a small, dog-eared book across the table. "I want you to have it and understand that I appreciate everything you've done for me here." 

He opens it slowly, sees where Robert Frost has signed inside the cover, the ink faded brown and spidery.

"My God, Sandra. Where did you find this?"

Sandra shrugs. Smiles sheepishly. "It's been laying around. I've always wanted you to have it, but... Listen, can I have one of those?"

She's changing the subject, he knows that, but he'd absentmindedly slipped the box of Marlboroughs out of its cellophane wrapper as she riffled her purse, so now of course, here they are beckoning, ready. 

So he pulls a cigarette out, hands it to her, lights it. She holds it stiff and awkward, like it's about to explode between her middle and index fingers, but without hesitation, draws it long and deep into her lungs and holds it...

holds it... 

"God, that's so good," she says in a cloud of exhaust. "I know why people get addicted to this. I do."

She inhales again, the glowing, red ring around the end burning absurdly fast.

"So," Chandler says, "You just happened to have a first edition of North Of Boston laying around, up at The North Pole?"

"People give him stuff. It's not all milk and cookies. Oh wait, we've covered that, haven't we. Anyway, don't worry. He said you can have it. It was his idea, in fact.

Chandler still eyes the first edition of North Of Boston apprehensively.

"Maybe you should hear what I have to say, first," he offers. 

"What? Oh, of course, you had something to say."

"I'm getting married," Chandler says, and for the first time ever, he sees Sandra choke on her cigarette, start coughing.

"Shit," she finally says, her eyes watering. She starts shaking her head.

"Shit," she says again.

"Do you want a drink?" Chandler asks, and she doesn't answer, but since the bartender has already showed up with that museum piece in California bars--an ashtray--Chandler says "The usual, please," and extends a hand to cover Sandra's while they wait for their vodka martinis.

"I'm sorry," Chandler says, and he's actually surprised the long silence where Sandra won't look at him directly.




The Mrs.



Martinis arrive. Sandra conquers hers in three gulps, starts to say something then thinks otherwise. 

And Chandler's confused. As much as the game has meant to him, he'd never suspected it was anything serious for Sandra. He'd arrived tonight thinking the most he'd deal with was mild disappointment on her part, a sad realization that she'd have to find a new playmate. 

"I'm sorry," Chandler says again, "but this thing here, what we do, as precious as it is to me, has kind of become... Unreal... The rest of the year, I mean."

Sandra shakes her head. "You don't have to explain. I get that. 364 days out of the year when I'm not around. I never expected you to wear a chastity belt. It's just..."

She stops short, raises her eyebrows in surprise.

"Doris?" she asks.

"No, no. Not Doris. God no. Listen I love the gal and all, after a fashion, but truth is she and I play for different teams, if you catch my drift."

"Huh?"

"Doris is gay."

"What?"

"Oh hell, Sandra. Doris is a lesbian. She prefers women."

"Oh. No kidding?"

"Uh, no. No kidding."

Sandra works her cigarette down to her knuckles, stubs it out. She indicates Chandler's martini, still intact, and asks "Are you going to drink that?"

Chandler slides the little goblet across the table, watches Sandra go Grant Through Richmond on it. While she's busy he says

"Her name's Kaitlyn. She's in publishing. Seriously, I didn't have feelings for her to begin with. I know it's a cliche' of sorts, but in reality, it just sort of happened."

"When will you marry her?" Sandra asked.

"No date yet. Our schedules are just insane right now, but it's going to happen."

Sandra shook her head vehemently.

"What?" Chandler asks.

Sandra stoped shaking her head. "Listen, Chandler," she says. "Do you love me?"

And Chandler has to think about it. After all, he only sees her one day a year. If he says yes, won't she think him rather odd?"

But Sandra pressed and said "Just answer the question, Chandler. Please."

So Chandler shrugs and says "Yes," but before he can go on to explain that it's a matter of degrees and he essentially loves Kaitlyn more, Sandra says 

"Tell me what that is. Tell me how that works. Tell me what it feels like."

Chandler shrugs his shoulders. "Sandra, seriously; if you have to ask, there's no way I can describe it to you."

Rather than feel rebuffed, Sandra nods in resignation.

Chandler stared, dumbfounded. "I'm sorry," he says again, and not just because he's at a loss for words. 

"Can we go up to our room now?" Sandra askrf. "I mean, one last time?"

They made love gently, comfortably, familiarly, and Chandler, exhausted by the evening's emotion, slipped into deep sleep. Sandra listened to the soft cadence of his breathing and then left the bed without disturbing him. She found hotel stationary, a pen. 

It dawned on her she can't remember the last time she'd written anyone a note. Can't remember ever having a reason to do so. Slowly then, her words encased in broad, ornate cursive, she pens, 

Chandler; Marry her tomorrow. If not tomorrow, promise me you'll do whatever it takes to marry her the day afterward. Time is of the essence, believe me.

And she signed her train-wreck-of-consonants real name as best she can in English before collecting her clothing, dressing swiftly behind the bathroom door, leaving as quietly as possible.

In the elevator down to the lobby, she's thinking of how her husband had come to her, that shelf worn copy of North of Boston in hand.

"He writes poetry," he said. "He doesn't want anyone to know for some reason, so he writes it on the sly, alone in his study, in his office on his lunch break."

Sandra had looked at him apprehensively. Surely her affair with Chandler was no secret, but until now, it had seemed they had an unspoken agreement not to bring it up. Caught off guard, Sandra voiced the first neutral sounding question that came to mind, knowing "Mr. Sees-all, Knows-all" would have an answer.

"What does he write about?"

"In the beginning? You."

Sandra almost blurted it out: "Me?" But she caught herself, let this top heavy moment wobble in silence.

"Seriously," her husband continued, "he's got this fat spiral notebook he's filled with poems about you. Endless revisions. It embarrasses him, otherwise I'm sure he would have shown you. Now it's kind of late to ask."

Sandra lookrd at him inquiringly. When their gaze met, she furrowed her brow. He continued:

"You know I can see their life spans about a year into the future, yes? I see them like long hallways extending over the horizon. I mean, what point would there be making all these arrangements one year in advance if they're not going to be there when the time comes, right? Anyway, point is, your boyfriend's hallway--Chandler is it?--goes dark about three quarters of the way into next year."

"What?" Sandra said, comprehending but not wanting to. "How?"

"Oh, really, who knows? Heart attack, car accident, plane crash... One out of the thousands of ways their lights go out. They're exceedingly fragile you know. That's why I never form lasting alliances with them."

In the elevator, now, Sandra remembers how she just sat there, saying nothing, doing nothing, and her husband had handed her North Of Boston and said he was sorry in that curt, formal way of his.

Poetry she thought. Imagine that. He wrote me poems.

And as Sandra's human, once-a-year eyes leaked warm salt water down her cheeks, Sandra was suddenly, shockingly aware that she didn't want it to end like this, didn't want it to end with her just disappearing out of his room, out of his life, a stupid note on the dresser. 

And she was jabbing the elevator button for Chandler's floor with her index finger, then pounding it with her fist because this idiot elevator didn't respond, was going to take her to the god-damned ground floor before it did anything else...

...and there was something she needed to tell Chandler, something she'd actually known all along but had somehow just been too stupid or naive or too afraid to put into words, and now she needed to change that, needed to know he understood how she felt.

But then the clock moved. Sandra's annual visit to humanity always ends at five a.m., Christmas morning. 

The elevator opened on the hotel lobby, empty. 

Time, whether a tyrant or elected official, waits for no one.



The Mud



The thunder rumbled across the sky, long, low, and aggressive as the storm promised to exert it's authority over the elements. The ground shook as the sound traveled though everything in the woodland alive or dead. As the lightning flashed in advance of another roar, the dark pathway below was illuminated allowing nothing to hide for a split second, before plunging all life back into the darkness. 

"Ouch" Hannah cried out as she stumbled over another tree route on the ever narrowing path through the trees. Hardly able to see in this weather she had been caught off guard by the protrusion into the meandering walkway. 

"Man was this a bad idea" she mussed out loud as she pulled herself up off of the floor to continue her struggle. She had decided she needed some time out from home, kids, husband, housework, time out from life really and a walk through these woods at dusk had served her well in the past. However, with the hum of suburbia lost in the distance, the unexpected turn of the weather had turned a nice sunset walk into an intensive quest for life as the cloud cover advanced the darkness of night upon her within minutes.

With no torch, only sneakers not hiking boots, and just denim shorts and a white tea shirt to cover her, she was not prepared at all for the battle against nature that she was now engaged in.

Suddenly all was silent. The leaves no longer fought each other at the winds command. The birds couldn't be heard. The thunder had stopped. Even the air, even Hannah's heart and lungs seemed to be silent as she looked up observing the apparent suspension of time. 

And then it came.

With a crash so loud she could have sworn it were a bomb, and the echoed rubbles that followed over the landscape, the thunder and lightning ripped through life in unison, declaring the beginning as they tore open the sky and threw the large painful raindrops towards the earth below.

As Hannah looked up through the flashing sky, through the fast moving tunnel of water falling, she was lost in it's dark beauty for a moment. Flying upwards, spiraling and then suddenly falling back to earth as the cold hard rain slapped against her face, stinging her pale complexion.

"Bugger" she sighed as her face and arms dropped limply towards the ground. She looked at the quickly forming mud on the path in front as the icy water formed waterfalls cascading from her long black hair, streaming across her dark brown eyes, past her button nose and across her full red lips. Falling ever further until, flying though space after leaving her chin, they once again formed a mighty river over the landscape of her ample chest. 

"This is just typical. Take a walk to get away from it all and here I am, soaked to the bloody skin. Yeah thanks!" she cursed at the elements, at what ever controlled this world, this 'life', at herself.

Her feet reluctantly resumed their duty, trying their best to carry her body through the swamp of mud and branches that had quickly replaced the path they once trod. At 30, Hannah was not unfit at all, and had done her best to keep in shape between all the cooking and cleaning and trying to keep an entire house hold happy, forsaking herself time and time again. Where was her time for pleasure, for happiness, for self indulgence? "Fat chance!" she said under her breath and she contemplated the very reasons she existed. This was her lot. To cook and clean and make everyone else happy.

Her path now was becoming increasingly unclear. The spasmodic light gave false indication as to where the true path might be, forcing her deeper and deeper into the muddy depths of the wood. The wind and rain drove against her, turning her without her knowledge, pushing her, pulling her, guiding her to a destination hidden from everything.

"OK. So this is bad. Yep this is Bad." The realization slowly came but rather than resulting in panic it resulted in a depressed acceptance "So, I'm lost!"

Hannah stopped for a moment. Looking around, trying to peer through the rain and darkness surrounding her she tried to find any signs of direction. Slowly turning a full 360, her eyes darting, squinting, searching for hope, her head began to shake negatively as the hopelessness was confirmed. Every tree. Every bush. Every Shadow. Everything was just a dark damp blur and meant absolutely nothing.

Her head dropped again and for the first time she became aware of the ridiculousness of her attire. The white tea shirt was soaked. Her large breasts clinging to the tight fabric and showing themselves through the once white material in now near perfect skin tones. The cold rain cascaded over them, forcing her nipples to respond against her will as they grew hard in response to the elements assaulting them. Her denim shorts had shrunk to an even tighter fit than usual and, clinging to her supple cheeks, were riding up uncomfortably between them, shaping themselves into a copy of her form. Shaping around everything between her legs. Cold and wet.

Her eyes continued down her bathing body, past her naked shivering legs to her feet. Or at least to where they once were.

"Oh yuk" she began to cry as she tried to wriggle her trapped pumps free of the mud they had both sunken into. Mud, had surrounded them, sucking them down into the unstable ground, then, when access had allowed, had seeped slyly into them, molding itself around her feet, weighing them down as it consumed them slowly. 

The more Hannah tried to lift her feet or twist them, the more the natural vacuum seemed to grip her, until at last, with a disgusting "plop" one foot was free. Free of the mud but also free of her shoe. Soon after the other followed, but the pressure applied to the first to free the second, now had it entrapped even deeper than before.

Loosing her balance in the struggle she fell backwards into the mud. Now knee deep around her legs, the warmth of the greasy surroundings was suddenly appealing to her senses. Her entire body had been quivering in the cold, but the slime of the ground was enticing. It was warm. It was just right compared to the onslaught of icy rain. 

Panic would have surely set in by now if it were not for the fact that she was so exhausted. She sat for a while, her buttocks slowly being caressed by the ooze around her, seeping in through her shorts, around her cheeks, caressing and warming her inner thighs and creeping up, up, up towards her pussy. Warm. Inviting.

Hannah sighed, but becoming slowly aware of her bodies betrayal she became unsure whether it was from tiredness or arousal.

Suddenly there was a "pop" as the button on her shorts burst open. Hannah gasped as more mud trickled out from the top of the opening after forcing them to burst. With the lubrication of the invading ooze, the shorts slowly sank away into the puddle, out of sight. 

Then she felt it, like a warm hand, but still liquefied the mud began to rub hard against her clit. Her body spasmed in fear and arousal as her natural reactions warred each other. Her legs were parting and her back arching in a reflex attempt to gain more pleasure, more pressure, but her eyes were wide open in fear and her arms flailed about in the mud trying to gain some grip with which she might pull her self free.

In her quest for escape her arms slipped into the mud making her fall further back into the puddle.

Now with both arms being sucked under into the brown slimy mess, her head rested on a mossy tree root as she could do nothing but watch as her body began to sink slowly, seductively deeper into the warmth of the mud.

Again the pressure between her legs seemed more than apparent. More than just mud sliding between her legs as it seemed to pulse teasingly against her vaginal lips.

"No, please no" she gasped, realizing that in the disgust of the moment, it was more than her body that was giving in. It had been so long since she had last had "time for herself", and her husband, loving though he was, was always so quick to finish that the line between "fake and real" had become very blurred.

And then she saw it. Rising snake like out of the mud, long and covered in the warm slime, she saw it reveal it's self as it pointed it's bulb head at her. Was it a tree root? A snake? Something else? She couldn't be sure. But it was no doubt working in unison with the mud. This mud was alive and able to form and mold itself hard or soft. 

Molding into the shiny rippled shaft, growing inch by inch until it stood between her legs at least 4 feet tall, the goos member just swayed a little. The length of the shaft was covered in muddy slimy ridges, all moving and pulsing as the ooze seemed to simply be displaying what it was capable of. Showing off what it was about to use.

"Oh no God please no" Hannah sighed out again as she could feel the mud below teasing and rubbing her clit, pussy lips, ass cheeks, and thighs all in unison. Her body was a slave whether her mind concurred or not.

Her top half was now almost covered, with only a thin translucent dirty layer molding her belly and breasts. Again, the mud moved with intent as it gently crawled across her erect nipples. The vacuum of mud, water and air gave a deliberate kissing sensation, like a thousand lips all over her nipples, breasts, neck and stomach.

"Ohhhh....mmmmmm...... oh no, please.... No please...." Is all that escaped Hannah's lips as she almost willed her body to sink further into the sensual swap, her hips trying ever harder to press into whatever was using her.

A second shaft raised up like the first, this one near her head. Like the first, it too swayed as if watching but did nothing. Being closer to her she could make out more detail. It looked like it was simply made from this ooze, this mud, and yet was able to form rigid shapes, while maintaining liquid form. It's outside skin with ridges and bumps all over, was moving over the surface in continual waves. On the tip of it's domed head she could just about make out an opening, and from that opening there seemed to be a greeny brown liquid slowly oozing out.

The assault on her body intensified, with her nipples being sucked and caressed with such finesse that she was quickly on the brink of pain and pleasure. On that point where if it were her husband she would ask him to stop for a while to give her nipples a rest. But the perfect pressure on her pussy kept her wanting more and more.

"ooooohhhhhhh please, please" she begged as she looked at the shaft between her legs.

As if understanding her request, the shaft sank slowly into the mud and disappeared.

For a moment, Hannah thought perhaps it was gone and this would all soon be over. A glint of regret entered her mind but then thankfully she suddenly felt the rigid pressure from the shaft pushing at her waiting cunt. The mud around her sucked her lips hard on each side, opening her like a flower and the wide head of the shaft began to advance inside her.

"ooooowwwwww" Hannah bucked at the pain, and then realized that the shaft had now made itself thinner so that it could enter her with ease. She felt it move deeper and deeper, probing around inside her. It wriggled around like a snake within her pussy and then began to grow wide again.

The pleasure was unbelievable. As it grew it contacted her g-spot and the moving waves of ridges on it's skin gave her a perfect internal massage.

Closing her eyes in bliss, Hannah exploded with her first orgasm. She was exhausted and assumed for some reason that the slime would now be appeased and release her. 

The reality was of course the opposite. With its shaft now wider than a woman's wrist, the mud began to thrust in and out of her pussy with greater speed. Her lips were sucked inside her pussy with each thrust inwards, and pushed out with each withdrawal as the thing began to take total control and fuck it's victim.

Hannah's mind was a blur as she battled her own mind. This was horrific yet she was loving every single sensation as this thing consumed her body for itself.

The shaft near her head lowered and approached her lips. She shut them tight but could not move her head away as the mud around her held her fast, sucking on all the right spots on her neck and ears. She had become dislodged from the tree root on which she had rested and was now completely at the mercy of this thing.

With the head of the second shaft at her lips, the first shaft pulsed hard within her, shooting liquid and mud deep within her, the mud on her breasted sucked hard and the whole pool pulsed in unison with the 1st shaft and the whole thing seemed to cum. The second shaft letting torrents of ooze and mud squirt from it's head over her face and hair, covering her in a sticky un-natural mess.

"OHHHHH GOD YES!!! OH FUCK YES!!!! Hannah cried out, and gasping for more with her mouth open wide, the second shaft took its chance and dove downward into her throat.

Hannah gagged, but the onslaught of cum continued and the pulsing of this thing covering her body inside and out was creating un-describable pleasures. Within moments she found herself accepting this intruder and sucking on it's bizarre tasting member. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. The taste was gritty like mud, yet not intolerable. It was not the taste driving her to suck, but the pure lustful logic that sucking on it would bring more pleasure to herself, and she was right.

Eyes closed Hannah sucked in earnest, her body willingly forcing her breasts tighter into her captors embrace, her legs struggling to open ever more, her pelvis thrusting uncontrollably trying to gain more pleasure if it were possible as she came time and time again.

When she had the presence of mind to open her eyes just a slant, she realized she was almost totally under the surface of the mud. This thing was dragging her under. It was consuming her inside and out. It was surely going to drown her and slowly digest her. 

But the pleasure was relentless and she closed her eyes again, fucking hard against the heavenly demon that was about to take her life.

She felt the warm sucking mud rise up over her mouth, over her nose, eyes, and hair. Her full breasts, her whole body now totally embraced in her lovers cum, in her attackers belly.

Yet life did not stop just yet. As if it were somehow feeding her air, Hannah remained conscious as the creature continued to please her every need. Every spot on her body was being loved like no human could imagine. It was bliss. It was heaven, and yet was as disgusting as hell.

Given to her lust Hannah just didn't care. This was her time, and even if this were to be her end, she was loving it. At last something was giving HER pleasure. Making HER happy. If this was the way she would leave this 'life'..... so be it.

With that thought, with the dirty evil thought of being fucked to death by some demonic swamp creature while being slowly consumed, she climax yet again, hard!

*******************

This was intended to be a re-write of a story I drafted 3 years ago, which was about being taken by trees. As I wrote, the story took it's own turn, which was unexpected by even me. I kinda like that. Hope you do too.



The Mud Bath



A few years ago I wrote an erotic romance entitled Smitten. This is an adaptation with less romance and added sex.

*****

It's a fiction set during WWII in England when 18 year olds were innocent and naïve - and most were virgins!

It was the spring of '44 and I'd been called up. I was to report to the barracks on the following Monday and I guess it was nostalgia for our youth that drew Steve and I to the water hole in Bill's Wood. The pond wasn't very large, but big enough to swim five strokes from one end to the other. We used it because the kids preferred the larger one half a mile away.

Although early April, it was a warm day and we were swimming. Naked. We splashed about and laughed and, I presume it was our noise that meant we didn't see her.

'Hi Will. Hi Steve.'

It was my elder sister Diane. She wore a pale blue dress, a denim coloured cotton, buttoned at the front from top to bottom. She had sandals and ankle socks ... white. The dress was old, not tattered, but faded. Clothes rationing forced us to wear our clothes way beyond their best. Even so, she was so beautiful, though I'd never told her.

She laughed at us, a teasing snigger. 'Where are your clothes, lads?'

It was instinctive to look to the spot on the grass where we'd left two bundles of clothing. They'd gone.

Steve was the first to respond, he waded through the water, but skidded in the thick mud on the bank. Despite that, he was soon back on his feet and after her. 

I was out of the water in a search for our clothes. It took a minute before I located them, bundled behind a nearby oak. While I'd been in a rummage through the undergrowth, Steve had shouted for me. I pulled on my trousers - no pants, and followed his voice.

I found them fifty yards down the trail. He had her pinned against a tree, although it was obvious he was about to lose her. Steve was short for his age, whereas she was almost twenty and a good four inches taller. We were all slim, there were few fat kids during wartime, but Diane was that bit stronger. However, against the two of us, she had no chance, and we soon frog marched her back to the pond.

'What should we do with her, Will?'

'How should I know?'

'Whatever you do, you mustn't mud bath me.' Her pale blue eyes stared into mine. I swear she blushed a little.

'Good idea,' agreed Steve, as he struggled to wrestle her to the ground.

I helped him, wondering why she'd suggested her own reprisal. It didn't make sense.

Diane lay on the grass, her arms pinned down by Steve, while I part sat and part lay along her legs.

'Now what?' I queried. 'How do we get mud and stop her from escaping?'

Steve stared at the pond, ten feet away. 'Will, can you hold her while I get the muck?'

'I suppose.' I shrugged. 'I'm bigger than you, so best for me to give it a try.' I leaned forward until my torso rested on hers. 'Go on, quick before she tries to escape.'

While Steve scooped up a double handful of mud, I rested full length on Diane. I was amazed. She didn't struggle, but lay dormant as though afraid to move. My head rested beside hers and I could feel the warmth of her soft breath on my cheek.

When Steve returned, I sat up and repositioned myself until I straddled her hips, my thighs acting as a gentle restraint. 

He looked down at us, as mud drips splattered on the grass. 'What do we do now? Sprawl it over her?' His eyes pleaded with me. 'Will?'

Diane twisted her head until she could see him. 'Steve Potts, if you ruin my dress, my mum will flay you alive.'

Steve's eyes began to bat. Not only did they open and close in rapid succession, but his face scrunched up with each eye movement.

'Calm down, Steve. She's kidding you.'

He didn't look convinced. 'What can we do, Will?'

'Suppose we pull off her dress.' As I uttered the words, I was nearly sick. I couldn't believe I'd dared to say them. For the moment I'd forgotten she was my sister.

Her face was impassive. Astounded by her indifference at my outrageous suggestion, I asked, 'Diane, is that OK?' It was a stupid question.

There was no reply, yet I was sure I detected a faint smile which seemed to inform me she was in agreement. She gazed at me in a way I'd never seen before and it unnerved me and I looked away. Steve and I exchanged glances, undecided as to our next action.

Diane began to unbutton her dress, while we stared in awe. Halfway down, with her hands mere inches from my crutch, she gazed up at me. From her expectant look, I guessed what she wanted and moved out of her way. I slid down and knelt astride her, with my lower limbs and her thighs in tender contact.

She tugged up the light fabric, pulled it around her waist and released the remaining buttons. Without hesitation, she pulled the dress apart so the two halves lay on the grass. Diane stretched out on her dress, seemingly relaxed despite her exposure. Her bra and panties were white cotton, simple and basic - sexless by comparison with modern lingerie. To me, it was the most incredible sight I'd seen and I nearly fainted at what she did next. 

She arched her body from the ground and her hands slipped behind her back. With a quick flick, she pulled the bra loose and tossed it onto the grass. She looked up at me. 'Mum would kill me if you ruined it.' She winked at me and I sensed the burning of my face.

My heart clambered into my mouth and I gazed in awe of her. I'd never seen breasts and hers were exquisite, with the palest of pink tips.

Steve's eyes explored her body. They still batted open and shut, and a nervous twitch of his head added to his ludicrous appearance. He allowed the lumps of mud to fall from his grasp and they splattered onto her chest with the sound of gentle slaps. He grabbed her wrists and forced them to the ground. 'Go on then,' he gestured to me. 'Rub it in.'

'Why me?' I protested.

'Cause I'm holding her arms.'

She lay motionless. It didn't appear she required any constraint. It was as though Diane was eager to get a mud bath. Nevertheless, I accepted his logic, swallowed deep and forced my hands towards her bosom. As much as possible, I avoided physical contact with her chest as I retrieved handfuls of mud. It was smeared over her, and beginning at her stomach, my strokes layered the sludge with firm pressure.

'Will, not so hard,' she hushed. 'Be gentle with me.' The reprimand was given in such a soft whisper, it excited me in a way I couldn't comprehend.

With care, I smoothed the mud over her stomach and midriff until my hands were poised below her breasts. I examined her face. Was it a dare? She nodded her approval as though she could read my mind. I felt the need to form an additional barrier between my massage and her audacious breasts, and asked Steve for another helping from the bank. He returned and, that time, avoided her body as he deposited a massive load onto the grass. It splashed down and large gobs showered the girl and I. Steve grabbed hold of her wrists and sat cross-legged.

I scooped up a handful and smeared it over her breasts. I spread it into her skin and in a short while, the muck was no longer sticky. The more it smoothed over her, it became thinner, turning soft and silky like her skin. Within a short time, it was almost water and, through the thin film of dirty liquid, I sensed her nipples as they pressed against my palms. I continued to roll my hands over them, conscious of a curious sensation in my stomach.

She groaned, a sound that resonated deep within her throat. Not only once, but over and over, like an animal in pain.

Steve's eye batting had increased in intensity, but her moans changed that. Wide-eyed, unblinking, he stared at her. 

In addition to the unusual sounds from her open mouth, Diane's eyes were half closed and her head lolled to the right. 

It was too much for Steve, he abandoned his responsibility and forced himself up onto shaky legs.

'Hey,' I complained. 'You let her go.'

'What was that noise?' he whispered. 'Why did she do that?'

'How should I know?'

He gathered his clothes and pulled them on while he continued to stare at her. 'I have to go,' he squealed. 'You coming?'

My gaze lowered to Diane. Her eyes were glazed as they bore into mine. She shook her head from side to side as if to deny my absence. I didn't know why, but there was nothing on earth that could have persuaded me to leave her.

Steve sat on the grass as he struggled to pull on his boots. 'OK,' he said. 'See you tomorrow?'

'Yes. Come round after tea. Usual time.'

'What shall we do? Go to the pub or the pictures?'

My mind couldn't cope with such trivia. 'Er, what?' I replied, while her eyes locked onto mine. 'Oh yes, I don't care what we do.'

Steve rushed through the clearing, shirt tail trailing out of his trousers. When he reached the line of trees, he took a last look back over his shoulder and vanished along the pathway.

I was never so glad to see him leave, though worried as to what I should do with Diane. Not for long! My sister took my hands, placed one on each breast and pushed them onto her flesh. Her eyes smiled into mine.

Unsure of what I should do, my fingers remained where she'd left them. She took control, used her hands to guide mine over her bosom, manipulated my touch to pleasure herself. 

Diane's face was beautiful. Long strawberry blonde hair flowed haphazard in the grass, lips parted by the pinkness of her tongue, eye's closed against the world, as she lay in some secret place of her own. 

My hands trembled as she guided my fingers over the softness of her slim body. Her nipples grew, swelled into pencil rubbers, while she rolled them beneath my palms. The mud had all but gone as it slithered down the sides of her body, and collected into patches on her open dress.

'Will,' she hushed.

I blushed at the look she gave me. 'Yes,' I stuttered.

'Hold my nipples.' She pressed the right one between her finger and thumb. 'Like this, Will.' As I gazed in amazement, she rubbed herself.

My limbs were paralysed. 

Diane's hands captured mine and, with the most delicate touch, they led me to her breasts. Her eyes held me, and as my fingertips closed around her buds, she released a long sigh and her eyelids softly closed. 'That's the way, Will. Squeeze them gently as you pull on them.' Her eyes opened for a brief moment before she groaned. She asked me to cup them and press them together. 'That's good. Your touch is so tender.' She gave me a reassuring smile. 'Yes,' the dear girl sighed. 'Keep doing it, don't stop.'

While I petted her, a silence fell around us like a shield, isolating us. A stillness settled, broken only by her moans and my laboured breathing. The whole world centred upon this darling girl - woman.

'Will?'

'Yes.'

'I want you to remove your trousers.'

I blushed. 'Must I?'

'Yes,' she giggled. 'It's the only way. Do you want me to help you?'

'No, I can do it.'

I stood, and with a struggle, finally controlled the tremble in my fingers and unbuttoned my flies. I turned my back on her and tugged the trousers down.

'Will,' she laughed, 'I'm over here.'

With a supreme effort, I turned to face her.

Diane's gaze lowered to my middle and she smiled. 'Come here, you darling boy. Kneel down. I won't hurt you.'

I had no underpants, naked and vulnerable, I bowed before my goddess.

'Will you do something nice for me?' she lulled.

'Yes, anything.'

'Remove my panties?'

'If you want,' I said in a low voice, so quiet I scarcely heard it myself.

She raised her bottom from the ground, and I awkwardly grasped the elastic waistband.

As I lowered the flimsy material down her legs and exposed her, my heart pounded so loudly, I was sure she could hear. When the garment was finally discarded on the grass, I worshipped her nakedness. I had never seen a naked female and, with no idea of what to expect, I was eager to explore her. 

Diane studied my face while she parted her legs. It was a languid, tender moment as she revealed herself, and nothing has ever surpassed the beauty of what I saw. The fine hairs were light brown, a delicate covering. Amongst the tangle of curls, I could detect the faint trace of a parting.

I hadn't forgotten she was my sister, but a force discounted the fact and I knew I was helpless. 'Diane ... may I touch you?'

'Let me see your hands.'

I thrust the muddy hands in her direction.

'Will, they're filthy,' she said in mock disgust, 'go and wash them in the pond.'

I rushed to the water, waded in and with my back to her, had a secret pee.

On my return, I held out my hands for inspection; turned over the palms to show the back and front, as though I was a child and this was Mum, not my elder sister.

Diane grinned her approval, and I knelt between her open legs. 'Now you can touch me,' she whispered.

I had no idea of what I should do. Diane took my hand in hers as she helped me unfold her. The darling girl initiated me, showed me how I should fondle her and, as I wondered at her splendour, a thrill travelled from the tip of my penis and engulfed my groin. I gazed at myself. I was erect; a fine dribble flowed onto the grass.

'Will, I want you to kiss me.'

'OK.' I started to move higher, but she stopped me. 'No, not my mouth.'

I frowned, no idea what she wanted. 'I don't understand.'

She was almost breathless as she pointed down. Her fingers were shaking. 'Between my thighs ... my ... my vagina.' I could hear the passion in her voice.

I stood and gazed at where she pointed. 'Are you sure?' I gulped.

'Please Will, please.' she implored.

I stretched out on the grass so my face was inches from her soft down. I parted the hairs and lips, unfolding her to reveal her most secret place. A fine dew added to the exquisite splendour of her intimacy. 'Di, you're beautiful.' I kissed every sweet part of her as she moaned her pleasure. I dared to push my tongue inside and caress the walls and she whimpered as I lapped her succulent nectar.

It was an accident that my tongue discovered her clit. I had no notion of what it was and maybe she didn't, but she gasped as the tip of my errant tongue came in contact. I licked again and she cried out, 'Oh yes, yes, Will, do it again please. More, more.' My tongue pleasured her as her passion grew more intense and when, as an experiment, I thought I'd suck on it, she began to thrash around. It was obvious she loved it, so I continued to suck. She went berserk, squealing with passion and I struggled to keep in contact as she neared her climax. I held her hips with my face pressed between her thighs until she cried out and my face was coated with her orgasm.

'Oh Will, Will, that was wonderful. Come and hold me.'

I lay beside her in her arms while she slowly recovered. She kissed me on the mouth. Gentle kisses, which I'd never enjoyed before and never expected to receive from my sister. Intimate kisses with her tongue tenderly exploring inside my mouth.

After a few minutes, she gazed into my eyes and whispered, 'Will, I want you to lie on top of me.'

I repositioned myself and by accident, I prodded her as I obeyed. 'Sorry,' I stammered.

'Shush,' she caressed, 'you're doing well.'

My upper chest pressed against hers, Diane's sweet face was inches from mine. So close, I was able to study the sprinkling of incendiary freckles across her cheeks and delicate nose. As I gazed at her beauty, soft fingers glided along my penis before they enveloped its base.

'Raise your bottom a little more,' she whispered in a breathless voice. 'That's good. Stay just as you are, Will.'

Thrilled by the tender touch of her hand around my penis, she stroked its length and caressed the head. I groaned at her touch, moaned as she explored me, smoothing her fingers over my erection. I think she sensed I was so near, so began to guide me to her entrance.

'Will,' she murmured, 'lower your bottom.' Her voice was so soft. 'Allow yourself to drift down. You must be slow as I guide you in.'

With care, I did as I was told. As the constraint of her body gripped my penis, I lost control. My body erupted in a series of violent bursts, each one producing waves of ecstasy to pulse through my whole being. I continued to enter, and as our bodies joined, I melted within her.

I lay in her arms, confessed that I loved her, and had always loved her. With delicate strokes, she smoothed her fingers through my still damp hair and, it was the first of many times, that she named me her 'darling William.'