1 comments/ 29033 views/ 2 favorites Big Orange By: Hornyman69WithU This is one of the strangest things I ever did, and, as you will see, it had a totally different effect from what I originally intended. Moving from the Mid-west for a good job in Deep East Texas, I was new to town, and bought a brand new home on the very edge of a new residential development. For about the first year, it was a very secluded and quiet area. Mine was only the second house on the street, and the gravel cove that backed up to my backyard had no houses at all under construction at the time, and the big vacant lots back that way were heavily wooded. It was a perfect place for teenagers—high school seniors at least 18, of course—to drink and carouse late on Friday and Saturday nights. Our crowd used to do the same thing out in the new 'burbs in the city where I grew up. Only we always made sure we were far from any occupied housing—we didn't want to be caught—and the kids partying in this Piney Woods town were right behind my house making all kinds of noise and raising hell into the wee hours of the morning. In fact, when it wasn't raining, instead of "parking," they'd usually get out of their vehicles and make their way through the woods almost up to my backyard's property line. Just beyond it was a stand of big trees making a crescent around a giant old hollow oak. From the remains of beer cans and cigarette butts, this was apparently the central party area. I didn't care one whit about their drinking, smoking, and probably having sex back there, but the trash and especially the noise became a nuisance. The area was only about fifty feet from our master bedroom window and finicky-sleeping two-year-old's room just beyond. My first thought was to call the cops, but I quickly dismissed that because I really didn't want the kids to get busted. Then I considered going back there myself to confront them directly, but then they'd know who I was and where I lived and might take revenge by egging my house or something, so I nixed that approach. Besides, I didn't want to be known as an old stick in the mud. During this period, I finally talked my wife into considering a toy to add some flair our sex life. Such items as dildos and vibrators were not sold anywhere near this conservative little town, so I'd have to wait until I could get down to Houston or over to Dallas. And forget about ordering a toy off the Net or mail order, as we'd received several packages through the mail, UPS, and FedEx that had obviously been opened. Their local employees were like most of the other folks in this typical small town: They just LOVED to mind other people's business. In the meantime, I'd have to come up with something on my own. We experimented around with the usual fruits and vegetables—bananas, cucumbers, zucchini squash—and they were OK, but all had some significant downside like too rough on the end or not quite the right shape. Then one day I was grocery-shopping at Randall's and spotted a bunch of the biggest, nicest carrots I'd ever seen. They were positively huge, bright orange, fresh, and hard. Nice texture, too, with ripples from end to end. I thought this would be just the thing. When I got home, I took the largest one, pared the top off smooth, and evaluated just what I had there in the way of a produce-section dildo. It had the right feel, size, and general shape, with only a slight taper down to the narrow end. Nice heft, too. But, never one to leave well enough alone, I sharpened the paring knife and went to work carefully whittling a dick head into the big end. Using my own erect cock as a model, if I do say so myself, it was right on the money—a sizable tuber that looked, but for its being orange, just like my dick! For the finale, I even snicked a slightly open pee-hole in just the right spot. Perfect. I hadn't done much whittling before, and I was pleasantly surprised that I'd done such a good job on the first try. Sounds funny, but I was beaming with pride! After we got the kids to sleep that night, with an "Ehhhh, what's up, doc?" I introduced it to my wife, who got a kick out of that but even more of a kick when I went to town on her lippy pussy. Christening it "Big Orange,"—funny in its own right but especially so since our favorite college football team was the University of Tennessee—she quickly learned to like sucking on it while I pounded her with the real deal. Before long, in a logical progression, it worked its way into her generously lubed bum hole, which she absolutely loved. You see, while shagging her doggie, I could use that root to stimulate her ass in ways impossible to do with my cock. I could twirl it round and round, and, holding it in my fist, vibrate it in and out in small, rapid, back-and-forth motions. Unlike a real prick, the glans I'd carefully carved in the carrot did not compress one bit, and so she would go ga-ga as the rigid flare provided that extra stretch sensation boring from one end of her deep anal canal to the other. The carrot-reaming also expanded her super-tight anus sufficiently that I could withdraw it and then work my meat in to butt-fuck her for much longer than I could without its going first. Then, I'd squirt big time in her still-pretty-tight bad hole, and, as long as I simultaneously diddled her big, rubbery clit, she'd have a tumultuous orgasm, as well. It was definitely a win-win! As a result, two things happened: First, once Big Orange had been in her booty, she wouldn't let me put it back in her pussy ever again. Despite that I scrubbed the root real good with a vegetable brush, fearing another dreadful vaginal infection like the one that happened when I was in a drunken stupor and stupidly fucked her pussy after having been in her butt, she vehemently stood her ground that the trusty tuber in her vagina was off limits. Yet, sucking on it was no prob. Second, the root got a lot of use in her ass. Again, though every time right after we used it I'd clean it assiduously, put it in a Ziplock bag, and place it in the vegetable drawer of the fridge—where else?—she got increasingly paranoid about hygiene and finally would have no more of it. That happened right after I bought a similarly sized and shaped rubber dildo in Houston. Hmmmm. She enjoyed the store-bought toy just as much, but, myself, I much preferred Big Orange. It was my very own creation, was virtually identical to my tool, and the fact that it was a carrot--day-glow orange, no less--was just a mental kick. I know it sounds silly, but I kept it in a Ziplock freezer bag under the lettuce in the bottom drawer of the fridge for another month, taking it out once in a while when home alone to admire it and remember the good ol' days. One day our neighbor Susan, my wife's best friend in town, was over helping to make a salad and came within a hair of discovering Big Orange. After that, my wife freaked out and tossed it in the garbage. You see, though great looking, she never wore revealing clothes or talked about sex with others, and had such a goody-two-shoes image that you'd never suspect she was a tigress in the bedroom who'd use such an implement. It was supremely important for her to maintain that straight-laced image in this hick town where, if rumors started, your name was mud. But Susan and her husband George were different. Like us, they were from elsewhere, and we were just doing a stint there for a couple years on our way up the career ladder. But that did not change my wife's careful protection of her reputation. So, I didn't even bother to tell her what happened the time when I was across the street at their house taking care of their dog while they were out of town. You see, I was looking for the TV remote and found a couple pair of handcuffs, a blindfold, and a riding crop in a drawer. Neither of them was enforcement, had trouble getting to sleep, or rode horses, so it didn't take a genius to figure out what they used these things for. Accordingly, they would have had not one scintilla of a problem with Big Orange, but there was no use in trying to convince my wife of that. Susan was a tall, pretty brunette in her early 30s with a nice, athletic physique and a strong take-charge personality, while full-bearded psychologist hubby George was about 50 with a slight build and a super-laid-back demeanor. I think it's safe to assume he was the one cuffed wearing the blindfold and getting whipped. They were good friends, but somehow, after my discovery, I liked them even more! But I digress. I could not depart my beloved Big Orange, so I fished it out of the trash but could think of no place inside where it could be both hidden and not spoil. Vegetables rot, of course, when not kept cold. But by this point, it was fall, and the weather was cool all the time, so I poked around outside looking for a suitable hiding place. While out there, I wandered back to the party spot. I'd never really lingered there before, hanging around just long enough to pick up the beer cans. But this time, I investigated more closely. The hollow of the tree, which faced away from my yard, started about 3 ½ feet up and got wider and deeper as it went down to ground level, making a little cave. It was the holy of holies, for inside, I found a wool Army blanket, and within its folds, a pair of panties, and some used rubbers underneath. There were a few unopened packages of prophylactics, as well, one a Trojan Magnum, no less. So, this was the have-sex spot! The perverse wheels in my head started spinning, and I came up with an idea. I took the unused rubbers back inside and rolled the Magnum down over Big Orange. It was like taking a trip back in time, because I hadn't handled a prophylactic since high school. I laughed; there's just something inherently funny about rubbers. Taking a look, I immediately saw that it was not complete without testicles. Yes, it needed testicles. I had some big marbles that would work, but being Mr. Consistency, I much preferred the balls also be fruit or veggies. Rummaging around in the fridge, I found several viable options: cherry tomatoes, key limes, and a bunch of radishes. At first, the tomatoes seemed perfect—right size, shape, and feel—but then I realized they would soon get too soft and burst. The hard little limes weren't bad, and I really liked the bright green, but the radishes—like the carrot, a salad vegetable—appealed to me more and would hold up longer, as well. So, I selected the two largest ones and trimmed off the tops and roots nice and clean. Then I slipped them in the rubber alongside the base of the big orange tuber, secured them there with a thick red rubber band (from, appropriately, the broccoli), and knotted the end of the rubber to close the whole "package" up. The big balls were perfect companions to the plus-size phallus, and the whole thing looked great. It was hilarious, and though alone, I cracked up in hysterical laughter. My plan was to go back to the tree hollow, put it in plain sight inside, and know that such a thing would surely creep out any teen girl and scare off the partiers for good without anyone ever having to speak a word. So that's just what I did. The large orange carrot carved into a perfect hard dick with two big red radishes for balls was about the freakiest thing anyone could imagine! And the latex sheath provided protection from the elements, too. At first, I laid Big Orange across the blanket, but that just seemed awful ordinary for such an extraordinary tool. I decided the most dramatic presentation would be to hang it from inside the hollow, so I went inside to get some string or something. On the way, it donned on me that fishing line would be ideal because it's practically invisible, so into my tackle box I dug. There, I also found a fishing hook that I realized would be an excellent way to attach the line up inside the top of the hollow. Out to the tree I raced to do just that, crumbling the loose rot away until I found hard wood to snag the hook into. Then, I made a fashioned a loose loop with the opposite end of the line under the balls to make Big Orange hang down at a natural, about 30 degree, angle. Perfect!!! You really had to be there to get the full effect, but picture this: A large, bright orange phallus with big scarlet balls looming two feet off the ground in the semi-darkness of the hollow, turning ever so slowly in the breeze. Depending on one's point of view, it was either scary or ridiculous. To me, it was ridiculously hilarious, but my intent was to scare the bejesus out of those teens so they'd never return. Well, with all the thought and work I put into this project, I would not be satisfied merely that the teenagers would leave muy pronto, I wanted to witness them scram. I pictured them running away screaming in abject horror like kids in the "Friday the 13th" flicks. So, the next Friday night, sometime after the Tonight Show and after my wife was sound asleep (she, of course, knew nothing of this), I waited at the window of our dark bedroom, peering through the blinds. As soon as I saw the first set of headlights back on the cove through the trees, I quickly made my way out to my little kids' wooden swingset/playhouse. Only a few feet from the property line, this was the ideal spot to watch and listen for the partiers to discover the veggie-package. In a while, a few more cars and trucks arrived, and they all got out. I could hear them cracking open beer after beer, burping loudly, and talking typical teen jive. But they were keeping their distance, and it seemed an eternity before one couple left the others and finally headed towards the huge hollow oak. Being late autumn with all the leaves down and a gibbous moon, I could easily see them hand in hand winding their way between tall trees towards "the spot." Wearing a pleated skirt and a sweater emblazoned with a big "L" on the front between medium-sized breasts, she was obviously a cheerleader. It was near the end of the high school football season, and there'd been a game earlier that evening. So, this is where they came to party afterwards. When she drew closer, I recognized her as the daughter of an acquaintance of mine, not such a coincidence in such a small town but still unusual because I had not been there very long and knew few people. He was a friendly guy who owned the local Manpower franchise, and we used his outfit for temps where I worked, so that's how I knew him. He'd invited my family to his church, and that's where I'd met his daughter, who had perhaps the most upstanding reputation of any young woman in town. She and the boy stopped and began making out. The guy wasted no time in pulling the sweater off over her head, and she promptly popped the bra off to reveal a pair of fucking perfect pert tits, which looked bigger than before now that they were out in the open and projecting from her slender torso. Unfortunately, they disappeared almost immediately when his bushy head blocked the view as he slobbered all over them. The big tree trunk obscured almost all the rest of him. In a few minutes, I got a better look at her as she fiddled with something out of my line of sight. Her tiny pink nipples now hard as rocks, she was a beauty, for sure, with the prettiest young face all made up, and "big" blonde hair—this was Texas in the late 1990s, don't you know. But this was all too brief, as she dropped down so that I could see only the top of her head, which began moving back and forth. Aha, what she'd probably been fiddling with was his belt and pants, and now she was apparently giving him a blowjob! In a moment, the "uh, uh, uh" from him left no doubt. OK, this I had to see, but to do so I'd have to move from where I was crouched there looking out the "fort's" back window. I reckoned I'd have an unobstructed view of both of them from the left side of the platform above, but it was not enclosed and would expose me. However, I got up my gumption and slowly climbed the ladder, every creak causing me to momentarily pause. When I stepped gingerly onto the plywood platform, there was nevertheless a seemingly deafening "crack," and I froze. Fortunately, they were busy spreading the blanket at that moment and did not notice. Standing still as a statue, from up there I had a perfect bird's-eye view and looked down to see that they were both, but for socks, now naked as jay birds. Flat of her back on the green blanket, she had her legs spread wide as he lapped at her pussy. When he'd come up for air, I could see that her pubes were trimmed in a thin vertical landing strip, exposing flared-out pussy lips and a half-hooded stiff clit glistening in the moonlight. She was truly a piece of ass. What a lucky son of a bitch he was! I felt pretty damn lucky myself, for, her fair-skinned face flushing, she bit her lower lip, grasped his bushy brown hair with both hands, and came with a long, sensuous moan. Wow! When she wound down from that, he got on top of her, preparing to mount the beautiful high school senior. "Wait," she implored. "Put on a rubber. You know I'm not on the pill." "Don't got none," the boy said in a thick Texas drawl. "Somebody musta used up the last of 'em we keep stashed back here in the blanket. Don't worry, I'll be real careful and pull out." It was I, as you recall, who had taken the rubbers. Oops. And with that, he eased into her dripping-wet pussy as she let out a long, sweet sigh of pleasure. Had I been he, I'm sure I would have spurted right away. Gradually, he picked up speed, she "Ooh, ooh, oohing" with every stroke. Eventually, he was really pounding her hard and fast. I couldn't see her pussy, of course, but her firm, standing-straight-up boobs were wobbling up and down with each thrust—a TITillating sight—and the la-la-land look on her face was simply priceless. The funny thing was that, during all this, their friends drinking and smoking and jawing not fifty feet away could most certainly hear and knew exactly what was going on! Privacy, I suppose, is a relative thing, and their buds did serve as a buffer to alert them should Dad come in pursuit with a shotgun. Since he was pumping her so vigorously, and she was a petite thing, they gradually ooched forward so that her face was out of my line of sight in the hollow of the big tree. I missed her pretty, sexed-up expression, but, watching those perfect, erect-nippled young tits heave was not exactly boring. "What the hell is THAT!" the cheer girl suddenly screeched. In all the excitement, I had completely forgotten about Big Orange, but I knew instantly what she'd seen. She'd looked straight up to discover it dangling by the fishing line right over her head. I expected them to tear out of there. Instead, he halted his pumping but remained inside her and reached up into the hollow and brought it out into view where all three of us could see it. I'd intentionally looped the sharp line loosely under the balls so it wouldn't cut through the rubber, but in so doing that made it easy to remove. "It's a carrot carved into a dick," he said, dumbfounded. "With radishes for balls," she said, raising back up into my line of sight again with an I-can't-believe-this look on her face. "This is the weirdest fuckin' thang I ever seen, and what's it doin' here?" he asked, incredulous. "I don't know," she added, taking it into her own hands "But it's so realistic, and, well, big, really big—a lot bigger than yours, even bigger than..." "Who?" he barked. "Even bigger than whose, Heather?" "Oh, Josh, settle down. You're my steady boyfriend now, but you must know there's been a few before you. I mean, do you want a virgin who doesn't have a clue or me, the captain of the cheerleaders who knows exactly what boys like? Poor thing, you've gone all soft. Stand up here where I can get to you good and suck that handsome cock up to size again. Since we don't have a rubber, why don't you just go ahead and cum in my mouth this time? I know how much you like that." Big Orange Dewdrop At that moment, we both stopped. I was so fired up. She'd been adamant, so stubborn and unwavering, teetering at the edge of her good sense. My heart was pounding wildly. The vein on the side of her neck was ever-present; it only showed when she got really mad. I clenched and unclenched my left hand to repress its trembling. The tension in our new one-bedroom apartment was palpable. It made the place seem even tinier. Dara was steely-eyed. Her pretty mouth had flecks of white at the corners. Strands of normally auburn hair were dark-brown, moist with perspiration and matted to her cheek. Her lovely breasts were heaving as she tried to control her breathing. Our words still hung in the claustrophobic air, as evidenced by the ringing in my ears. The slash of paint drying to my fiancé's bicep and right boob was called Lemon Yellow Dewdrop. A neon ribbon wound itself 'round her wrist, down to her fingertips where it dripped onto the newspaper we'd used to line the hardwood floor. Splattered across the front of my Giants t-shirt—soaking through to the skin—was a color known as Big Red Barn. In the next instant chairs might fly. New dishware risked becoming airborne as well. There were likely to be further taunts and jeers, a good chance of feet stomping and hair pulling, a high probability of more paint flung, and even an errant knee to a sensitive region. Dara scowled and I glowered right back. The apartment was shrouded in desperate silence apart from a drip, drip, drip of paint from her fingertips. Summer stings and sweat burns. We'd just moved in, still waiting on the power company to hook us up to the grid. Already, the heat was getting to the two of us -- straight out of college and moving in together ... nuts right? Maybe it had been a little impulsive. At least that's what our friends said. The place just didn't let in enough sunlight. It screamed for an ultra-bright color to liven things up. She'd insisted the poor exposure could be offset by the use of thin drapery and cleverly arranged track-lighting. The vaulted ceilings and hardwood floors, she reasoned, would be best enhanced by a juicy, yet mellow tone. At the home improvement store, we'd arrived at our respective epiphanies in the same instant: she wanted red, I wanted yellow. I surveyed her bespattered arm and breast, proud of the wound I'd inflicted. I imagined these could be the opening volleys of inter-planetary war. She was the cruel yellow-blooded alien—I, the noble, red-blooded human. Granted, if the gooey splatter across my chest was actually blood, in all likelihood my guts were bound to be hanging out. Nevertheless, I couldn't let such injustice stand. Dara had been that way since we first met. She'd insisted on choosing the restaurant where we enjoyed our first meal together, shared our first dessert, and over whose candlelit table we'd had our first of many unforgettable kisses. She's the kind of woman who tells you exactly what's on her mind. And sometimes yours. Sure, she's thoughtful, but unquestionably opinionated. She never met a point she didn't want to make to the stake. I, on the other hand, the reserved ones. I enjoy great conversation and even the occasional debate, but I'm not as likely to go to such linguistic lengths as she. Her way fits her lifestyle, she's an attorney after all. I'm an accountant. We do have a good thing going. She makes the money, I keep track of it. When I proposed, there was some concern among our friends. That's right, I proposed. Popped the question after we'd been together—already making plenty of love and war—for eleven incredible months. Our friends wagered on how long we'd make it, but we didn't mind. We thought we had it all figured out. Little did we know, we'd chosen the hottest summer on record in which to christen our new lives together. The house was a fixer-upper, a real shithole, but we were determined. Dara was biting her lower lip. She had a tendency to do that when feeling uncertain. She doubtless saw that my hand was shaking, regardless of my attempt to press my palm to my thigh. What goes on in the heads of two lovers calculating whether to bring out the heavy ammunition or wave the white flag is scary stuff. It can be the difference between make or break-up. ** For Dara and me, one of the secrets to a successful relationship, so far, is being able to read the tells. Tells are signs, or little windows. Patient lovers had better learn in short order how to look through those windows and into the heart and mind. Doing so yields valuable advice on how best to proceed with emotions running high. And because there could potentially be some really nasty thoughts racing through one's mind during an argument or tense moment, reading the signs can save a [love] life! I'd first seen her on a little stretch of beach known as Calf's Pasture. It's the sort of place you don't go to until sneaker soles are sticking to the street on account of the fact that it's more of a rocky shoreline than a white sand beach most are used to. She was sunning herself on a yoga mat when an errant wind blew the sun hat from her head and deposited down the coast not far from my own towel. I wish I could say the first meeting was effortless, a real love at first sight affair. Sadly, it wasn't even close. I was so completely overthrown by her beauty that when I tried to make conversation it was a disaster. Thankfully, Dara preferred sputtering to spitting game otherwise that would have been the end of the story. Still, I let her get away that first time and nearly lost her. Now, some might call it fate or destiny, but despite my returning to that beach every day for two weeks, I didn't run into Dara again until she almost literally bumped into my coming out of the Post Office. By then, I'd all but given up hope of every seeing her again. I was so shocked that she stood before me, I didn't even have time to clam up. I asked her to dinner on the spot. Which might have been strange if she didn't remember me from the beach, and for a moment, it dawned on me that was going to be the case. But as it turns out, she'd been hoping to see me again. We didn't even plan a date; we headed straight for a coffee shop down the block. The rest is, as they say, completely boring, and not at all why you're here! ** I breathed slowly and cleared my throat to break the chokehold silence had over the room. Dara shifted her weight, favoring one hip. She was wearing a pair of holey denim 501s, through which tantalizing pieces of thigh, knee and ankle were visible. The rise and fall of her breasts through that thin cotton tank top, the way she stood—her posture was so defiant—the furrow of her sharp brown brows, all of it was intoxicating despite my anger. I caught a glimpse of her tongue as it passed between her chapped pink lips. Her gaze traveled down my body and I could see the hint of a smirk forming behind those sparkling green eyes. We each gave a little, and it happened to be just enough. An innocent bystander might have been showered and splattered with red and yellow specks when Dara and I collided with frenzied passion. She tore at my shirt, I hooked my hand over the waist of her blue jeans and clothes went flying. She laughed and slapped my chest, made red-yellow marks on my cheeks and left her fingerprints on my upper body. We squirmed over the floor, stirring up newspaper until we were both naked, and I kissed my way down her stomach to her navel where I spread her legs and finger-painted an arrow along her inner thigh, aimed at her blushing vagina. She laughed and batted my hand away. "Put your mouth on me," she said throatily, and I complied. I muffled through her neatly trimmed muff, sucked her puffy lips between my lips and slid my tongue up and down the length of her deliciously steamy slit. The air hissed through her clenched teeth as I probed and nuzzled her pussy. When I trapped her distended button and rolled it between my lips, Dara jerked violently and cried out. She pressed her thighs to my face and giggle-quivered as I snuck a finger in beneath my tongue and buried it to the knuckle inside that hotbed of flesh and nerves. She squirmed, alternately caressing my face and trying to push me away. "Oh, oh, oh, it's too much," she gasped. I dragged my tongue back and forth over her rigid stamen, and drilled her with one, then two fingers. Dara slapped the floor with her palms, gathering bits of newspaper and shredding it with her hands, singing, whimpering and cursing me. "Oh, stop teasing! Just give it to me!" she cried at last. I moved over her, and she arched her torso greedily as I entered her. She gasped into our kiss. My fiancé's lips were salty, her mouth sweet. "I love to taste myself on you," she cooed. As our tongues dueled, I pushed myself deeper inside her, coaxed by the way she clung with her hands to my butt. We groaned and grunted, made love fast and feverishly, slowing only a moment to grin into each other's paint-streaked faces, to kiss and nibble from mouth to chin to ear. "I love us like this," Dara whispered as I moved slowly within her. I ground hard, and she had to catch her breath before continuing. "Do you think we'll always be this way?" "We will," I promised, withdrawing almost fully before burying my cock in her lovely oven once more. She kissed me with greater fervor, then opened her mouth to moan, "Don't you love the red!?" I growled and drew my teeth down on Dara's neck. My desire was more intense than ever. She squealed under the assault of bites and nibbles, and pushed me away. Then my lover quickly turned over, crawled on hands and knees to the wall, placed her palms to the white undercoat and thrust her butt toward me. She threw a devilish gaze over her shoulder. "Take me from behind," she crooned. I pressed my body to hers, clutched her tightly, and plunged my cock into her yielding pussy. She reached between our legs to cup and gently massage my swinging balls. I roamed her body with one hand and found her swollen clit with the other. All the while, I gazed down her tight gluteal curve to watch my dick disappearing within the crack of her ass, unable to resist the succulent pop we made with every thrust. When Dara began to climax, her hand on my testicles retreated. She shoved her fingers through mine and began diddling herself in a fast, circular motion. The wall before us was streaked with ghoulish handprints. My eyes watered and blurred as I groaned and began to come. "Yes, baby, fill me," she begged. Wrapping my arms around my fiancé's hips, I was thrusting hard and deeply, awed at her pussy muscles, which she used expertly to milk every last drop from my pulsing tool. When finally we collapsed, panting and exhausted, we lay in a heap of shredded newspaper. The crossword puzzle was stuck to Dara's ass, and I had a page from the want-ads plastered to my penis like a hobo's flag flying at half mast. Our flesh was a red and yellow roadmap of caresses, fondling and foolishness. We were content, if not a little relieved, that our argument had finished as it had, and far from what it could have been. But if you ask me, the outcome was never in doubt. Love is about compromise. It's about doing everything necessary to make many things work. It's about those moments when you've no alternative but to shout, 'Time out! Let's go away for now, and come back later with clearer heads.' Or those fortunate moments when jumping on one another—and emptying one's head—does suffice at breaking a stalemate. These things are only possible when two people truly respect one another, and are very careful with each other's feelings. That's our secret. Later that evening as we retreated to the porch and waited for the house to cool down, we sat and watched the sun melt into the horizon. You may remember, Dara wanted the Big Red Barn while I was in favor of Lemon Yellow Dewdrop. Staring into sunset, it suddenly dawned on us ... orange ain't half bad. Big Orange Heather certainly had a way of making a convincing argument and getting back on task! And so Josh stood up to reveal that he was, in fact, flaccid. Yet, with Heather sucking and slurping like a pro on his average-size cock and wanking it expertly while nibbling and tickling his balls for good measure, he was fully erect in no time. No doubt about it, it was plain to see that the girl could give head with the best of them. Interestingly, she never let go of Big Orange the whole time. Looking up at him with those big, sky-blue eyes, she said, "Josh, honey, I'd like you to do something, OK? I'm going to get on top of you in a 69 and keep sucking you as you lick my love button from below like you do so well, and then I want you to fuck me at the same time with this carrot, just like you do with your prick, slow at first, then faster and faster. Wait for me to cum first, then squirt in my mouth. I promise to swallow every drop. Sound good?" "Sounds kinda kinky, Heather," he said, stating the obvious. "You mean poking me with a vegetable or drinking your sperm?" she quipped. I was liking this Heather girl more and more. This time they lay down crosswise on the blanket so that I had a beeline view of her bottom. For the first time, I could see her lily-white butt, and it was so very fine—compact, taught, muscular, and smooth. And so they got right down to business as she suggested. I couldn't see her face or his crotch, of course, but when she'd deep throat him every once and a while, I could see her boobs squish out to the sides of his hips into view—very alluring, indeed. But the most amazing thing was what her pussy looked like in this position. Even though it was sopping wet, it was quite obviously extremely tight, as every time he thrust the thick tuber in, her pussy lips would completely disappear inside. Then, as he withdrew it, her labia would reappear and hug the carrot so tightly that it actually pulled out the walls of her vagina a good inch or more. Amazing! Flicking her nubbin with his tongue as he did this, he, of course, had an even closer and better perspective, and from the look on his face, was enjoying the hell out of it. As before, with such light skin, it was easy to tell when she came, for she'd flush red, shudder, and then get goose pimples all over. With his dick in her mouth, there was no sound this time—from her, that is. As soon as she orgasmed, he spewed and let out a holler I was afraid would wake my wife. As promised, Heather drank every drop of his jizz. I heard a couple of the guy friends beyond say, "Josh came," and a girl's voice enthusiastically assert, "Our turn!" I got the best look at Heather when they got dressed, as they were in no hurry then. To me, the best way to take in a woman is when she is standing, and she turned all the way around several times so that I could ogle her goodies 360 degrees. A ten, a perfect ten. His cock would not fully deflate—completely understandable after that fantastic blow job—and I got a real kick out of him having trouble stuffing it down into his jeans. Now dressed, she put her arms around him to initiate a kiss, but at the last moment, he turned his head aside. "What's the matter, Josh?" "It's just that, well, you know, I just came in your mouth," he fumbled. "And my vagina juice is still all over your face and mouth, too, so what's the big deal? I mean, I think there's plenty of guys around here who'd be glad to kiss me after I sucked them dry. How many girls do you know who'll let you cum in their mouth, much less swallow?" Heather was clearly in charge of this relationship, and to make her point, she then laid a long, sloppy French kiss on him. If it bothered him, he sure didn't let it show, but I noticed he was quick to slam down a Budweiser right afterwards. They made their way back to the others. Waving Big Orange around like the curiosity it was, she announced, "Hey, y'all, look what we found! " They all cracked open beers and lit up smokes as they discussed with blunt frankness the "ins and outs" of the newfound organic personal sexual stimulation device. Shortly, one couple zig-zagged back through the trees in my direction, obviously en route to the sexual activity spot. Despite that the slightly plump brunette clutching Big Orange was attractive and had huge boobs, I'd been outside in the forty-something-degree air in my pajamas for over an hour, was shivering, and had to go in. But I couldn't make a move until they got "distracted," so I stayed just long enough to ogle those enormous melons with dark, wide areolas tumble out when she removed the white industrial-strength brassier and drop the granny-panties so the dude could finger her too-hairy-to-see-anything pussy before creeping back inside my house. I woke my wife up by sticking my raging hard cock in her. No matter what time of the day or night, she was always up for sex. Of course, I never told her why I was so suddenly horny at 2:00 AM or that I was fantasizing in the dark that she was the cheerleader. What possible good could come from that? The next day, I went back there and, as usual, picked up the empty beer cans. As attached as ever to Big Orange, I was worried that it would be gone but was pleasantly surprised—astonished, really—that it had been hung on the fishing line right back in the tree hollow where I'd put it! That was an extremely good sign, for the only possible explanation was that the teens wanted to keep it for future use. Well, you know exactly where I was the following weekend. In fact, I voyeured those seniors from the top of the playhouse practically every single weekend. Turns out, there were five different couples--and only those five and no one else--who were the regulars. Sometimes, they'd all be there, but most of the time, like that first night, just two or three, occasionally only one. I learned all the teens names and more than a little about each one. All five of the girls were good looking, with heavenly Heather at the top of the class and the big-boobed, a-bit-heavy Brenda described above bringing up the rear. The dudes were all decent-looking, too, but in every case, it was the girl in the pair who was clearly the dominant one. I so looked forward to the weekly "entertainment" and was extremely disappointed on the rare occasion when no one showed up. The amazing thing was how Big Orange held up. It never gets real frigid in that part of Texas, but according to locals, it was a particularly cold and damp winter, so I suppose the refrigerator-like temperature and humidity was the reason it lasted so long. It belatedly occurred to me that had I put a rubber on Big Orange BEFORE I ever stuck it in my wife's ass, re-sheathed it with a fresh one every time thereafter, and then kept it in my old dorm-room-size mini-fridge I'd completely forgotten I still had, I could have plugged it in the garage where no one could have accidentally found it and still be using it on my wife's orifices. But, of course, had I done that, I would have never discovered the weekly sex show. Tradeoffs, life is full of tradeoffs. But, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. By early March, the builder had laid a foundation on that lot behind me and cleared out a lot of the trees, although the big hollow one housing the big carrot remained. The teens kept returning, though, until the framing was complete. And then, they never came back, and Big Orange disappeared. The irony is that, rather than running them off, it became the main attraction. I can only guess what happened to it. Maybe Heather took it home. More likely, she ditched Josh AND Big Orange for a guy with a cock even bigger, for this was Texas, where bigger is better, and where meat invariably wins out over vegetables.