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Sex Writer Symposium: 01

By: PenningFreer



Three of us sit naked, watching three people fuck. We are instructed to write about it. A sprawling lodge in New Mexico is a love nest of truly epic potential.

Zhay's idea is to plumb the depths of sexual arousal from up close. Participate and write; write and participate. For two whole weeks. Had we been professional porn actors and actresses, this might seem like business as usual, but for writers, this is mind blowing fucking erotic.

There are cameras here, but for now they are laying in the corner, for day two. My eyes are the camera and my imagination is the focus. I am focused on Elle's asshole. It is gorgeous and I am delirious with desire seeing it.

Elle is on her knees sprawled across a large stuffed pillow, straddling Beth's face. Beth is taking her slow, sweet time eating Elle's cunt. I know the mechanics of a pussy engorging with arousal, but watching it happen inches from my face gives me a whole new understanding, and a grand appreciation.

I can't help slipping my fingers to my pussy, past the short patch of hair above my clit, and lightly across my pussy lips. Yes. I am engorging.

Beth is savoring the moment. She had confided to all of us that she had fantasized about licking another woman for years, and volunteered immediately to do the first model session. She is a natural. She presses her lips against Elle's cunt and smears them around, coating them with Elle's cream.

Her tongue is slightly extended and stiff so it nudges every nerve as she moves her mouth. I am obsessed with Elle's asshole. She is totally clean shaven and wide open. I keep catching myself thinking, here I am inches away from one woman's asshole, with another woman's tongue inching nearer and nearer.

I breathe deeply, trembling as I draw my pen toward the paper. Try to finish one thought at a time, Zhay had told us over and over. She has done this before. Obviously. I want to fuck now, not write. But I am getting paid to write. Fucking is a fringe benefit for this workshop.

Jack is having problems. His cock is oozing and he can't figure out how to keep his paper and pen clean. Unlike us girls, his problem protrudes straight up toward his face, making his lap useless.

I suddenly realize with a rush of delirious certainty, that I will be swallowing that man's sperm before this week is over. Hell, before the hour is over.

Jack is a little embarrassed when he catches me looking and I smile warmly at him. I reach down and part my pussy lips for him and tickle my clit. He grins his appreciation. I can't wait to read what he is writing.

Oh my God. Here she goes. Both Jack and I turn to watch Beth raise her face and trace her fingers around Elle's asshole. I could write volumes on this. Elle is consumed with being eaten out and has let her body descend where it will. Her cunt and her asshole are contracting beyond her control and she has relinquished herself to them.

Beth's fingers are slipping along Elle's slit and dipping in and out along her crevice to incite every nerve. She is rapt with wonder watching Elle's asshole throb in natural rhythm with Beth's fingering.

I so want my tongue there, and Beth must almost be there. She is. She descends with outstretched tongue, her fingers slide deep inside Elle, and she lays her tongue along Elle's rim. Elle gasps and bucks almost violently when Beth's fingers enter her. Beth smiles an evil pleasure and holds her tongue still until Elle relaxes a little.

Jack and I are not writing. We are watching Beth slowly tongue fuck Elle. In and out, in and out, around and around, soft and deep, now two fingers. Elle is rocking very slowly.

Beth moves back to Elle's puckered hole and dips her tongue into it, capping it firmly, but not too deep at first. Beth groans a deep guttural sound and I am damn near coming. I have never witnessed fucking like this. Beth is devouring Elle. Her tongue probes and scoops, presses, releases, darts, ravages, disappears, reappears. Her fingers never stop that firm, consistent fucking.

Now Beth spreads Elle wide with her hands and laps at her tight bottom, making wide swaths of glistening saliva, licking from cunt to ass and back. She runs her tongue back and forth, inserting it deeply into cunt, then deeply into ass. She cups Elle's pussy in her hand and is firmly stroking her cunt and clit together with a wide, strong pressure. Elle is bucking now, thrashing. "Oh my God!," she is begging. Beth finishes her with a flurry of fingers and tongue and lips. Elle is convulsing wildly. Her asshole is clenching and releasing rapidly. Beth adjusts her licking and fingering to Elle's sensitivity so well that Elle doesn't have to reach back and stop her.

This thought brings me back to the task and I note that this is the first time I have seen a woman so expertly fucked that she didn't have to intervene with her fingers at least a little at the end. Write that.

Elle finally shifts and gazes into Beth's eyes with genuine astonishment. Genuine astonishment. Beth just smiles back. Elle rolls over and pulls herself to Beth's mouth, cupping her face in both hands. She sits upright and her mouth melts into Beth's. Beth shudders a little and closes her eyes, opening her mouth wide and tangling her tongue with Elle's. I write like a zombie. I shake my head to clear it and find Jack doing the same. We grin and both shake our heads, writing madly on our wet notebooks.

I write: Nothing is more sensuous than soft deep tongue dances. The smell of the wetness that comes from deep within and the dexterity of the most flexible and sensitive body part exploring someone else. Reaching inquisitively for permission to fuck, then realizing that fuck is already here. Beth and Elle fuck shamelessly with their intimate mouths while we watch trembling. Eventually, Elle lays Beth back into the pillow and descends to Beth's hungry pussy.

What strikes me is that what follows is magnificent, but not magical like the first. Since Beth is on her back, Elle licks her pussy and gently fingers Beth's ass. Beth is coming within a minute. She yelps and surges into Elle's mouth. Elle licks deeply and stays with her until Beth gently slows her. That is all I have to write about that part. It is good, but it is not the story.

I am a wreck. I glance over at Zhay and close my notebook with a pop, then drop it. She laughs. It is time to swap roles. I will be a model. Jack will be my victim.

I crawl over to him and take his hand. "Come with me, Jack. We have to work now." He hesitates a microsecond then tosses his notebook and lets me pull him over to where Beth and Elle are still tangled on the pillows. They shift over and sit against the couch staying close and touching.

"Do we have to write right now?" Elle whines at Zhay.

"Only if you want to get paid for the session," Zhay says.

I am a whore. I am a man pleaser. I am writing in my head. I am going to devour Jack. Watch me work. I push him back into Elle's lap and work between his legs. I take his huge dick, glistening with thirty minutes of clear cum, and stroke it to coat the entire shaft. Then I simply lower my head on his cock and start sucking him.

I taste his clear, thick cum, and I meld my mouth to fit him like a hot rubber mold. I move around and suck with wanton, desperate craving for the taste of sex. I stop only once. I move my face directly into Jack's and put my forehead on his. I insert my tongue in his mouth and fuck him with his own taste. He is receptive. He is all mine. He is out of control. He will be fucking me only later. And I'm sure he will be good. But not now.

"I'm going to just suck you off," I whisper to him. "You can do me later. And you will." I smile. He just looks desperate.

"Please come into my mouth. Don't worry. I am going to swallow you. Okay?"

He looks a little uncomfortable. I know what he's thinking and I go way ahead.

"Jack, I know you feel guilty and like you have to do me. I promise, you can do me later. Just please, please let it all go and just let me do you."

He can only say a feeble, "Okay."

I stroke him a few times and wink at Elle and Beth, slowly scratching their pens on paper.

I am back to his cock. I am swallowing his shaft as deeply as I can. I dispense now and forever for any sort of distinction between pre-cum and cum. It is all cum. It is salty, pungent, delicious dick juice that oozes from his straining sexual organs into my hungry mouth. I suck for more. I squeeze his shaft and his balls for even more. I lap it up. I move my mouth back and lick it up so I can see it. I smell it. I make long strings of it by moving my tongue back and letting it sloppily string along until it breaks and I catch it with my hands. I lick my hands. Then I'm back all over him, sliding down and holding him there.

He is there. He is going to come. He is so out of control. He doesn't know where to run. There is no way out of this except straight down my throat, right in front of these people he has known only casually. And he goes over. He is shooting hot semen into my throat and my tongue.

He is whimpering and trying to keep from breaking my neck with his thrashing. He wants to grab his cock and pump it himself, but I am not letting go. I am swallowing his cum, drinking it. Later this week I will play in it. Right now I am just eating it.

Bobbing up and down, drinking and swallowing his thick, saline body. I am so high on sex endorphins I believe I will fly. But I am sucking instead. Up and down, gulp. Swallow.

I don't take my mouth off when the wild spurting has subsided to random contractions. I clamp tightly and move up and down. In and out of my throat until he starts to soften. Only then do I drag my mouth off of him a centimeter at a time. I raise my eyes methodically up his dick, up his chest, to his chin, to his eyes. And I smile sweetly. I open my mouth and let him see what a mess he made.

I say, "Thanks, Jack. We'll finish this later." Then I collapse into his very grateful arms, laughing.

I look down at my shaky words: Beth's tongue dances over Elle's clit, then probes Elle's pussy. Her eyes wide with wonder and excitement like she can't believe what she is doing. Elle and Beth have an automatic magic understanding. They clicked immediately and the warmth shows in their touch. God, women taste good. Pussy is elixir.

What I am thinking is, I want Beth to do that to me. But first I want to do to Beth what she did to Elle. I lean over and whisper that in her ear. She giggles a melodic, sensual sound and touches her tongue to mine.

So much for day one of Zhay's writing seminar.

Sex Writer Symposium: 02



Excerpt From Sex and the Writer's Symposium (Day 1) by Penning Freer(c):

I am a whore. I am a man pleaser. I am writing in my head. I am going to devour Jack. Watch me work. I push him back into Elle's lap and work between his legs. I take his huge dick, glistening with thirty minutes of clear cum, and stroke it to coat the entire shaft. Then I simply lower my head on his cock and start sucking him..."I'm going to just suck you off," I whisper to him. "You can do me later. And you will." I smile. He just looks desperate.

* * * * * * * * *

Zhay's sex symposium: Day 2 is all that is written on the whiteboard. A silent large screen over the fireplace teases in slow motion with a collage of selected film vignettes and still photos of our bodies fucking from last night. We don't look half bad for writers.

The central fucking stage, where we act out our words and watch them being acted out, a low, wide ottoman with plush pillows piled all around, is set up in the middle of the room. Our chairs sort of encircle the impromptu sex throne. The full glass side of the New Mexico cottage faces west into a glorious sunset. The room is starting to get that sex smell as our bodies anticipate, moisten, heat up. I am so ready to fuck. We are all ready to fuck. Day one turned us burgeoning writers into sluts. Yet, here we sit again. Simple wire-bound writing notebooks, stained from last night's activities, lay in our laps like we're all in first grade.

I glance down at yesterday's notes and scratch my fingernail at the stains. I write a quick note waiting on Zhay to begin her lecture: I recognize the stains on the single notebook in my possession this week -- Zhay forbids us to bring anything to this symposium. In our welcome package, she gives us one notebook for the entire symposium. All our work goes in here. No bringing in earlier material.

I find myself contemplating the stains on my notebook. This stain is me, fingering my cunt last night, the first time I ever bared my bottom in pubic...whoops!...public. The stain that nearly blots out my pen name came from watching Beth eat Elle's pussy and tongue-tantalize Elle's pert little asshole into oblivion last night -- their first ever girl-does-girl fuck. And, this, yes this -- this is Jack's cum I carelessly smeared all over the paper's rumpled edge last night when I wiped his stuff off my mouth and coated my pen with it, my fingers still trembling from my first sex in front of other people. 

Wow. Zhay is good. Fucking good. We each have the most intimately nuanced cum stained notebooks to inspire our writing.

We all fall silent when she looks up, her clue that the evening's festivities are about to begin.

"Zhay is not the name I was given as a child."

No surprise there. We all glance at each other around the room and grin. A sex guru, writer coach, and sex trainer with a model's body named Zhay? Someone who holds invitation-only sex symposia from which 99 percent of the attendees suddenly disappear off the face of the earth -- under their own identities anyway -- and then people who look just like them show up with mind-blowing lucrative lives and careers in some aspect of the responsible global sex trade as writers, as coaches to the world's hottest porn stars and starlets, and a select few end up as sex goddesses or studs with different names?

We don't think so. Zhay isn't Zhay. But, then, she obviously is.

Zhay always speaks in a quiet, almost demure, sultry voice. She never clears her throat or stutters, or says "um," ever. She just looks at us with almost love in her face and starts speaking. I'll write that.

In porn, pens pause after Zhay says the word fuck. Not just the word, but fucking itself echoes like an orgasm through your mind when she says it. She means it. I write it. Sigh. Me, being me, my attention deficit thing kicks in and my attention drifts, despite my best intentions, to my new colleagues, and from there to my moistening cunt, then back. But I'm still all ears.

Beth and Elle have really bonded after last night's cunt and ass girl's love fest. They sit next to each other, knees touching, fingers teasingly close to one another.

Jack is quite and alert, serious and listening. His muscles glisten with light sweat from the walk over. He must have come straight from the gym. He smiles at me and whispers a sweet hello, confirming he remembers and fully appreciates me sucking his dick dry like a twenty-year-old coed slut in heat in front of everyone last night -- and presumably remembering he owes me the fuck of my life -- probably later tonight. 

I write: I'm proud of our group. We are brave girls and boys! We came back for day two after baring our bodies and fucking like porn stars with perfect strangers last night. Every one of us is back for more.

Zhay talks. We listen. "You are all adults here. You are all safe here. No one has to be here. You may leave any time you like. You will never be bothered again. Just know, that if you need to leave, I will bless you, hug you, respect you when you leave. You've already proven yourselves to me. This life is not for everyone. Just know," she raises her dark liquid eyes, and fixes them sequentially on every one of us, "If you choose to leave, you will never find me again, or us again -- unless I invite you again. And that has never happened."

She is right on. Zhay's sexual instincts are uncanny. Even in my rising hormone glow I slowly take in every face in my periphery. Every one of us loves to fuck, is truly open to fucking, and gravitates to others who have the same lusty fuck passion.

I barely noticed that Jack had slipped out to the bathroom until he edges up behind me and I feel his fingers on my sides and his lips at my ear. Yeah, I'm listening.

"Let's go first, Heidi," Jack is whispering in my ear, his hot fingers scratching a little lust line up my quivering side.

"Yeah...? Payback time for last night, because I still believe (I lick my lips), yes, I'm sure, I still taste your cum on my thick pouting lips?" I tease him and push my ass back into his business.

"Let's make them come to us though," he whispers. "I don't much like that center stage thing."

So Jack is taking my smudged notebook, stacking it on top of his smudged notebook, and dropping them to the floor next to our own corner-ish low ottoman perch. The notebook plop draws all eyeballs to our corner, grinning eyes, eyes meeting eyes, winking eyes. Now it starts eyes. Thumping notebooks can mean only one thing.

Jack doesn't seem to mind, or even really notice, the attention shifting to us -- or, more likely he is really good at what he does, becoming the part -- which I will explain later. His breath never leaves my neck. He keeps his voice to me and to me alone.

"I want to be inside your ass, Heidi," he whispers. "Whatever," I say.

His hands are wet and trembling. I like it when a man's hands on my body are sweaty and shaking. It always means good things. "Make this good, Jack."

Moist and trembling his hands are, but still fresh-from-gym strong when he unbuttons my crop-top blouse to feel flesh. Guy, guy, guy all guy. True to form, he doesn't linger at my pert, chocolate dark nipples, but slides like speed racer down my sides, around to the front of my short zipper-and-top-button shorts. Jack's finger race is made easier because, guess what? I left the top button open, and about an inch of the zipper unzipped, you know, right to the tippy-top of that little strand of hair above my...me.

Nothing but pussy, pussy, wet pussy, behind that zipper now, Bucko.

As I should have guessed from reading three years of his partial clothing fetish stories, Jack leaves my unbuttoned blouse draping my torso and my shorts at my ankles and eases me forward toward the edge of our low cushioned seat, then he lifts one leg out of my shorts so he can spread me.

I shouldn't have worried about a rush ass fucking or a neglected cunt. God, help me. He's maneuvering me, spreading my apart like a meal, opening my pussy and teasing her delicious lips apart. 

Yes. I feel my ass opening, puckering, preparing for...whatever.

I feel their pain. Beth and Elle have to write tonight. They got theirs' last night when they modeled for us. I hope they take good notes tonight. The only thing going into my notebook tonight is little droplets of perspiration bouncing onto the cover as I move my face from side to side, soaking up man in my bottom.

Still, my head is writing, writing, exploding, writing, writing while my fingers are digging, sweating into the cushion. Fuck me Jack, Baby. Have my fucking ass.

No? Not yet, my pretty! 

Jack is pulling me abruptly to my knees, raising my ass higher and thrusting my tits arching down and grinding to a halt into the cushion. 

Jack descends into my bottom, face first. My whole bottom. My whole, single nerve-begging bottom with two aching holes.

"Jack, Eat my ass. Eat my cunt." I say this not toward Jack, but straight into the wide-eyed, glassy visioned, fuck-lusting eyes of my vixen dream Beth and her evolving lover, Elle. They have pulled their perch stools to within inches of my face, trying hard to balance their notebooks on legs that keep trying to spread for each other's fingers, but they are doing nothing really but watching my face contort with pleasure while Jack thrusts his tongue deep inside my body, through my pussy, in steady, long pushes so hard I slide back and forth inches at a time with each tongue thrust.

Yet I'm still a writer at a writer's workshop. My head is cranking it out: I get it. I understand anal now. I get ass fucking for the first time really. It's not two disconnected holes, a right one and a wrong one, a clean hole and dirty one, a good hole and a bad hole. My bottom is...one...seething...mass...of...NERVES. SCREAMING. With two separate but equal starving, ravenous nerve orifices clenching, reaching back and grabbing for Jack's tongue, holes begging for banging.

Pleased with both my head writing and my cunt licking, I smile through drooping hair strands into Beth's eyes, into Elle's beautiful browns, and because I am feeling like an angel slut, I slowly and deliberately say these words to the girls and the room:

"Jack, stick your tongue inside my pussy -- hard. Yes. Now, Jack. Lick your way up my bottom to my ass, and lick around the edges slow -- YES -- and now," I pause a second to feel for his obedience as he obeys, "Now. Stick your tongue inside my ass. Deep in my ass. Yes. YES. There." I laugh out loud, tremble with delight, and laugh out loud again.

Beth shakes her head like a zombie teenager reading a heated romance and involuntarily reaches down and takes my fingers with her free hand. "Oh my God, Heidi."

Zhay's knees appear at my side now while I fuck backward looking down. Now Zhay's sweet, calm voice, happy but firm edges in.

"Beth. Write. Elle write. Heidi, fuck. Jack...Jack, just do what you're doing."

Mantra. Easy mantra: Tongue my pussy deep. Jack. Yes. Tongue my ass deep. Yes. Cunt. Yes. Oh. Ass, yes. Cunt. Ass. Cunt. Ass. Don't...you...stop. Jack. Fuck.

Flushed face, speckled red, sweat soaks seat.

Tits scrape fabric.

Beth removes panties, wet panties. Elle helps with hands. Girls tongues touch quiver dodge deep disappear behind lips of the other. Jack holds tongue at top hole and slides two fingers deep into twat.

"Girls. WRITE," says Zhay.

Blank stares, eyes listlessly scratch pens to paper but eyes never leave us.

I, Heidi writer, fucked from behind laugh out loud and then laugh again.

And now it starts. That thing that Jack said earlier that I've never done before. Licking aside, this real thing is starting now. 

I feel his face disappear and I feel frantic fumbling of his fingers freeing his dick. That dick I sucked so sweetly last night. That dick from which I teased and sucked and coaxed and then greedily swallowed a week's worth of churning live semen.

With all due respect to lovely Beth and Elle hovering at my face, and despite my whore position comfort, I just must turn around and see Jack's dick before he does that dirty disappearing thing into my...my whatever, whichever. Our eyes kiss for the first time this evening. He's been working behind my back all evening, remember? Yes, we are in love now.

Here, Jack. Before you do that, Let me look at your...dick...a second. Nice. Yes. Huge. Fucking huge now. I didn't remember it like this last night. Pumped up now, right? Full of blood in the veins and cum reservoir filled to the top?

Yikes. You're even spilling sperm. Jack, you're dripping perfectly good droplets of...never mind. I caught it with the tip of my tongue. No, Use present tense, Heidi, please. I catch it, I am catching it, on the tip of my tongue and tasting.

Examine Jack's balls with eyes and finger tips. Full, bursting full, of what I taste in my mouth. Cock pumped up hard as your biceps, boy. Good. Now do your whatever thing to my ass.

To Jack I just say, "Fuck my ass."

Not so fast. First he turns me back around and flops me back on my breasts facing Beth and Elle as they feign writing while watching fucking.

Which, what...what now, Jack? I can't see you. I crane my neck over my shoulder but still can't see. What now?

What now is the most delicious beautiful, sloppy sensation I ever felt in my pussy. Jack gently puts his dick knob up against my cunt opening and rubs it all over my pebble hard clit circle, cum-coating her. Then he just pushes...inside...my...pussy, just like any young horny husband on a ho-hum post-game wife lover fuck. But in front of friends.

Head writing: Jack fucks Heidi's pussy. 

Long, slow entry until full testicles bounce off Heidi's bottom. Jack reverses direction and unfucks Heidi's pussy with perfect slowfullness. Nerve fucks nerve every fucking centimeter along our inner bodies. Jack drags his dick nerves across Heidi's pussy nerves, all on the inside. Fuck in, fuck out, fuck, unfuck, fuck, unfuck. Slather slick sperm along my slutty silky inside skin. Do it again. And do it again. Jack, do it again.

Now. Without a word or a pause, sometime long later, jack unfucks my pussy yet once more with a plopping sound and paints a trail from my pussy to my ass. 

My ass, she's very, very wet. She's tongue wet and she's cum wet. Wet, wet, wet and wide. Wider than she's ever been before without my help. She's ready I'd say. Sweet, Jesus. Yes.

Cock head covers ass opening but only a split second pause then Heidi is getting her first ass fucking. It feels like fingers have felt in my most adventurous morning masturbations -- but in front of friends and with a very big dick. Better yet, a self-lubricating dick. That feels very, very, very good. Big, massive, stretching, God, huge, but...I'm good.

Keep...slow...keep...doing it, Jack. Fucking my ass I mean.

I'm back to talking out loud again now: "Jack, yes. Slow. Slooooow. Easy. Yes. Thank you. YES."

On and on and my night begins to blur. Too much feel. Too much touch. I'm tired. Fading into the feeling.

Jack gently but firmly fucks me with full, even strokes. Then a little faster, faster yet. Faster...there. Do me Jack. Do it in me. OKAY.

Now I'm full of scalding body liquid oil squeezing out around his driving cock, bathing my whole bottom and the questionable cushion. Jack is breathing hard and smacking his balls against my ass, my first-time fucked ass. Beth's mouth is open. Elle's mouth is open. Faces are flushed. No pretence at writing whatsoever.

Zhay doesn't say a word. Zhay smiles and loves us all.

I, Heidi the writer, Heidi the slut, Heidi the first time ass-fucked nympho girl slump flat on my cushion and squeeze Jack's softening dick out of my body, back into the lamplight, back into his possession for now.

That's really all I have to say for now.

That's it for Zhay's writer symposium, day two.



Sex Writer Symposium: 03



Despite the usual collage of the beautiful fucking bodies slow-motioning to sensuous music on the warm huge screens above the dining hall and the open bar compliments of the Friday night Sex Writers' Symposium, I distractedly thumb through my still-stained notes, looking back through the last week's entries, trying to jumpstart my script thoughts.

When I read back over my day 1 and day 2 notes (you can read them in chapters 1 and 2 of Sex and The Writer's Symposium if you like) I realize it sounds so fucking absurd! So...so fucking porn, so fucking guy porn. Like fuck, fuck, suck, fuck, suck, yada, yada, yada, fuck, suck, cum, yum. 

I wrote those notes myself, and it still reads to me like all we do at this symposium is sit around and fuck. Oh that it were so! But calling this a symposium is a misnomer par excellence.

First, be clear that my notes read like porn because that's what we do for a living -- or this is what we have done for a living up to this watershed point in our collective lives -- and that's what we are paid to write -- not because fucking is all we get to do here. 

Wait. I should write this while I'm thinking about it. There, I just did.

Our lucky, lucky play evenings -- technically, erotic immersion evenings, of which this is one -- come at a huge price to our bodies and our psyches. 

If you can bear with me for one chapter without me describing our grand sex in detail, if you'll be a little patient with me please, I'll explain. After all, I'm just sharing with you my journal, and this is what it says. Just me venting for one chapter.

It's just not as easy as it seems to get it up and keep it up day after day, even when you have willing hot fucking partners all around you, and that's your fucking job! 

Think about it. You're at the grocery store one day on a Saturday and choosing the freshest carton of milk from the back of the rack -- you all know you do it -- and you get this call from some woman named Zhay (cool as that sounds). 

Now, you love writing porn and posting it on a website as a way to spice up your life and his or her life, and you're pretty much standard-issue normal values Jane or John Doe. And this Zhay person that calls you knows all of the above. Plus your credit score, your last and next doctor's appointment, and your involvement in team sports in high school and college, and your security clearance in any federal work you ever did. Think about it.

Then come to Zhay's Symposium. By Friday you are fucking a strange guy one evening, a girl the next, a couple or a group of folks the next, and handling sex toys like silverware the next.

We Suck, swallow, swap cum. We eat pussy, we eat cock, we take it in the mouth, we take it in the pussy, we take it in the ass.

Next it's bondage (how much can you take, Heidi?). How low can you go? How scared can you be and continue to function?

What are your boundaries? What are my boundaries exactly?

And, then, just as I find myself really bonding with my new fuck stud, Jack, gravitating to fuck him regularly both in our erotic immersion evenings and, well, let me just say, at other times during the week as well, we are asked to branch out. 

Branch out. 

That's easier on paper than it is in the real world. Trust me when I say this. 

Yet, astonishingly, we have really enjoyed all of it. And we have much, much more to enjoy -- starting in a very few moments. We have started really enjoying even those things we were not initially comfortable with. 

Taking it in the ass? Please! Loving it? Never saw that coming.

So we know we can do some things we never thought possible before.

But it hasn't been as easy as we thought. Sure, the sheer heat and passion of the first week or so, fucking wildly, fucking strangers, doing new and different things started a buzz we still have not recovered from -- nor will we ever fully recover from it. We are far more appreciative sexual beings than we were before Zhay. 

But now more of the reality sets in. 

Zhay never fucking backs off. Zhay never takes a break. Zhay never gives us a break from her constant loving, sensual immersion in understanding and sucking up good old-fashioned human fucking. Nor do we get a break from her passion for helping vulnerable folks hurt by other folks.

And then, and my point in this journal entry, there is Zhay's other side.

We earn or orgasms here buddy. Yes. We have some rockin' grand weekend libido levitations. But we earn them.

* * *

During the week days, Zhay, usually through her team of G.I Joe and G.I. Jane hard-body pain czars, but most often she her own self, stirs it up for us in a veritable panoply of unpredictable activities, many (though not all) of which, start with a surreptitious early-morning airplane or chopper, or motorcycle, or horseback ride, a long slow endurance run, tools and weapons in tow, through some grueling, but magnificent desert terrain -- complete with iguanas, cactus, multi-colored rocks and sand layers, and more than one river crossing -- and always three to five sessions a week in a very, very, very (did I say very?) nice open wall gym with tons of heavy shit in it which we pick up. Enough said on that for now.

Point is, we are so ready to fuck by the time Friday afternoon rolls around that we barely dare lose our soggy survival gear duds off our astonishingly tightening tits and asses, and our lusting cocks and cunts, out of fear we'll break off these cocks and cunts with guy-jerking and girl-frigging before we get our smelly bods in the shower, to nap a few moments, then to dinner, then to the lodge where the games unfold into weekend decadence. Testosterone prevails. Yes. In both girls and guys.

Ah, yes. I can't even say lodge any more without pooling my panties. 

Jesus, listen to me. 

I talk like a guy-porn slut now without even trying. But it's true. Okay, pen to paper - I'm writing that.

Kevin and Richard show up together tonight. The best of both worlds. Happily gay but more than happy to help me out when I want -- or so Rich told me today when he fished me out of my tumble down the river rapids onto the jagged rocks using what looked like a rubber hula hoop while Kevin braced himself a rock layer higher, between two rocks, gripping the line connected to the hula hoop thing for support. 

Well, there I was soaking wet, looking every bit the drowned rat, quivering on my knees, between Rich's mighty legs -- either of which was bigger than my torso. 

The irony is rich: Here we are in the fucking wilderness. My face is nestled, separated by only the thinnest amount of fabric possible, from possibly the finest dick I've ever wanted to see in my life -- through his wet government-issued rescue diver's shorts no less. And Rich's said fantastic cock is hanging from the loins of a very, very, very gay guy. 

Gay or not gay, I don't dare miss the opportunity to lay my cheek against this gargantuan cock and bring my water-shriveled fingers up under his crotch and feign that grabbing-the-guy-by-the-balls look, opening my mouth like I'm going to try to swallow that beast for Kevin and Zhay and all the creepy crawly desert beasties to see. 

Zhay, further up the rocks on the embankment watches my rescue exercise and my follow-up antics through camouflaged binoculars. She shakes her head and grins at my drama. 

Richard blushes and chuckles, glancing over and up at Kevin on his rock-perch above, and who is laughing as well. 

So deliriously happy to be alive and out of the fucking white water, I whoop and shout at Kevin, "So fucking SHARE already!" Richard, true to Zhay's openness encouragement, says, "Be happy to, just say when!" and then I feel myself lifted like a rag doll from my knees and deposited on the rocks above, where Kevin grabs me by both wrists and swings me up and over the bank, like I'm a toddler, back into the safer grassy area, next to Zhay.

Zhay steadies me with one hand, the other still holding the binoculars. 

"Rich (pant) said I can have his (pant) cock, Zhay. And Kevin just laughed. Does that mean he's not so gay anymore and he wants my body? And can I have him (pant)?"

Still smiling and shaking her head, Zhay, always the hard-ass during these sessions says, "So you're good with today's stuff, Heidi? You think you can do this, maybe in the dark, pretty scared, very cold...armed with live ammo, swimming for your life on your own?"

There it was.

I breathed hard a couple times.

I felt for my game face.

"Yeah, Zhay. I can do this. I prefer the boat -- the cruise ship actually -- but I look so fucking good soaked to the bone in this body armor shit and helmet and all, I'd say bring it on."

"Yeah?" She said, eyes piercing me deep for my real gut-feelings.

"Yeah, Zhay. I'm good. Good. Really. Ready. Ready now." 

I kid around but I know when to kid and when to show her my real face. Now it was time to use my game face. Zhay deserves the truth about whether we are in this game. Her life as well as ours will definitely depend on it.

* * * 

I snap back to when I feel familiar fingers fucking my ear lobe. I arch my tanned neck into Jack's feather light guitarist's fingers and shut my somewhat swollen eyes, letting my lips curve into a smile. "Lower, Jack baby. Lower. Lower."

Jack drops his fuck touch from my ear to my neck.

"No, lower, much, much, lower." I grind my hungry ass into his other hand hovering at my waist.

He dips inside my Navajo blouse and his fingers hover right at my -- what are those dark ring things circling my nipples, my areola mammae? -- yeah, those dark circle thing around my nipples, when Zhay comes in the symposium site door with a real fucking hunk in tow.

Zhay never calls us to order. She never facilitates anything as a meeting. She is not a group leader or a team leader. She is just a...leader. She goes. We follow. 

Right now, she walks toward the middle of our newest weekend sex room and her new hunk follows.

"Everyone. I want each of you to meet Denys before you go your ways tonight. I want you to look Denys in the eyes. His eyes may one day be the most welcome sight you will ever see in your life.

"Denys is a friend. Denys works with our sister group on the east coast. Denys and his associate, very close associate I should say," Zhay smiled and touched Denys's hand lightly, "that is, his associate Sheri, operate our film component. You may have heard of it, I hope you have not only heard of it, but have jerked off to it. If not, we're not doing our job right. It's called Porn Next Door."

Zhay and Denys smile at our collective shock.

Denys speaks in a deep, gentle voice that partly exemplifies, but partly belies his tall, stalwart frame, long flowing whitening hair, and piercing dark -- dark something -- eyes.

"Actually, if Porn Next Door, we call it PND, isn't getting you off, guess what? It's your problem now. Because, if Zhay hasn't let you in on the secret yet, you are the new group of writers and producers for Porn Next Door, International."

Denys waits for that to settle in a little.

"In addition, of course," he adds, "to all your other duties, err, I should say interests.

"In case you haven't figured it out, we at PND need to film and photograph, and stream the hottest fucking scenes on the planet using the hottest women and men on the planet and we need it in every conceivable genre of fucking that you, or I, or anyone we know -- or don't know -- can imagine. If we can't morally bring ourselves to produce it, we must simulate it. Not for distribution, rest assured, but -- if you will -- for BAIT. Never to be disseminated beyond the targets. To be destroyed without record as soon as use is finished."

He pauses.

"This is tough, but there's no other way to say it, and there's no better time to say it. We believe in two things completely and equally: we believe that enlightened mutually-consenting adult sex at all levels embodies the ultimate human life condition. And, we believe that enslaving or otherwise abusing or torturing other people to pervert fucking into sickness and simply for money is the ultimate human insult and harm. We simply intend to create the best of sex, and to use our place in the erotica industry to take very, very firm issue with those that pervert good honest fucking to hurt other people using sex as an excuse."

He looks at Zhay and she nods.

"That's the heaviest and most blatantly boring sentence you'll ever hear from my lips," Denys says, blushing a little at his own pontification.

"And we want the best of what we do with genuine sexual enlightenment to be completely believable and completely genuine, and...," Zhay turns and meets Denys's glance, the turns back to us. "We need it sooner rather than later."

Hell, Heidi. Wow.

I, Heidi the writer, Heidi the burgeoning slut, Heidi the evolving adventure race queen who outscored everyone, including Jack and all the other guys except Richard and Kevin (of fucking course), and the other girls in shooting the eyes out of the frowny-faced character targets on the 9 millimeter pistol range, Heidi the small-town girl now very comfortable taking it in the ass, parachuting, swimming white water rapids, eating pussy, and writing about it, that Heidi...well, she's going to be a writer and producer for the most elite adult erotica firm on the globe -- and the one erotica agency whose business model no one seems to really understand.

But a girl can only take so much brain buzz during a week before her attention wonders to the bodies nearby, and her fingers gravitate to her crotch. So mine do.

Zhay is talking again, "Denys and I are flying to the East Coast for the weekend to interview a potential new friend who you girls are going to want to meet -- sorry about you guys, Kev and Rich, for now anyway. This guy is so fucking straight he makes an arrow look like a pretzel." 

She smacks Richard's too-close ass and laughs.

"But," Zhay goes on, "This same guy -- our east coast talent guru Jill has named him Jax, Jax with an 'x' -- short for Jackson, is the guy who took it upon himself to remove from public concern the primary North American-based middle east child sex slave broker, Jerry somebody or other, in the middle of his dinner on his yacht wearing pink panties and a bra, preparing to sample his new shipment of Tibetan children."

I, Heidi, bolt straight up and let my notebook flop on the floor, all thoughts of my pussy gone for now. 

"You mean that guy in the CNN story that did his thing to this perv and his goons, handed the yacht full of kids off to the officials, and then jumped overboard and swam fifteen miles from the yacht to shore somewhere near Phuket and caught a cargo ship home? And that nobody knows how he got there, or where he went when he got off in Honolulu?" I ask dumbfounded. "That guy?!"

"Mmmm," Zhay shakes her head, "As I said, Denys and I are off to the East Coast to interview one impressive young man that Jill took upon herself to name Jackson - Jax with an 'x' of course -- you all should complement Jill on naming him that when you meet her in the next week or two."

Zhay adds as an afterthought, "Oh, and by the way, I forgot to mention. You all have the next week off. Be back next Tuesday for breakfast at 6:00 AM and I'll catch up with you and let you know our next week's fun and games. Please check the envelopes Bridgette handed you on the way in, and...enjoy. You've earned it."

I, Heidi the tired but still horny girl yawn and methodically rip into my envelope, joining the ripping sound of ten envelopes. 

Yada yada one more piece of schedule calendar bullshit paperwork for the week then I, Heidi the secret agent porn writer pistol shooter lesbian straight whatever I am now -- I am SO getting off very soon.

Ten gasps sibilance the room simultaneously -- nine besides me.

I pull out a passport with a picture of me-slash-not-me but somehow still me with a brand new name, and a whole packet of matching driver's licenses for, let's see, many of the United States and several countries.

I pull out a card with a cell number to call (on my nifty cell phone that seems to have its own network system) to book a plane ticket to wherever I want to go in the world, anytime, including tomorrow. Including tonight if we choose. And a license to carry a concealed weapon, ten of them apparently if I so desire, with an eerily official looking stamp affixed. 

Who'd have thunk porn could be this exciting.

And the gasp-getter: a neatly stacked and banded roll of part Euros, part dollars, one million and one U.S. dollars value worth of mixed currency to be exact.

"This is not your salary, guys," Zhay says quietly. "As I told you on day one, your salaries and bonuses go into your Swiss accounts and you do what you will with them. This is different. This is weekend money. Fun money. This sort of envelope money is, I am afraid, for all of you at one time or another, going to be your get out of jail money, your reset your life money, your stay alive money. You will see it when the time is right. For now, it is your fun money for being among the most talented, most open, most evolved sexual writers on the planet who can also rise to tougher occasions. Enjoy. See you Tuesday."

Excuse me, but the rest of this night at the end of our own version of hell week blurs.

Beth is crying, sobbing into Zhay's shoulder, Ellen stands near Beth eyes tearing up, her lips trembling. I am certain that suddenly finding themselves facing a week in Paris after the near fatal rock crash they had in their afternoon whitewater escape must be overwhelming. 

I drift over to hug them and extend my hand to Denys, and look deep in his eyes until he smiles and nods, but I say nothing, nor does he. I shiver a little but know a deeper level of peace than I really hope to ever need to depend on.

Richard and Kevin stand close, flushed, deeply touched even though they have seen things such as this several times in their close association with the Zhay enterprises.

I, however, am just simple writer Heidi. No Paris for me this week. Hell, a glass of wine, that new television show, and...I suddenly look around desperately in what feels just like a goddamn full-blown tidal wave of panic for Jack, for my Jack. 

And he is standing right behind me.

I, Heidi the Hunn, break down sobbing like a baby, soaking Jack's chest. For the first time since we started this I am feeling my bruises, feeling the burning of missing skin scraped off my legs and arms, feeling the intense exhaustion in all my muscles, feeling my shattered mind and my no-shit vulnerability in this crazy, insane, ludicrous crucible I find myself entering with the best people I have ever known -- of my own volition. I feel my loss of naivety and innocence as I feel all my sexual habits drift and stretch, and beautiful as I feel now, a part of me is exhausted from exploring these new ways to fuck.

So, right now I am Heidi the infant crying like Uma Thurman the morning after she finally kills Bill, nestled in Jack's arms like Scarlet O'Hara in her weakest moment. 

You haven't fucked until you feel this.

Not tonight, not this week, but soon, Heidi the writer will begin writing and directing the hottest scripts and scenarios that anyone has ever witnessed for an enigmatic east coast erotica group called Porn Next Door. Who'd have thunk it?

Not I, not tonight.

Tonight, I rub my tear-swollen eyes, still sniffling, and I drag Jack by the hand into the desert moonlight and into the arid southwestern air, toward my safe, cozy, cottage with my special porch swing Jack helped me hang when he thought he was going to get lucky one day, and toward my warm, cozy bed. 

Tired, cranky, not feeling sexy in the least, feeling overwhelmed, rushed, confused, out of control, a little angry, a little needy. 




Sex Writer Symposium: 03



But, then, here's Jack. And here I am. And here we are. For now anyway. Together at least for now.

You haven't fucked until you feel this.

You haven't fucked until you feel this on day three of our strategically staggered meetings of Zhay's Sex Writers Symposium. 



Sex Writer Symposium: 04



Tonight finally, on Day four of Zhay's Sex Writer's Symposium, the fantasy I described back on day one awaits me inches from my face. 

These notes, of course, are written in retrospect, because with Beth's silky thighs spread wide to lust-wrap Elle and me in her fuck space, there's no room for a pen, let alone my messy, messy sexed up notebook -- though that trusty notebook is never too far away.

Can one giggle on paper? I, Heidi the employed erotica writer, just did.

Good thing it's cameras now, it helps me recall magical day four. All week we spent training with some of Hollywood's premier triple-scale camera folks, amply paid for their expertise both in cash and in kind. The kind part of course being us being very, very kind to those cute smart camera guys, letting them sample our girl body goodies after work days -- and we their guy bods. 

Unorthodox for porn work as it goes, but we are a little different, a bit more relaxed with our staff and contractors here at Porn Next Door, International.

By Symposium day 4 you begin to understand how hard the porn work really is. You appreciate great fuck films more than ever, and you understand why some very well-meaning porn makers just give up on the organic fucking and do the easy formula stuff -- which unfortunately tends to turn hot lovers into caricatures. 

It's so hard to just let yourself go and fuck when you worry about what the camera sees, whether you're in the right position, whether everything is just so, every little distracting nuance. 

We want our camera work to stand out from all others because we want our camera eyes to see us fucking like we mean it -- every time. Every scene. Every way. Not just reality films -- there's that whole genre of course -- but Fuck-Like-You-Mean-it-Because-You-do.

You getting off, me getting off is most important. Anything the lucky camera gets is always secondary.

So, where am I? Oh, yes, in front of the camera worshipping Elle's sweet, sweet, mouth.

I can't believe how intoxicating Elle's mouth is. 

Between Elle and me, a mere tongue thrust away, Beth's pussy is opening beautifully, a tulip beckoning spring.

Elle first, then I, reach a tongue to that sweet pussy and let it sizzle our senses. 

Pussy rules. Along with its kissing cousin cock of course.

Kevin and Richard run the two main angle cameras now capturing silky strings of wet nuance dancing on our tongues.

Simple premise. Jack is going to fuck Beth while Elle and I kneel on either side of our darling Beth making out and cleaning up the impending mess. All impromptu.

So goes Elle's debut directorial scene, in which she also cast herself as starlet. Convenient that she chooses Jack for the scene since she knows I've been wanting to devour Beth's cunt since day one when I watched Beth devour Elle and I've been fucking Jack every spare minute.

Now both. Wow.

I, Heidi the horny girl, am literally shivering at the alternate taste of Beth' cunt and Elle's tongue on my taste buds while Jack dangles his dick precariously near Beth's nose, bobbing onto her tongue. 

But, alas, just as Heidi the whore starts her descent into sexual satiation, Heidi the Writer's writing hat cascades down around her ears with a resounding thud. 

And writing is a large part of what I, Heidi, get paid the big bucks for.

* * *

How can this feel so...so...fucking GOOD? Really? I Heidi, the writer/operator I've become, despite the bucolic German children's literature connotation of my name, am southwestern born and bred, fundamentalist family, average looks, heavy hormones, basic values. Very, very basic values. 

Now, for Christ's sake, I am nearly naked, lying between the legs of a girl, feeling her thick pussy fluid on my mouth, licking the lips of her girlfriend, watching my favorite guy lube up the girlfriend's mouth as he prepares to fuck her.

And then he's going to pull out of Beth's body and fire his boy cream into our kiss? Onto our lips? Onto Beth's breasts? And we're going to lick it and like it? And, and, and...it was all Elle's idea? 

Guys, applaud.

I should feel some sort of hesitation, no? 

Why don't I feel hesitation? Why do I feel the warmest, golden glow of passionate love and lust instead of the furious fires of hell? 

I mean, trust me when I say I have NOT become my mother. And somehow, somehow, beneath all of my stuff and her stuff, I think, even though she might ignore certain aspects of my behavior, she would know what I'm about, and...dare I say?...approve? 

Do I really know my...?

So why do I feel this glow?

Here it is: Everyone in this room, those with cameras, those with lights, those bringing drinks and towels, those scurrying in the shadows with makeup and prompt cards -- are all part of this fuck -- my fuck, Elle's fuck. Beth's fuck.

Zhay's words, Denys's words ring more clear every day. No one is here who does not want to be here more than any other place in the world. In this room. Fucking. Fucking in every conceivable way. Fucking anyone else in the room, fucking everyone else in the room.

Never will one scene with the Porn Next Door holographic logo show a person who doesn't want to be here.

Oh, yes, we will act roles sometime that look like we don't want to be here. We are actors. We act roles both to extend our own sexual boundaries and to use some scenes as bait for those who would force others to their selfish will, but we all are here to fuck. We would be no other place in the world.

And the odd part? We are not really sluts or porn stars, per se, much as we aspire to those heights of humanity. We are working folks. 

Stay tuned for more on that.

We are doing something else. It all looks the same, but something feels different. Something fundamental is different.

That's why I write these journals. To describe things that look and feel a lot the same -- but are diametrically, diabolically different. 

Different like day and night. 

Different like heaven and hell.

Our days involve unfettered, infinite fucking. But believe it or not, as I tried to say in my Day 3 notes, fucking is a fine by-product of a much larger thing we are doing in our days. Our days are so full of other things that the fucking seems like a delicious, welcome respite from some tough things, often horrifying things.

Yes. It feels good, really good, really warm, really -- dare I say...like being home -- to fuck here. 

It is human warmth. It is human warmth to which we have added soft multi-colored lights and images, and music, and sounds. We are creating sex of the gods, love of the gods.

Oh, don't get me wrong, it's not always soft lights and color film for our fuck sessions. We shoot lots of straight, stark idea-capturing video in our rooms, in twosomes, threesomes, foursomes, moresomes -- or masturbating alone. 

We shoot stark black and white film to practice our emerging sex craft, to build ideas, to get used to being naked and fucking and practice being open, being seen by others being naked and fucking -- and all the while meaning it. 

We all have piles and piles of amateur fuck films in our cottage closet shelves -- along with Gone with the Wind and Free Willy and Dorothy and Toto. 

Me masturbating next to Scarlet succeeding.

And, oh yeah. Lots and lots of Rambo.

Understand this: We also crave straight fucking with no cameras. Just classic legs spread, pussies wet, cocks slamming home, grunting, groaning, pounding, messing everything up. We still love that kind of fucking, love making, make no mistake -- nowadays, we crave straight lights-out fucking even more than the filmed fucking, because we crave the reality underlying our art.

Real unadulterated fucking (somehow, I suggest, not as much an oxymoron as it might seem for group sexers) brings us back to our basic values and passions. Imagine that.

But to build our craft we use cameras and lights and all the tools of the trade.

We use our cams all the time. Now when we travel the globe we never go without at least two notebooks and two suitcases. 

One suitcase always carries my frilly underwear, my Guess jeans, my Victoria bras, my Harley hair braid wrapper, my lipstick, my copy of the latest paperback. 

The other holds my camera gear and our other type of, shall we say, projecting gear. I'll leave it at that for now. 

The point is we use cameras, lights and all the accoutrements of professional porn -- but we go for a different effect here -- trust me. We live, or at least make a living, by fucking; but it is just as true that we fuck so that we, and others, can really live better lives. 

When you immerse yourself in fuck as deeply as we do, it's hard to come back out to the real world. But we know we must. And we know we can because we love coming back into this fuck world as much as we do.

Heidi Writer's writer hat drops to the floor with a resounding thud.

* * *

Jack has moved to center stage between Beth's legs, leaving a string of his thickening self dangling from Beth's lips, across her tits, toward Elle and I on Beth's nether end, as he moves to her plumped pleasure zone. 

Elle and I have taken turns bouncing our mouth lips onto her pussy lips, plumping her, teasing her, sculpting her horny.

Elle and I then spread to either side of Beth, slide up and down with Beth between, now hovering at her face, kissing her messy mouth, kissing as three, sharing tongue, sharing breath, fingertipping Beth, fingertipping us, stroking cheeks, twisting nipples -- now lovingly licking her cunt, really lubing her up.

Rich and Kevin film us with their new world-class expertise, un-underweared dicks unabashedly bulbous in their baggy shorts, indecently aroused with our fucking, building toward their own orgasms over the course of a long evening of filming.

No pretence at professionalism for these guys. They want to fuck. They will get theirs, I swear -- oh, yeah, I will see to that before I towel off tonight.

For now, however, fill Beth Jack. Film me guys. Film me fucking.

And then, Richard, Kevin, guys, when we're done with Beth, put down your cameras and come to me.

Contribute cum.

* * *

Jack is gorgeous and sensual tonight as always.

I feel you Jack. While you fuck Beth I am closer to your cock than when you are fucking me. I am watching you approach and engage Beth -- she wants you to do this a lot.

Elle, nibble my tongue now. Slow. Deliberate. Drool me, baby. 

Drool. Spit. Saliva. 

Underrated in erotica, certainly in porn. Definitely in most mom and pop fucking.

Mouth liquid that tastes like people. It's just more cum. It's mouth cum. Taste it. Gather it on your tongue where you can get real with it. Elle, don't move your mouth much. Let me be with your tongue cum for awhile. 

Your spit gathered on your tongue. Your breath blows across it, sending fertile liquid you straight into my guts through my nostrils. I inhale you. 

I drool you down my chin to prolong the pleasure. Spit mixed with skin mixed with the lightest suggestion of sweat. Then from down below, a pinch of pussy mixes with your mouth smell. 

I shiver like a sailor in a ship shower in Arctic ice.

Here is what Beth, pillow-perched, sees: 

At Beth's right breast, I, Heidi, kneel. Heidi's wilting hair bobs in slow motion, Heidi's face is flushed.

At Beth's left tit, Elle leans over to me, mouth messy, bangs blond, tongue-tempting Beth's tit, tongue tasting me. Rinse. Repeat.

In breath-breaks between our saliva-sampling, Elle and me lean back like curtains to unveil the stage so Beth can see the opening scene of the play in her pussy starring Jack.

Jack is huge and Jack was already soaked with Beth's mouth when he moved down between her legs to do her. As he passed Elle on his way to Beth's privates, Elle captured him with her mouth. 

Rich is barely a blur with his camera pulling up tight to catch what Elle does to Jack before he fucks Beth. 

My eye-camera snaps on Elle's electric green eyes smiling up Jack's torso, to his tits, to his face, as she draws him inside her mouth.

But not so much with her mouth, Elle fucks Jack with her green, green kitty eyes, letting his dick lie dormant on top of her tongue while she smile-sucks him, pupil to pupil. In fact, if it weren't for Jack slipping his dick ever so lightly back and forth over Elle's tongue, eye to eye with her, there would be little movement - because Elle just eyeball-fucks him, curving the non-stretched remnants of her lips into a smile around the edges of his tree trunk glistening cock.

Spit, that sweet spit, of course, gathers when something is simply held in the mouth without motion. And so it does now. A pool of Elle's clear saliva builds and overflows, filling both her cavernous mouth, and Kevin's camera with lust material. 

I lean over to catch what spills and to lick the parts of Jack that are not inside Elle's mouth, bathing my tongue in Elle's spit pool. 

Sticking my tongue into that pool, of course, makes the spit overflow her lips, fountain down Elle's pretty flushed cheeks. Jack politely pulls his dick out of the way and moves to center stage at Beth's cunt where he picks his dick up and just lays it there on top of Beth's thickening pussy. He leaves it there while he watches us proper ladies swap spit. 

Cheek to cheek, chin to chin, tongue to tongue, Beth guides our face-fuck using our hair for puppeteer strings to script us.

"Fuck her, Jack. Do it now." Elle moves her script forward. 

"Yes. Fuck me now, Jack." Beth shivers and grinds her heels into the cushion, positioning for action.

Now Jack is close to her and poised but he is not yet fucking Beth. He has not fucked Beth. He has never fucked Beth. 

Yes, thus far, he has only held his dick there on top of her pussy. Both of them wet and willing -- imminent. But still, at this point, they can still honestly say they have never had sexual relations with that person.

Now, NOW, on the other hand, as we watch from inches away, NOW Jack HAS fucked Beth and she has fucked Jack. 

In those last seconds, his dick nudged Beth open. Elle helped hold her cunt lips out of his way on one side, I held her cunt lips open on her other side, so she wouldn't fold over and slip inside with him like happens when clumsy hungry football boys hurry too much when they get in a hurry with station wagon cheerleader girls. 

Slow...down...a...little...guys.

Warm her up first guys...and girlfriends.

Just let Jack go inside and you stay outside Beth.

We all watch with our messy mouths open while Beth goes, in one slippery second, from never having fucked Jack, to now having fucked Jack, now forever having been fucked by Jack. Fucking and being fucked by Jack and forever sanctioned and approved by her forever friends. 

Wherever two or more of you agree on a thing, so it shall be sanctioned...

Beth leans forward watching herself be fucked, eyes trying hard to follow him inside her, shoving and angling her bottom toward him, angling her girl bottom wide as she can to help him fuck her.

Yes. Now he is...definitely...inside her.

She is totally fucked. Not flooded yet, but fucked, and working on the flood part.

She is stretched. Oh, she is full of my Jack. Wall to fucking wet wall, cock shoving outward on inside cunt skin, working so hard to push out while craving so bad to stay inside forever. 

Inside pussy skin is moistly shoving back its appreciation. 

I said I could describe this forever but the rest blurs into universal motion. In, out, around, it almost becomes voyeurism now as Elle and I fade to peripheral and Jack and Beth focus to feel their first fuck. 

We friends, the smell, the taste, the feeling of bare skin, the moisture. We wait patiently. We watch and wait for them.

I know Jack. And Jack is going to come now. 

I can see it in his chest muscles before I feel his breath catch somewhere deep in his lungs.

"There you are, baby," I murmur. "Give Beth your stuff, baby."

Jack looks love right straight through my eyes into my soul. 

It's complicated.

Jack is fucking me, Heidi, while he is fucking Beth for Elle for Zhay for someone in China.

Time, timeless, timelessness. 

It's complicated.

No hurry here. Bathe in bodies. Now, while we can.

The poor we will have with us always, and always we will reach to the poor, but we have us tonight, for now.

So let us bathe in bodies.

Here is Jack's sperm now.

Come, Jack, come. Do it.

Beth's skin is wet beneath my fingers and Elle's fingers. Beth's face is flushed with red, red splotches matching those on her chest. Beth's tits are taut. Beth's nipples are granite hard, rock-candy sculpted. Beth's hands are tightly twisted into the cloth cover. 

Beth likes a lot being fucked a lot because it makes her feel vibrant and alive and full and powerful and real. Beth told us this last night when Elle described this scene to us. Beth forgave herself in advance to me last night for liking this so much using Jack. Now Beth is just wearing Elle's desire at face value. We're all good.

Cum is pouring out of Jack and he is making loud sounds like uhhh, auuugh, unhhh -- exactly, but in a lower pitch, than the very same sounds Beth is making while his cum is pouring inside her.

Elle and me just sit quite and still and happy and watch them pump each other. We peer through the blurred fuck frenzy at the edges of Beth's body for evidence of Jack's emptying contribution. 

There...now there is the evidence.

Washing out around his sloshing self is white, clear, thick, thin, silver, smelly, salty, sweet, tasty, secret, sacred, well...cum.

I can't see this, but I know what is happening inside there from my bachelor's degree and my Ph.D. electives in sex biology.

Beth's desire made her plunge herself over and over onto Jack's cock to create procreative pressure -- think suction.

Her wetness, helped out a lot by me and Elle licking her and fingering her, as well by her own mounting desire, sort of merged with Jack's early leaking starter semen to form this powerful suction from which none of the little sperm guys are likely to escape her body. See? A suction cup that feels real good so you won't stop fucking till you're done.

Well, when you do this piston suction thing long enough, feeling so good it makes you make animal noises you never knew you know, it sort of draws out, sucks out if you will, this nerve response in Jack's loins that sort of propels his little semen sperm cum reservoir like a fire hose directly toward Beth's back wall where lie strategically-spaced, various baby-making organs.

His flood of sperm, if he is virile, and Jack is virile, smashes so hard against Beth's clutching, milking, churning body that it splashes back toward the front and her pumping and squeezing and churning forces quite a bit of his semen back out of her body as he pushes in and out, in and out, over and over, fucking, unfucking, fucking, unfucking.

Well. That's what Elle and I are watching for now - replete with ravenous lust.

That's what is so fucking hot and human that Kevin and Richard are not giving a fuck about being camera dudes any longer.

Kevin and Richard, the cameras, and those enormous pulsating working class cocks, you may ask?

Well, one of those cocks, Richard's that is, suddenly appears around my vision corner pointing and waving lip-ward toward my teeth in his now camera-less hand. 

"Still want this Heidi?" he asks, a bit breathlessly, flashing me back to my begging at the river last week. Remember?

"Yes. In fact I do want this, Richard. Thank you." 

I can barely believe the size of this thing I am squeezing into my oral cavity.

Elle, over there across Beth's breasts from us, is having similar difficulty with Kevin's cock, but she is nothing if not perky and persistent, using both hands and twisting her face into distorted positions to try to pack Kevin's monster into her mouth.  




Sex Writer Symposium: 04



In porn, it is believed, at least practiced as though, people -- guys mainly of course -- don't notice whose cock is splattering a hot babe. 

Because, as you might imagine, every guy's cock is the only cock, and hence the only one believed to be splattering inside, or all over, a girl.

So, prudent producers determined, let's use as many cocks as necessary to get a girl fully fucked -- drench her in sperm, any sperm, all sperm. Guys will never know the difference.

But we, we here at PND, are different. We do this strictly for everyone's pleasure. Oh, we definitely use multiple dicks to provide plentiful puddles of semen -- we just don't pretend to do otherwise.

We just invite whoever is so moved into the fuck and let the cameras roll.

Thus, when our illustrious camera guys abdicate their cameras to join what they should be filming, no less a talent than Zhay herself walks over to pick up Kevin's camera, and casually passes it off to Bridgette with quickly-whispered instructions - a kudo for Elle's directorial debut. 

How often would you see this in a Jon Thomsen porn flick? Camera men that forsake their cameras and join the fuck? They'd never work in the industry again. Only in a Porn Next Door production do we all move at will between sculpting the fuck and fucking.

But, then, this is just...too...good. Too real. 

Too fucking real. 

Even if Rich's dick wasn't stretching my mouth wide open, my mouth would be wide open with wonder watching what Elle is doing. 

It's beautiful, magnificent, breathtaking. 

Gorgeous Elle, with beautiful Beth's hand lovingly twisted in her hair holds tight in her mouth the gargantuan cock of the man who saved their lives a day or two ago, waiting patiently for him to come. 

How many people will ever see this?

The entire electrified room waits with her.

I watch in reverence with the cock of the other lifesaver, the other gay lifesaver, deep inside me.

Jack, my helo pilot Jack, air transporter last week on that near-fatal day, though spent now all over Beth and us girls, watches Elle and Rich with quiet respect, his dick now once again parked right there on top of Beth's fully-fucked pussy.

Kevin, yes gay, gay Kevin with his dick in Elle's model mouth. It appears as a thin flow of clear gel evenly around Elle's tight lips. Anyone watching sees his cock throbbing, veins hard. And, well, everyone is watching.

No swallowing per se, just flowing flesh inundating Elle's fertile fellating girl mouth.

Kevin, henceforth, often to outsider's curiosity, forever renamed call-sign STATUE, holds firm and rigid, unabashedly filling Elle. 

My God, my God. Kevin. Fuck...her...mouth...full.

Elle...never...flinches.

She must feel that freedom from that almost certain watery death from which Kevin pulled her two days ago, dislodging her captured foot from the rocks six feet below the churning whitewater rapids, seconds before it was too late. Beth struggling, accidentally attached by rope to Elle's waist, floundering inches below the surface of the water, grasping for that surface scant two inches away, with an accidentally-knotted rope gone awry binding her to Elle and certain death.

Elle ritualistically substitutes Richard's liquid flood for that rush of icy water crushing her lungs a couple of days ago. 

As hard as she resisted that liquid, she welcomes and ingests this.

We can't tell Kevin has finished until Elle slowly slides her body back from, off of, Kevin's cock, holding what he left thick in her mouth, letting a little of it lube up his length as he is released.

No greater love has...

Elle turns to us girlfriends to share the love. 

I, Heidi am no longer the whore -- rather, now, I am Heidi the discerning chef, the taster.

I insert my tongue into Elle's mouth. Distinguish the taste. 

Beth? Yes, I taste Beth. Kevin? Unmistakably Kevin -- thicker, richer, man. Jack? Always Jack. Forever Jack. I lean and suck my spent Jack into my body and make mouth love to him to feel real with him now.

It fades now.

Did I ramble? 

* * *

But finally, of most importance to this rambling narrative, in the far corner:

Denys and Zhay, sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i...

No. Denys and Zhay standing in a back darkish corner. Zhay's arm lightly around Denys's lower back. Good sharpshooter eyes (like Heidi spy's eyes) catch it from across the room: Zhay's fingernails tickling Denys's side, not provocatively, not seductively -- naturally, knowingly.

Zhay's soft smile warming the whole room of Elle's debut film fuck. Fingers fucking Denys' side without her even noticing what her fingers are doing, maybe not him noticing; after all, they are immersed in our fuck. Been there before.

Just watching us fuck. Liking us fuck. Wishing us fuck. Wishing us good fuck. Best of fuck.

Denys has pulled down his zipper, loosened his top button, the money button - you know, the one button that lets it all out when you pop it.

Well, he's popped it. His dick is gleaming huge in the softer corner shadows and he is moving it up and down, adolescent par excellence, watching me, Heidi Writer, and my friends fuck for his cameras. 

Unashamed, hungry, horny, Denys is jacking off to porn, peter panning his prick in an adolescent boy's ever, ever land.

Goddess Zhay tickles Denys's side and smiles when she feels him tighten, sees his surrender. 

Denys watches us with guy love, hard longing gray guy eyes wanting fuck to be everything. You know, being a guy.

Pretty, pretty maidens all in a row, pussies wet and oh-so-willing, but Sheri's Denys stares hungrily at us fucking, fucking, fucking girls and he adolescently fucks Sheri's mind with his calloused man hands from a million miles away, mentally coming to Sheri's cunt, reaching across the miles for her mind.

Where exactly is Sheri tonight?

Denys's fingers now a brawny blur, his balls bounce and now blast white torrents of seed stuff high in the air, a fuck fountain soaring upward toward Zhay's safely high smiling face, looking down from above, as Denys finishes his fuck with his absent Sheri, lucky Sheri, luckiest Sheri. Most-fucked in the room Sheri. 

Where exactly is Sheri tonight?

What comes up, must come down. And semen settles like snow on Denys's clean white shirt, soaking into his clothes, painting his gripping fingers, releasing his hard-working head from the woman-web spread before him like the lightest cream cheese frosting on a carrot cake. 

Zhay chastely draws him close for a huge hard hug around his waist. 

No further. 

Any other girl in this room, maybe in this world, after watching what we've done and seen here tonight, watching Denys's chaste promiscuity, would be rubbing blisters on her knees, licking his fingers clean, chewing liquid Denys meltdown out of the fabric of his semen-soiled duds.

Not Zhay. Not now. Not tonight.

Who gets Zhay off? When? How?

As a well fucked evening of love and imagination blurs about Heidi Writer and cast, Heidi wants to detonate her cunt with dynamite, Heidi's fingers are the plunger. 

Oh, yes. There you are, darling. Come for mama.

Where is Sheri tonight...?

Who gets Zhay off? When? How?

Heidi checks out of Zhay's Sex Writer's Symposium, Day 4.

* * *

Good choice given hell looms in Day 5.



Sex Writer Symposium: 05



My feet automatically hit the ground a full second or two before I, Heidi the summoned one, am functionally awake, only peripherally processing the approaching whirring of chopper wings, and a full second or two before my Blackberry blasts annoying code red noise.

140 seconds later I stand fully dressed, backpack secure, primary weapon securely holstered under my arm, poised between Richard and Elle, Beth and Kevin standing firm to our left, watching the chopper's red lights bleed through the rain-heavy clouds and finally burst through cloud cover.

The landing lights illuminate us, and the ground around us, almost the instant the chopper breaks the cloud cover and the bird snaps into a tight right-hand landing circle damn near in an emergency autorotation landing scheme.

Jack is in a hurry to set his aircraft down. 

The door slides open an instant before touchdown.

A man I don't recognize sways in the rotor wash with his wrist through a helo wall strap. He steps onto the skid, leans out into the darkness, pointing rapidly to each of us, counting heads as the chopper descends and kisses the ground, circling restlessly with no intention of coming to a full stop.

In another thirty-five seconds, we are breaking free of the plush ground air effect. Jack pops the chopper nose brusquely up, and we hover like a dragon fly a split second before Jack drops our insect nose, thrusts the cyclic forward and careens us straight toward the line of rocks bounding our compound, clearing the jagged sandstone by mere feet, then racing - let me see -southwesterly it appears to be on my handy-dandy compass watch, roughly toward Tijuana.

"Hi, I'm Jax," the stranger says to us, "Jackson with an 'x.'" He winks and extends his hammer-looking fist to bump knuckles with each of us, "Not to be confused with your pilot Jack here, who you've met, and who doesn't have a fucking 'x' anywhere in his name. East Coast Porn Next Door, sort of the operations division - Denys, Sheri, Jill and those guys. Met them yet?"

"Yeah, we've met Denys. And you're a regular on CNN," I beam at him. 

I, Hungry Heidi, can't be good when I haven't had breakfast. 

Jax shakes his head and barely smiles. "Those fuckers are worse than paparazzi, they're everywhere. I watch them sometimes - I kid you not - to tell me where the hell I've landed. 

"A couple months ago I was hidden behind some trafficker mogul's wet bar on some island, watching CNN on the tube on the wall above me while the goons trying to off me are describing where they think I am, and what they intend to do to me while they're watching the same fucking CNN on the same goddamn television set from the other side of the bar - clueless."

Jax chuckles, runs straight fingers across his throat, and shakes his head. 

"CNN reports something like, 'Pirates off the coast of Yemen have seized a second Italian cargo liner in a single month, all on board are suspected dead,' yadda, yadda, yadda and I almost laugh out loud and think, so that's where they dropped me. Yemen. Never even saw a map of Yemen." 

Less than ninety minutes later we skirt Camp Pendleton to the South and see lights that must be Point Loma and San Diego to our left and we move out into the western Pacific waters before banking hard left back down toward Tijuana, and toward Mexican salt water, we chew up several miles of dark sky at a rapid clip and then slow and air troll for a couple of minutes until we see lights bobbing far below. 

"That's her," Jax says, pointing into the dark as Jack tilts us hard left again for a better view. "Can we land her in these waves, Jack?" 

"Don't know...why...not" Jack says distracted by his plans to actually pull this off. "If Zhay or Denys did it, I sure as hell will do it."

"So Jax," Heidi the inquisitor breaks the tense silence. "Why'd you swim the twelve miles back to Thailand after you handed off the yacht and did whatever you did to the guy who tried to import the Tibetan kids - or did you really swim it?" 

Rich and Kevin grin at each other and shake their heads, as does Jack, despite his focused landing efforts.

"How CNN figures these distances and details is beyond me," Jax shakes his head. 

"Something about international waters. Something about property on the boat recovered at sea stays the property of the gaining country until they get it sorted out. Being sorted out by the Italians didn't sound like a lot of fun to me. I knew the kids were safe in an Italian boat, the Captain was a great guy, and the trafficker guy was...well...everyone was safe from the trafficker guy.

"And I..." Jax pauses, "needed the exercise after my vacation in Phuket." 

He laughs and stands as tall as he can in the chopper without hitting his head on the ceiling and stretches his tense rock hard upper torso and sides from side to side.

His laugh fades as abruptly as it arrives, leaving a cold focused void that I'd like to...try to...explore more sometime. Not now.

"Speaking of kids, Heidi - Heidi isn't it?" he reaches to shake my hand normally now that names are involved, "what we are going to see right now is likely to be ugly as a mud fence. We think Zhay and Denys and the guys got in fast enough. We know they're alive and secure, but we don't know what they found - or what they left messed up to do the securing."

We all hold our seats, and Jax grips his leather wrist strap, as Jack picks a target spot on the wooden deck of a huge ancient mariner-looking fishing ship and drops us toward it like an albatross picking a perch.

"These kids and women are Chinese, Heidi, guys. The Tibetan thing was a fluke, a really bad fluke. This is more mainstream. The other bastards just stumbled onto the Tibetan group on a Greek ship carrying refugees and it was literally taking candy from a baby - or so they thought," Jax's lips are tight. 

"This, on the other hand, is part of a group that's been doing this shit for a long, long time. They are - or were - shockingly efficient at what they do."

He spits out the left over part of a splintered wooden toothpick and shakes his head.

Seconds later we bump, hover, hold, and settle metal skids onto wooden planks.

We dismount the helo like human liquid and move as one body into a wedge phalanx with Jax dead front-center, automatic weapon braced to his elbow twisted in the strap for support. 

I stand three body lengths to Jax's left. My weapon is astonishingly still and relaxed in my grip. No trembling. Rehearsed to perfection. Calm. Ready. Ready for anything.

* * * *

Ethereal fog obscures everything. A block of harsh light leers at us from a massive rectangular doorway into the guts of the ship. We see glimpses of gigantic bulkhead structures, rising like fortress walls and disappearing into the mixed fog and darkness somewhere over our heads. 

Splotches of light from randomly scattered battery lamps dropped at intervals along the deck jut only so far into the fog before they dissolve into ghostly shadow. 

Figures on the periphery move toward us in the fog. Other figures, lumps darker than the darkness of the planks, lie still, grotesquely distorted even in the dark. 

Kevin's shadow is somewhere on my far left, Elle is closest to me, the same three body-lengths away. Richard brings up the far right and Beth stands steady between Richard and Jax, pistol gripped with both hands directly forward. She is rock steady.

Our convex shadowy wedge, with Jax at the tip, moves forward steadily, slowly, quietly toward the moving and spreading figures, and past periodic still figures at our feet.

Lapping waves smack dark hull. Breeze finds corners of wood around which to whistle. Otherwise no sound. 

Only delicious, terrifying, confident anticipation of...something. Something I, Heidi, don't know yet, but that I know is right around the corner.

Several feet closer we move then a quiet firm voice cuts the silence from my right, drawing six barrel tips as one.

"Welcome, guys. We are secure out here. We still have some work to do inside." 

Zhay flashes a pin light three times quickly, flashing, then abruptly darkening, her face.

We six shadows stop in unison, holding our intervals. 

A subdued sob, rushed hushing sounds, then more tinsel-thin sobs tear the silence, feeding more sobs and hushing noises, then uncontrolled terrified wails of children.

Through the fog, edging through the light in the massive wooden-framed doorway, small figures attached to tiny figures materialize toward us, slowly, the tiny figures sliding through thick mud, rather than lifting their feet from it, the small figures leaning toward the tiny figures, heads down, but eyes certainly lifted toward us - wondering.

At the edge of the small and tiny figures several taller, fuller figures, toward the back, emerge.

One is a familiar massive hulk and carries some type of automatic weapon in one massive hand, a distinctive Colt 45 in the other. The others seem to carry only smaller handguns in one hand while holding smaller hands of the tiny figures in their free hands.

We converge in the doorway. As we meet the emerging ones in the open ship hole, the most brutal stench smashes our nostrils, bending our heads to the side, twisting our mouths into pretzel shapes, turning our stomachs in on themselves. Only anticipation keeps us from vomiting our guts out into the filth.

As far as we can see back into the bowels of the boat, along both sides of the massive passageway, are wood-framed stable-looking enclosures with metal bars. Rancid clumps and sprigs of hay jut forth from the floors of the compartments with some sticking straight up in the filth porridge like candy-striped straws in chocolate milkshakes. 

Naked, or near-naked bodies shiver from the early morning damp and chill and from fear and from whatever must have just happened to set them free from their cells, scurrying in a panic toward the fresh air. 

Uncertainty, fear still flash in the bulging, blinking eyes of what must be a hundred and a half Chinese women and children. 

Leather. Stretched human leather. Shrunken leather form-fitted to bones is all I can think. 

Our eyes gradually begin to adjust to the pallid light.

I suddenly gasp and recoil in horror, and smash my empty fist into my mouth, coming as close to dropping my weapon as I ever have, coming as close to screaming out as I have in months, when I see small twisted bodies, over a dozen, lying still and twisted in the nearest cage. 

The stench, the sucking mud squelching over my ankles, gripping my boots, the looming death and decay, the shell faces with interested eyes - all this grabs me by my throat and crushes my chest.

When I choke back my horror and panic and turn to take in the rest of the scene, struggling to regain my composure, I find myself calmly, and without the slightest discomfort or slightest hint of remorse, looking with disgust at the bodies of the former captors, the traffickers, the slave-sellers, the purveyors of human beings, the sellers of souls, the sex slave salesmen callously mired in the mucky slime where each fell dead, eyes open with that final look of disbelief that this was it, mouths open with unspoken words, frozen forever in their final expressions - most of whose last image was the burning gray steel eyes of Denys O'Malley.

A flurry of activity commences about us, Jax's phalanx, as we move further into the ship to finish the job of assuring there will be no politicized, media-hyped courtroom fiascos on CNN.

Not on Zhay's watch. Not on Denys's watch. Now...not on Heidi's watch.

Squawking radios direct more air transport toward our spot in the water. 

Over the next hour, three black Navy special operations helicopters with more seats than ours sequentially land and eventually board our small friends, then flap away toward Balboa hospital to specially prepared rooms CNN will never see.

Denys and Jax confer quickly with more hand gestures than words and Jax turns to us and hand signals ENGAGE and without a word we all follow Denys deeper into the creaking vessel, turning every corner only after Denys kicks a lamp around the corner - and waits.

The first two times he kicks a lamp around the corner we hear scurrying and a few muffled, terse words and curses, and footsteps dashing further into the darkness.

Every ship has a back wall, mother-fuckers.

I, Heidi Hunter, float on new peace. I was born for this. This shit on my boot ankles, underneath which lies my newest gift to myself, a golden ankle bracelet I got on sale at Dillard's this weekend; this permeating hell smell; My freshly painted frosted pink fingernails; this death stalk, this challenge of values; this uncertainty; this complete trust in other fallible humans; this instinctive hatred of mean people who treat other people mean. 

I was born for this. 

Oh, yes. I was born for this. 

Unafraid, calm, steel in my grip, feeling rather than seeing my surroundings, sensing human presence before seeing it. Pointing my pistol like my pink fingertip at suspicious shadows. Feeling others around me in slow motion - prey in slow motion is a good thing for a hunter.

Three turns into some deeper passageway, staccato sounds snap, wooden boards splinter, and wood vaporizes next to my ear. Loud mosquito sounds precede sharp smacking sounds. Everywhere.

Somebody's running out of running room. 

Somebody's hit the back wall of this ancient mariner vessel.

Denys holds still, eyes raised, foot tapping a cadence only he knows, waits, waits, counts, waits, then takes a deep breath, holds it, and steps deliberately squarely into the hallway and methodically shoots three bodies until movement stops. Before those bodies drop, I am at his shoulder as two more bodies lift their heads and shoulders and raise their guns from behind smelly fish-cleaning counter-height troughs.

I see you in slow motion.

My measured, even breathing doesn't change. My expression doesn't change. I sense their rodent-like vulnerability to this woman. These miserable misguided men who so hate women struggle fiercely, desperately now, before me for their lives, but unfortunately for them, they move in slow motion in the piercing eyes of this bitch.

I, Heidi, am now their last woman. I Heidi am their last fucking anything.

I point my pistol like a knitting needle right where I want on each of their helplessly flailing bodies, while they desperately try to point and fire their paltry pop-guns into my pretty, fairly average chest. I pick my spots on their bodies with startling clarity.

I shoot these two mean bad men in rapid succession with one bullet each to hold them still while I finish shooting them a little more leisurely.

The first finds his pain in his left chest cavity. The second feels his pain in his right lung as though a mule kicked him. Either shot was plenty for each man. I could have left it at that. 

But I am Heidi the woman. I am Heidi the woman who was once a barefooted girl playing in the mud my own self. I am Heidi the sister of each of those small sister bodies, and tiny child bodies that were to be used for bad sex. I love sex. I love sex as much as anyone ever has or ever will. But I'll have sex when I choose, with whom I choose, how I choose, where I choose. So will every vulnerable child, woman and man I can ever impact with my medium frame and my massive heart. 

So, I Heidi the woman, am not through shooting these mean bad men. 

As Denys and Jax stride deeper into the dark, ducking, peering, firing into the corners of the wooden doorways, I walk straight toward the two dying men. I look each directly in the eye and I raise my eyebrows, showing them this plain Jane homespun woman's face.

Eyebrows still raised, I slowly shoot each bad man square between his eyes. But not before each fully recognizes, registers, and regards my girlie face. 

I watch the lights go out in each pair of eyes as each slumps from movement to none.

I don't mind seeing them like this. I don't have to look long. Those eyes were more blind before than they are now.

Blind. Blinder. Blindest.

Bad, bad, mean people. Write this off to my simple, homespun values and small-town morality.

Yes. I, Heidi, despite my complex, liberalized facets and my driving human hunger to live a lusty life, have firmly-grounded and surprisingly basic morals: Don't be mean to people. Especially don't be mean to little people, helpless people. It's just wrong. It's just fucking wrong.

The snapping and popping down the hallway to the left grows more and more feint. 

Beth is now on my far right walking past the second or third problem student she just shot through the throat with a single perfectly-placed bullet. She never looks down, she never looks back, she never lowers her gun. She holds a full clip ready in her steady support hand. She never falters. That's just Beth.

We walk to the next hallway branching off to the right. We wait a few seconds to let our eyes adjust to the darkening lower ceiling. Richard joins us. Elle joins us. 

We hand-signal split paths and push our rats further toward their beddy-bye time. It's almost lights out fellows.

* * * *

We all meet back at the first entryway into the labyrinth where we first encountered fire. 

All of us.

All of us completely and silently aware that one time we might not all meet back at the first entryway into the labyrinth where we first encountered fire. 

But this time, now, we are all back.

We remove only small woman bodies and tiny child bodies. We don't touch enemy bodies. We don't even count bodies except those of the small-framed woman ones, and the tiny-framed child ones who will be gently sent on their way with pretty memorial services with full dignity for perhaps the first time in their short, tiny, tortured lives. 

God help me never empty myself of the source of this silent raging flood of salt tears flowing from my shattered heart, out my blinkless eyes, leaving briny saline streaks of mud down my face.

We join a special team sent by unnamed Pentagon sources who do not agree to speak, even under promises of anonymity, to thoroughly search the entire vessel, chamber by chamber, to make sure we leave no small or tiny person behind, and leave no enemy body breathing. We succeed in both. We fail in neither. We neither touch, nor count, enemy bodies.

When it's done, we gather to count noses and prepare to load our two choppers with our own weary bodies. 

Denys, with Sheri and Jill, two others from the Baltimore team to which we haven't yet been formally introduced, put a clean bandage on Bridgette's left shoulder. She looks down at the bullet hole without batting an eye, without flinching. Then she turns without a word and climbs into the helo and sits down like she's on a commuter train seat on the light rail from Camden Yard to Penn Station.

We hear the chopper radios simultaneously squawk the Navy's outgoing messages warning all aircraft and water craft to stay outside of their last minute "war exercise perimeter" until 2300 on Monday evening - twenty-four hours hence. We scan radar for any semblance of blips in the area. 

We silently hover in the wind wash from our birds and wait for Zhay to dismiss us.

Zhay is the last to emerge from the garrish light of the gaping doorway. She is done inside and never looks back. 

Zhay walks to Denys's chopper and takes a silver object Denys hands her without a word. She walks back to the open hatch that descends at least thirty feet down into the dark hull of this hell spectre. 

She sets the countdown timer on her watch. She arms the detonation timer on the object, a rubber-padded canister that will unleash a fitting inferno in about five minutes. She kicks the cannister into the hatch and walks quickly back to us, motioning us to board and depart.




Sex Writer Symposium: 05



She eye-acknowledges and eye-thanks each one of us individually, truest regard and genuine fondness in her gaze, but she touches no one and she speaks to all of us at once as she steps toward Denys's fluttering, straining helo.

"Welcome to the other side of the sex industry." 



Sex Writer Symposium: 06



Author's Note:

Starting with "Sex and the Writer's Symposium: Day 1," Heidi, an unlikely star among a very unique group of carefully screened erotica writers (and more), unabashedly describes the boundary-altering, lusty sexual encounters within the group and reveals their shocking underlying missions. To fully realize how far these sexually charged fledgling erotica writers have come, a review of Days 1 through 5 of "Sex and the Writer's Symposium" will help put this journal entry into perspective while the "Porn Next Door" series (see Penning Freer's other stories) sheds light on how some members of this sexually charged group were recruited. The "Born To" series provides glimpses into the lusty, driven mind of Zhay, the group's founder and leader, and how she dreamed up this eccentric sex-driven cohort.

Mainly, of course, as always, heartfelt thanks to very generous readers and commenters, and I hope you find Heidi's adventures refreshing - in an extreme sort of way. 

- Penning Freer

* * *

Day something or other of Zhay's Sex Writer's Symposium. A couple, maybe three days, after a very disturbed day Five with people pirates in the Pacific.

I Heidi, am writing this morning in my cottage and I am masturbating this morning, and I, Heidi, am taking my sweet time. 

I'm thickening. I'm wet and getting wetter. I'm plumbing into my cunt to see just how...oh, who cares. 

It, my wet, hormone wafting pussy, feels...SO...GOOD. I'll just go with it for awhile. Ellipsis...

Lie here still and quiet and breathe and finger my cunt. Pounding head still, but shifting it to pounding pussy.

Push fingers deep inside. Yes, indeed. That smell. The smell of me, on my fingers, wafting to my face. Feeding me comfort with something entirely mine. 

Mine to use. Mine to share. Mine to give me. Mine to give somebody else. Mine, mine, mine all mine -- except yours when I want to share it with you. If I know my cunt so well, I can share something really swell with somebody.

Jack likes my pussy. Knowing Jack loves my pussy, and how Jack loves my pussy, makes my pussy feel particularly fantastic right now.

I get paid to write. I'll write with my free hand, and I'll do the best I can. 

Jesus. Keyboard (sticky), pussy (sticky), ass (interested), remote control. Well, remote control. A girl has only so many fucking hands. 

I watch nasty people (us) on the television doing nasty things, but I am thinking about playing with my cunt. 

Because. I. Am.

I said cunt. My cunt. Cunt, cunt, cunt. Pussy. Nasty, nasty words for a deliciously nasty...me.

Speaking (writing) of nasty, why does Beth taste so good? Why do I love tasting Beth? Something about Beth tastes like something about Jack, tastes like something about me. 

On the screen, I Heidi the whore for that scene, am on my knees dancing my tits and face into Beth's pussy. Elle catches something really interesting with the camera. It's the way my body, except for my tits and my face, just sort of goes to sleep and sits there resting while the rest of me works, leaving my devouring parts, that is my mouth and hands and tits, to get my fill of Beth.

And back sort of to the point, Elle interestingly splices back and forth to show Jack masturbating, watching his Heidi eat out Elle's Beth.

Nothing fancy about this scene. Nothing porn about this porn. It's just me involved in the mundane act of putting my mouth over and over and over into a girl's bottom and even putting my tongue into her holes while she lays there and says things like, "Fuck me, Heidi. Fuck me. Suck me. Eat me out, baby, please. That is it right there. Yes. Heidi. Tongue my ass. Yes. Deep."

That's what Beth says. I just heard it on the television.

Remote control, rewind. Stop. Hit play.

Yep. There it is again. Beth tells me, a girl, a straight girl with a boyfriend, to please put my tongue inside her pussy, then in her other hole.

Weird. Yeah. But sort of fun in a weird sort of way, don't you think?

Cut to Jack. Jack's dick is huge and Elle focuses close on how wet it is when his dick head slips up through his fingers all messy and slick with appreciation wannabe cum.

I taste that a lot. I taste what Jack jacks.

Right now, I taste what I frig while I watch me naked on my knees suck on my friend Beth's pussy while her girlfriend Elle films us.

Elle is filming wearing a short white cotton cropped top. That's it. Naked, naked, naked Elle.

I smell her. She's exhaling herself into the air we are playing in - in which we are playing.

- - -

I think maybe this is it, the reason. This is why we do all the fucking and filming and, well, keeping it all archived on film, so we can do this with it -- watch it and masturbate. 

We can go out and do incredibly hard, risky, terrifying work and take serious chances with our lives and then come back and ground ourselves in exactly the same magical potion that makes bad people do bad things to other people.

Good people drink the same elixir out of the same wellsprings from which bad people pull out poison. 

Cops are just crooks with different uniforms doing the same things for different reasons, but doing very different things with different effects on people for good reasons -- but they all look the same if you don't play close attention.

Zhay understands something deep and rich and potent. She taught us and we joined her.

- - -

Who gets Zhay off, and when?

- - -

I Heidi masturbate. I choose to masturbate. It's not who I am. It's what I do. I do it a lot. More now. More as I get older. Why is that? Because I know myself better. 

Stupid fucking people say shit like masturbating is for adolescents. Please. So is racing fucking Ferraris. Do it while you're young, by all means, once you've mastered that bitch and you can make her fly, then don't touch her again. Can you give me a break? Spend all that great time learning how that thing works, then knock it off and grow up. I think I'm going to throw the hell...

So. I masturbate a lot. So does Jack. So does Beth. So does Elle. So must Zhay. 

After nights like the other night killing the person-selling pirates in the Pacific, we feel very disconnected from our bodies. We want badly to, need badly to, feel real again, feel connected again.

I jack off. Jack jacks off. I jack Jack off. Jack jacks me off. I must like jacking off. I do it a lot.

So, whose business is it? Who's to know? Who's to care? Richard Dawkins, a smart guy, says we all should be free to do with our sex what we choose so long as we don't hurt other people. So do a lot of other smart people.

I love my body. I love living in my body. It's my body. My body is me, Heidi.

* *

I am writing in rhythm to my frigging. Right now no one reads my journals. They are for an exercise. But if someone reads this journal sometime in the future, then you are reading what I am writing right now and now is then for me, and then is now for the reader. Right? Stay with me here.

Scary. Are...you...there? Yikes.

Well, if you are there, my point is, I am writing with one hand, frigging my pussy with my other hand, in a certain slow, pulsating rhythm, rhythm, rhythm. 

My words form to the cadence of my ass lifting into my pussy probing. Pussy gives birth yet again, this time to words, the logos, the child that gives meaning to life just as the womb gives birth to the child. Which, pray tell, is the metaphor?

It sounds deep. It sounds almost sexy. It feels really, really, really good.

And my finger rhythm and my word cadence are blending with my body lunging in slow motion into my friend Beth's cunt on the television. Me fucking me watching me fuck Beth on TV.

And my lover Jack, on the screen, is slowing his rhythm down in proportion to our rhythm to keep pace with us so we all sort of explode at the same time.

And my point now is, strangely, you, a stranger in some future, are reading this (or how would you know?) and you are scrolling the page with one hand, and with your other hand are doing what I am doing -- playing with your pussy to that same rhythm, or stroking your dick to that same rhythm. 

See why I repeat it like a mantra? Rhythm, rhythm...rhythm. The rhythm of the universe. A universe we all find right here square between our legs, easy to find, so easy to get to, fun to touch, yummy to taste, just. Well. Good. 

Whose idea was this? Good idea.

Hide all the meaning in the universe, all the real medicine, all the peaceful self-healing, all the forgiveness and inspiration, all the bonding hormones and pheromones, all the delicious nastiness, all the secret, non-dangerous simple pleasures right...between...your...legs. In front. Right beneath your chin. Right where you can reach it. A parachute ripcord. Can't miss it. 

So don't miss it. Get it out. Play. 

I am advocating masturbating as a way to indulge direct excitement of the sensual nature. I am writing this simply to incite your desire to satisfy your prurient interest, to pretty instantly gratify your carnal appetite without much other redeeming social outcome -- except, well, a deeper connection to the real meaning in the universe, self-grown internal medicine, peaceful self-healing, forgiveness, inspiration, self-esteem, stuff like that. That's about it.

I, Heidi, believe jerking off is good for you, good for me, good for us to set us free. Daily. Whenever. Now. 

So, these magical joysticks and teacups at the apex of our thighs, why do we cover these triangle vortices up with cloth? 

So we can keep them ours. And maybe share them when we want.

Sharing naked pussy with someone is deliriously delicious. Pulling it out from under the covers to share it is sublime. And not a little fun.

- - -

We've talked about this, all of us, in Zhay's seminars. Masturbation that is. We all have come to - hmm, arrived at - jerking off in the morning, even when we could otherwise fuck. We all seem to do it. What's this about?

And furthermore, we often, most often, proceed, if we are going to fuck each other, to fuck some time during the day after we have all jerked off already, for some other reason, maybe? What's this about?

Centering, we decided - grounding. Connecting with our deeper selves, higher selves.

Zhay told us that every one she ever selected to fight with her has published poignant, smart stuff on masturbation, on the spiritual grounding power of sexing the self. Not that she selected only those of us who published on the power of jerking off and frigging, integrating, sexing the sole self as a preparation for fucking others - not that so much.

Zhay did not pick us because we were primarily masturbation writers, but every one of she chose has written, and written well, on masturbation.

Zhay wanted women and men skilled in, and appreciative of, self comfort; now we understand that some days, simple self comfort may be the only reliable body comfort we get. And our simplest comfort may be what provides us strength to get us through some really discomforting things.

My Ph.D. brain says success in this unique, grueling livelihood is associated with -- not necessarily caused by -- masturbation.

Jerking off regularly and loving it enough to write about it is associated with a more potent, poignant, dare I say...socially rich life.

The ultimate intimacy, some suggest, is not oral fucking, or anal fucking, or threesomes, or swapping, or whatever fetish. It is self fucking unabashedly as a gift to another.

Think about it. Jerk off for someone special in your life. Or jerk off for a stranger, and maybe they'll become important.

The ultimate turn on is the preparing and presenting your thoroughly self-known, self-fucked, self-aroused body to someone else to fuck.

What fun is someone who requires everything to be done to them by another?

What a scary idea that one would wait and neglect their privates expecting others to bring them their will to be enforced or to be enacted. Here, come show me what to do with my cunt. I don't think so.

Not to say we can't take gifts. Just to say we ought, maybe, as a starting place, to know what we want and what we like BEFORE -- or instead of -- letting others dictate to us what we want, or what we like.

Hmmm. Write that. Just did.

Rub, rub, rub, rub, rub, circle my clit. Yes.

- - -

But masturbating is something to do, not to just talk about. I want to get off big time.

Watch this:

I walk to Jack, Jack all covered with clothes, and I lift up my skirt and, there are panties there.

Well, Jack, Jack is not stupid. Jack knows what is inside there. No fooling him.

So, I just let him look at these clean, whitest, cotton panties pulled tight up against my (shhhh) pussy. I just stand there in front of Jack. Pussy (inside cotton panties). Cotton panties. Me, serious look on my face. Jack looking from my face, to my cotton panties, several decisions to make.

One, what is my point? White cotton panties? No. It's most likely my pussy, pussy, pussy inside there that's the point. Why inside white cotton panties? Well, to do this to Jack. To give him this Christmas like thing. Something to unwrap. Something to tease him with. Here Jack. Here is me. Want it? Want it big boy? Got cunt? Look behind the white Heidi cover, Jack. There is pussy there.

Two, what does he do with this? What does he think I want to do? What does he think I want him to do? Here's a girl standing in front of you with her pussy barely concealed wondering what you want to do with it. So think about that. What would one do? A nasty girl tempting you square into your animal carnal appetite. She's going to let you fuck her if you want. Or taste her, lick her, put your mouth on her -- there -- if you like. What are you going to do? Think masturb...

I don't care. I just want to stand here in front of Jack, holding my skirt up, showing him my white cotton panties with the cunt inside, and think about this while I watch what he does.

He does pretty much what I thought he would do. He does what anyone would think to do. He puts his face close there and smells through the cotton. So busted I am. What could that be inside there?

That's me. That's me, Heidi temptress, inside there. Inside there is that same smell I am inhaling now as I masturbate, getting wetter and wetter as I imagine this imagination and rhythmically fuck myself with my fingers.

Well, in this image, from this point, my mind camera revs up and zips in high-speed fast-forward.

Standing there in front of Jack, I get tired of the thinking and I pull off those panties, those whitest, now moistest cotton panties, and I hang them on Jack's head and almost break his neck pulling his face right smack dab into my cunt, curving my ass forward and tilting it to try to get myself open to get his mouth in there somehow. 

Not working so well. I pull Jack off his chair and push him onto his back and then I sit on top of his face and aim my ass at his mouth and get comfy.

I don't ruin this with any words.

Well, with four words (not counting his name): "Jack, hold your tongue stiff."

Then I move around trying to aim that stiff tongue into one of my two holes now right above his face.

"There, Jack. YES. Yes! Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes."

So far, so good.

"Now, Jack, THERE. Oh, yes. YES. Yes. Yes. Right FUCKING there. Wow, I remember that. Still stiff there. Wait. Waiiiiit. Let me shift a little to the...oh fucking yes. There."

Well, no surprise where this goes.

And I follow this to a horribly delightful thing to do to Jack's face down there, and a thing for which Jack is surely going to show me his own clean white cotton underwear at some unexpected time, like maybe breakfast tomorrow perhaps - perhaps, please God let it be breakfast - tomorrow. 

Wet, wet face Jack. Wet facial for you. Wear me on your lips. Taste me like I taste me.

Jack fades back into my masturbation reverie - for now.

-

Surprise. It's me Heidi, still home alone, plunging deep inside my treasure trove of misty moisture and rich imagination, and sweet, sweet, healing and release.

The television screen blurs and sort of loses my attention.

I drop the remote control into the dark carpet down there.

I have an orgasm. Wait, I had one already, I am now having three or the fourth or some other number. Come, get off, rip one, go over the edge, orgasm. Come.

The moisture on my fingers now, and on the chair, is richer and deeper in aroma now that I've come. It's richer because it springs from deeper in my body. I smell the difference. It's strange, a little ominous, a little religious, but very, very, very sexy, sexual, erotic to smell deeper body and know what I smell.

I hope a reader is nodding in twenty years, or two (or now) with cum messy fingers.

It's okay. I won't tell. I think masturbation is a good thing. I think jacking off is really, really fun and really healthy and just okay.

I say this because of something I read yesterday that disturbed me.

People who are older than adolescents and who still whack off or jack off or jerk off or girl off (whatever that is) are missing out on something or not attaching well to significant others and not being socially responsible, and may need to do something about it to get healthy again. Please.

I, Heidi, disagree. Not very respectfully, but I disagree.

I say put down your magazine or book. Turn that sex addict shit off of your television and disenroll from that channel. It's such bullshit. Listen to me. I know better.

Take out your cock, or uncover your cunt -- or if you have them out already, just leave them out.

Now. Do the nasty thing. Make yourself come. Get stupid. Frig like an adolescent until your ears cave in.

Really mess yourself up. It's easy. It's fun. It's yours. It's...okay.

Just do it. Do it now. Do it with me.

- - -

I'm still okay. I didn't die.

There is no hair on my...nope. No hair on my palm, maybe one loose hair that stuck in the wetness. Not growing from the palm. Yes. I'm sure.

No plans whatsoever to belittle, abuse, denigrate, degrade, or otherwise undermine or piss off women. Jesus. I am a 'women.' And I just did the nasty thing to my own self.

No rumbling sound of civilization, or social structure crumbling around me. 

Just peace and quiet and a very wet vagina, and messy fingers, and remnants of words like 'fuck,' and 'suck,' and 'cock,' and 'cunt' whispering around my lips. And 'Jack.' 

Thanks Jack for lending me your image. You will be compensated soon. And since you are making your way home to me right now though the sky in your curvy little powder-black attack helicopter, zooming toward me above the heads of non-innocents and angry bad people, wishing for my attention, hoping for my girl smell, hoping for my excitement for you, needing my crotch, wanting inside my pants, smiling at the chance I might be here (I am), so you can fuck me -- well, hey. You might just get lucky.

A few chirping birds, crisper now, through my cottage window, blending with my chimes.

A gentle heaving in Heidi's chest, giving my tits a nice lift, and a rhythmic (did I say rhythmic?) undulation with my peaceful breaths.

A feeling that all is well, and all is well, and all manner of thing is well.

A sense that all good things are flowing my way. Continue my way, Jack. Please, God, continue my way Jack.

A burden lifting off my heart, off my chest, off my shoulders.

A forgiving spirit to people in general (most people).

A tangy, sweet, salty taste on my tongue and lips.

But, now, a sweet gentle potion of peaceful rest closing over my eyes, making my head heavy, making me suddenly too tired to write anymore. 

Maybe sleep through the day and into the late afternoon, and thereby, bring a healing, restorative curative sleep to wash away the horrors of war and death and conflict and treachery and restore a vision of joy and excitement. Maybe start again getting wet for Jack. 




Sex Writer Symposium: 06



It's all between our legs. 

It's pussy power. 

Cock rules. 

Ass is king. 

Tits are, well, what's not to like about tits, dude?

I. Say. Play.

- - -

End homework writing exercise for Zhay's Sex Writer's Symposium, day something (they are all starting to run together and blur).