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Extra Large Combo with Everything

By: gossog



(Dear reader:

This story is an experiment: one tale that overlaps all thirty-plus Literotica categories, from "Anal" to "Transsexuals and Crossdressers" ... in alphabetical order. (Hence the "Combo" title.)

There will probably be some parts you don't like. Your favorite genre might not be treated with the reverence (or skill) you'd like. Your least favorite genre might drag on and on like "The English Patient." I apologize in advance, knowing I can't please all.

As each category is addressed, its name will be shown in capital letters (e.g. GIRL-ON-GIRL CHOPSTICK FIGHT). The timing of this announcement may be delayed or advanced to maximize its comic effect.

Okay, let's begin.)

Winston Jeffries strolls along Toro Beach, admiring the young ladies sunbathing on a July morning. He is 26 and single, and enjoys rugged good looks. Still, he finds the dating scene annoying (especially the clubs) and is trying other ways of meeting single women.

Stephanie Ross lies prone on a Nordstrom blanket atop a sunbleached expanse of sand. She's not big on responsibility and wishes she could stay 22 forever. Her top is untied. She doesn't plan to turn over, for she knows her back side is her best: a ripe, curvy butt that reminds one of a peach just picked off the tree. Sometimes she fantasizes about laying out here nude, her bare warm bottom an irresistible lure for any man walking by. For now, she has to settle for letting her round cheeks strain against a bikini one size too small.

It is this sight that stops the wandering Winston in his tracks.

ANAL

"Boy, I'd love to tap that anus," he remarks. A skimpy triangle of nylon barely conceals her twin globes and the treasure between them. He speaks softly, but stands close enough for Stephanie to overhear.

She lifts up on her elbows and turns, to peer over her shoulder at her visitor. This bares her small breasts, which does not concern her: the man standing above has already made his interests clear. He's good-looking, but he needs to work on his manners. "Did you say what I just think you said?"

"I'm sorry," he says with a shrug. "Just thinking out loud."

If she dismisses him at this point, we don't have much of a story. Fortunately, she does not. "In that case... did you come prepared?"

"I''m ready," he laughs, pointing at his stiffening cock, bulging against his swimtrunks. "What more do I need?"

"Lube, silly. Astroglide. This isn't the HMS Bounty."

"Okay. Where can I find this Astroglide?"

She ponders this. "Costco has the best prices. One exit north on the freeway. Come back and I'll be waiting for you."

"You'll be right here?"

She smiles. "You hope so."

He sprints to his car and peels out of the parking lot. Astroglide, astroglide. The freeway entrance ramp is plugged up. On the overpass, northbound traffic creeps along. "Damn, damn," he says.

If he is late, he knows he can kiss Stephanie goodbye. She'll change her mind, or even worse. He imagines this vividly: as he runs toward her, she's already naked, stretching out like a cat, feeling very satisfied. "Another guy came by, and had sex in my anus," she purrs. "It was gooooood. But now I need to rest. Maybe some other time?"

"I've got to get there faster," Winston vows. The opposite lanes are moving freely, which gives him an idea. He roars up onto the southbound exit ramp, driving the wrong way, amused at the symbolism of this act. Dodging cars and trucks, blatting horns and raised middle fingers, he makes his way to the Costco offramp. (Onramp, actually.)

At Costco, he parks in a fire lane and runs through the exit door (symbolism again). "You're not supposed to go this way," yells the receipt checker. "Plus, we're out of Astroglide."

Disconsolate, Winston slows to a walk, passing through the checkout lanes. Maybe the hookup with Stephanie was not meant to be.

Dammit, he thinks. If I had just walked on past Stephanie, never said a word, I'd still be at the beach now, instead of stuck here amidst 100 million soccer moms pushing shopping carts.

It's way too crowded for comfort; the center aisles, checkout lines and exit are jam-packed. He heads toward the back corner, away from the bustle, to clear his head. In the hardware aisle there is only one other person, keeping to herself. Good. On second glance, he notices a few things pretty strange about her.

She's a slender woman, young, European looking, with short spiky hair. What looked at first like a choker necklace is actually some sort of leather collar, thin as a woman's watchband. She wears a long yet narrow white T-shirt, extending just far enough to cover her butt. Her legs are otherwise bare, even her feet. The way the shirt drapes over her body suggests she's wearing nothing underneath. When she reaches to pluck an item from a higher shelf, the shirt's hem rises to expose the lower half of her butt.

From her handbag she produces a utility knife and slices open what she picked out: a blister pack of alligator clips of different sizes. She finds a pair that would be at home on jumper cables and squeezes them open experimentally. Curious, Winston walks closer.

She fishes out two small squares of felt from her handbag and lays them on the shelf. Their purpose is not clear. She notices Winston, glances at him, and returns to her work. Jewel thief, he thinks, which is a silly notion; or maybe not. He doesn't like to think of himself as nosy, but he's close to asking her what she is doing.

Then she pulls the T-shirt up and off.

She's nude from head to toe now, except for the leather collar. Her pussy is shaven. Her nipples are erect in the chilled air. She has a dancer's figure and poise. This does not appear to be her first time naked in public.

Winston stares as she folds a square of felt over her left nipple, and is saying "Oh, no, no, no" as she clamps an alligator clip over the folded felt.

BDSM

She closes her eyes, cringes, and tenses up. It has to be painful. She opens her eyes, touches the other square of felt, but pauses for a moment before picking it up. She is steeling herself for the additional pain.

Her unpinched breast looks so vulnerable, her nipple delicate even though hard, that Winston can't bear the idea of her hurting herself again. As she picks up the felt and folds it, he says "No. Please," and impulsively blocks her from putting it on. Instead, his fingers rest gently on her breast. She looks at him coolly. It's an awkward moment.

"Your instincts are in the right place, I suppose," she says. She doesn't flinch from his touch. "But my Master wants me to try these on."

Now it's making sense.

"If my Master disapproves, He will spank me." The capital letters hang in the air. She seems to look forward to such an event rather than fearing it.

"That's okay," he says, backing away, removing his hand. "I know that scene."

She undoes the clamp on her left nipple, pinching the felt with her other hand to keep it from falling. Her nipple doesn't look much worse for wear. But is she allowed to use the felt at home? Winston doesn't want to think about it.

"You could spank me," she says, conversationally. "He would like that. You could take me out in the center and spank me. Or you can fuck me. He likes that too."

"You know, nothing personal, nice to meet you, but-" As Winston steps backward he bumps into someone, and turns to face him. He knows this man from somewhere. Not personally, but from TV or something. The name comes to him.

"John Malkovich?"

CELEBRITIES

"You do not share an interest in our vocation?" Malkovich says.

"No, man, I never got into it," says Winston. "Sorry."

"She enjoys it very much," he says. His expression never changes. It creeps Winston out.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Malkovich." he says, and steps away.

Now I pass the narrative to my esteemed colleague, American poet Walt Whitman.

CHAIN STORIES

"Thou orb of many orbs!

Thou seething principle! thou well-kept, latent germ! thou centre!

Around the idea of thee the war revolving,

With all its angry and vehement play of causes,

(With vast results to come for thrice a thousand years,)

These recitatives for thee, my book and the war are one,

Merged in its spirit I and mine, as the contest hinged on thee,

As a wheel on its axis turns, this book unwitting to itself,

Around the idea of thee."

Thank you, Walt.

Winston walks away, feeling frustrated. His wild goose chase has come to naught. He would have been better off just ignoring Stephanie and walking by. At least he would still be at the beach instead of dodging giant shopping carts.

"Pesto ravioli, sir?" A woman in a white smock, Maribel, stands at a sampling table that supports a small microwave, a stack of napkins, and nearly empty tray. Her brown hair with streaks of gray is tied into a bun. "It's the last one."

EROTIC COUPLINGS

"Sure," he says. "Thanks."

She hands him the remaining sample cup containing half a triangle of pasta impaled with a toothpick. He tastes it experimentally. "This is pretty good!"

"We have five-pound bags for your freezer," she says. "Cooks in ten minutes." She reminds him of the lady who demonstrated Polynesian dancing to his junior high school class nearly fifteen years ago. Easily thirty years their senior, with the stout, full figure characteristic of some island women, the dancer still had the warmth, enthusiasm, and moves to ignite several sixth-grade crushes.

"I'll think it over," he says. A five-pound bag is a big commitment.

"I know," Maribel says, commiserating. "It never tastes as good back home as it does here."

Winston smiles. "Well, at home, we don't have you serving it." It's a throwaway compliment, intended only to spread a little happiness and smooth the rough edges of modern interaction.

She smiles and looks away. "You're just saying that."

At that point he realizes he isn't.

"If you're back here tomorrow, I'll stop by," he says.

She looks him in the eye. "Why do you ask when I come back? What you should ask, is what time I get off work?"

I'll bite, he thinks. "Okay, what time?"

"Fifteen minutes. I'll meet you at the front entrance."

As soon as Maribel is out of sight of the Costco entrance she doffs her cap and undoes her bun, letting her long hair extend to her back. She loves her hair and has kept it long, and will put off coloring it as long as she can. At 44, she's happy with herself and how she looks.

She has an apartment about two miles from the beach and two blocks from the freeway. Winston has to park a block away. Her decor is flavored by bamboo, pictures of nieces and nephews, and crosses.

They don't say much at first; any remark might lead to how incongruous this attraction is, and why the smart thing would be to call the meeting off. She closes the blinds in her bedroom and undresses in the semi-darkness. He steps out of his clothes and joins her under the sheets. She's very warm and smells slightly of pesto, perfume and soap.

With a sly smile she reaches between his legs. He feels a little apprehension, as if this were his first time with a woman. He's in her bedroom, she has a lot more knowledge and experience than he does, and she has handled this meeting confidently from the start. Pesto ravioli, sir, he muses. I've been picked up.

He sits up and reaches over Maribel, who lays back, grinning. Time to take a little initiative. He kisses her shoulder, then moves slightly downward and inward, barely ascending the swell of a bronze-toned breast; changing direction, his kisses slowly hop to the nape of her neck. "What do you like?" he whispers in her ear.

"I like this handsome young man in my bed," she says. Witty, yet evasive.

Okay, I'm on my own, he thinks. He tries different things: long, slow, tender caresses, leading from her cheekbones to her thighs, following heavenly contours of neck, breasts, waist and pubic mound. He kisses and caresses her breasts, teasing at first, going in circles, before converging on the dark, engorged nipples. When she lies on her stomach, he traces his fingers, then his lips, down the seam of her spine, his erection poking insolently between her thighs. She props up on her elbows as his hands reach around her ribcage and massage her breasts from behind.

She turns over again and guides him inside. He grins as he recalls an ancient joke about the advantages of sex with older women: they don't swell, don't tell, and appreciate it like hell.

"Having a good time?" she says.

"Oh yeah."

"I am working there next weekend, too."

"I think I'm going to have a freezer full of pesto ravioli."

Soon neither of them are laughing, but both are breathing really hard. Right after he comes, he kisses her on the mouth, surprising himself. She returns the kiss as if they were both high school juniors in the back seat of his car.

"Now that was fun," she says, as he pulls out. They both lay back, facing the ceiling, enjoying post-coital serenity. Winston grins. He's had a very nice romp in the sack with a pretty lady and it's not even noon yet. He rests a hand on her warm inner thigh, just far enough out to avoid getting his fingers sticky. He watches her breasts swell as she breathes.

"What's that?" she asks.

In a moment he sees it too.

A bright dot appears in mid-air, a foot below the ceiling. It quickly expands to hula-hoop size and a giant monster with scores of tentacles climbs through. The creature has a ring of six eyes and a slavering mouth ringed with teeth, each of which has its own mouth with smaller teeth. The teeth also have eyes and the tentacles have eyes with mouths and more teeth.

"Oh shit!" Winston cries. Maribel pulls the sheet up to her shoulders and screams. He rises from the bed and attempts to shield her from the alien creature.

EROTIC HORROR

The monster does not attack Maribel. Instead, three tentacles snake out and pick up WInston as easily as he would pick up an apple. Its yellow eyes regard him with unreadable intent and it flips him over, his ass toward the alien and his face toward Maribel. She screams even louder at what she sees but he cannot. He can only feel the slimy tentacle sliding down his back and between his cheeks.

Oh no no no, he thinks, and then his eyes go wide as the monster penetrates him. He screams. The sensation agonizes and sickens him. In a coating of slime the tip of the tentacle forces its way in and out. Maribel faints.

How long must I endure this? he cries. He struggles against his restraints with no effect. The monster single-mindedly continues its assault. An eternity seems to pass before the door is kicked open and a furious young woman marches inside.

"Dah-MEH!" she yells, followed by a firehose stream of angry Japanese. She unclenches a small fist, releasing a pale green glowing orb. It pauses for half a second before beelining toward the monster's mouth. After a bright flash, both disappear. No longer suspended by anything, Winston suffers an ungainly fall to the floor.

"I'm Ryoko. Are you OK?" the girl says. Her spiky hair is dyed orange. She wears an odd skirt and sweater outfit, a mix of cheerleader, anime and Jetsons. Even at 25, she looks too old to wear little girls' clothes. Her skirt is so short that whenever she moves, she flashes her bright white bikini panties. Her breasts are large on her slim figure, and strain against the V-neck sweater.

"No, I'm not OK," he says, struggling to his feet. "Not at all." He makes an assessment: bruised elbows and side from the fall. Fortunately, nothing broken. Ass sore, numb, maybe bleeding. Humiliated. Violated. "What the fuck was that thing?"

"They're from another dimension," she says. "Here, sit down on the bed. It's never easy to go through what you just did. They come to earth to rape humans. They cannot reproduce with us, but they still do it."

"Okay, then who are you? I mean, I'm glad you're here, but how did you know?"

"I fight them. I can track when they're preparing to come in." She reaches for his underwear and pants, and hands them to him. "Sometimes I can destroy them. Other times, like now, I can only send them back. A lot of times, the monster prevails."

"Prevails?" he asks. After all, she's still alive. " What do you mean?"

Her look is grim. "It rapes me. After it's done and leaves, I'm curled up on the floor, sore, naked, and covered with slime. Because it overpowers me, or my weapons don't work against it, and then there's nothing I can do. It rips all my clothes off, slathers all over my body, and then sticks a tentacle in wherever it can."

"That's horrible!"

"What surprised me is the monster went for you instead of the lady."

"Maribel. Her name's Maribel. I just met her today." She hasn't yet recovered from her faint.

He lets loose a crazy man's laugh. "A gay space squid. Just my luck." He reaches for his shirt.

They revive Maribel, who gets dressed and rushes to her sister's house. She won't return to her bedroom for a week. Winston apologizes, even though nothing was his fault. He and Ryoko leave her house, locking the front door behind them.

"Thank you," he tells her, still unnerved by the incident.

"You're going to be all right," she says. "You'll probably never see one again. It's like getting struck by lightning."

"But you see them all the time."

She smiles. "That's my job, to go in harm's way."

"If I were you, I'd wear a full-length Kevlar jump suit."

She laughs, a little ruefully. "The Commissioner insists on this uniform. Even though the panties are very easily taken off. Then it is hard to keep my guard up and the rest of my clothes are taken too."

"Sounds like the Commissioner just likes seeing you naked."

"He and many others." She shakes his hand. "Listen, be very careful. If you see one of those creatures again, leave immediately. Get away as fast as you can."

"You mean it's going to come back?"

"Just keep away. The opening of the rift is a warning. It gives you a head start. Winston, I will see you later. But keep watchful. Good luck."

"But-"

"I have to go." She unlocks her Beetle, hops in and drives away.

Winston tries to make sense of this. Certainly he should stay away from Maribel's bedroom... but can those monsters just pop up anywhere? Then why doesn't Ryoko stick around?

EXHIBITIONIST & VOYEUR

At Toro Beach, Stephanie realizes Winston isn't coming back; more than enough time had passed for him to go to Costco and return. "Phooey," she says to herself. What a letdown.

More people have arrived, setting down blankets and playing in the water, but no one has paid her any attention. The isolation makes her restless. Maybe this would be a good time to strip all the way off, and make the day a little more interesting.

She wants to stay on her stomach, in order to reveal only her butt. She pushes down her bikini bottom as far as she can reach, which is only part of the way toward her knees. The fabric stretches across her thighs as she enjoys the unfamiliar feeling of fresh air and sun on her bare bottom. Lying flat on her stomach, she can't push the bikini any further, but she wants it all the way off.

She raises her butt in the air to bring her knees closer and move the bikini downward. This looks pretty clumsy, but she guesses it's still better than rolling on her side. Certainly turning over on her back or sitting up would be easier, but that would give everyone a full frontal view.

Now the bikini is past her knees and she lays back down. She is now able to work it off using her legs. It takes longer than she expects, writhing and kicking like a beginning swimmer, but finally one foot is out, and she kicks it away with the other. The bikini bottom is a few feet away in the sand; she can't see exactly where. She'll pick it up later.

She's nude now, though something still bothers her, something unfinished. It's the top, which is untied, but still lies underneath her breasts. She leans up a little, enough to pull the top out and throw it aside. That's better, she thinks. The towel, though soft, is still rougher than the inside of her bikini top, and the sensation stimulates her nipples.


Extra Large Combo with Everything



If only Winston knew, she thinks. If he could see me now, he'd come right back.

Still, Stephanie is left alone. Of course people are staring at her, but they seem to be keeping to themselves. Even so, being naked makes the day more interesting than it was. She begins to daydream about might happen, but soon falls asleep.

A hand on her bare bottom wakes her up; but whether it's real or imagined she never finds out. Reflexively, she turns over to a near sitting position to see who touched her, but no one seems to be that close. Many are gaping at her, and she glances down. Her legs are slightly bent and spread. Onlookers are enjoying their first glimpse of her bare breasts and pussy. She looks around again; no idea of who touched her. She turns back onto her stomach.

She does not notice when someone tiptoes away with both parts of her bikini. Nor does she notice when a man with a digital camera snaps several pictures of her sleeping form, and sticks around a while, hoping in her sleep she will turn over.

An hour later, two park rangers, Spencer and Garcia, roust her awake. She is still a little groggy as they lift her to her feet. "What's going on?" she cries.

"Not a nude beach, ma'am," says Spencer. "There are signs all over the place."

"We're going to have to take you in," says Garcia.

"No, no, I'll leave now, I'll put back on my-" she says, and then looks around her towel. The bikini is gone. "Where is it?"

"Where is what," says Garcia. They take her hands behind her back and slip on handcuffs.

Stephanie is very distressed at this point. The rangers have attracted a lot of attention, and now everyone is looking her way. She's not proud of her breasts -- she has always wished they were bigger -- and she's especially self-conscious about her tummy. And now everyone can see, and she can't even cover up.

"Let's go," Spencer says. Each ranger takes a hand and they march her toward the main entrance to the beach. It's quite crowded now, and onlookers gawk at her like rubberneckers at a freeway accident. Some guys yell crude things which the rangers chuckle at and she tries to block out.

"Where are you taking me?"

Spencer doesn't answer. On his radio, he calls another ranger to bring over the dune buggy. "Five minutes," the voice on the other end says.

Near the main entrance, Garcia unhooks her cuffs, and for a moment she thinks she's free to go; but he has only done so to recuff her hands behind a metal signpost. He leers at her naked body with impunity. He places a hand on her shoulder as Spencer readies a notepad and pen.

"Suspect name?" Spencer says.

"That's you." Garcia taps her shoulder.

"S-Stephanie. Stephanie Ross."

"Height?"

"Five-four." Couldn't they do this inside somewhere?

"Weight?"

"One-twenty-five."

It is an optimistic underestimate, and she is mortified when Garcia gazes at her and says "put down one-thirty-five."

"Breast size?"

"What?"

"Cup size. Your bra. If you own one."

"Thirty-four B," she says, offended.

Garcia fondles her breasts, appraising them. "Maybe a B. Maybe."

"Waist?"

"None of your business!"

"We can stay out here all day. Waist?"

"Twenty-six."

Garcia verifies this, and chuckles. "Ah, close enough. Doesn't matter." Her face turns red at the insult.

"Hips?"

"Thirty-six," she says, weary.

"Is subject sexually aroused?"

Garcia cups her breasts again, twiddling her nipples with his thumbs. "She's not really hard right now... tough to tell. Don't know her that well. Oh, there they go."

Despite herself, Stephanie's body is responding to the situation, betraying her.

"How about down below?" says Spencer.

Garcia stands beside her, resting his hand on her pubic mound. He places his middle finger on her pussy lips, which are slightly moist. He moves his hand up and down, letting his finger graze her pussy as his hand lightly massages her mound. She can't stand to see all the onlookers staring at the scene, so she closes her eyes. Garcia's work is arousing her, and her juices start to flow.

"Yeah, she's wet," he says. He sticks a fingertip in for the first time and she gasps. "She's definitely excited."

"OK, that's enough," Spencer says. "Miss Ross?"

Her eyes open.

"Miss Ross, we're going to have to write you up on indecent exposure and lewd conduct. Our ride's here."

Garcia unhooks the cuffs hooking her set to the fence. They lead her to a fat-tired two-seater dune buggy painted lifeguard yellow. What's going to happen now? she wonders.

* * *

At Daphne's Daydreams, a lingerie boutique in the Galleria, three miles from Toro Beach, Tara McFarland rings up a purchase for a decent-looking meek man in his mid-thirties. He's married, and ventured in alone, saying this sheer outfit is for his wife. Tara hopes so. Most of the merchandise seems to go to secretaries, mistresses, or co-workers in the midst of furtive affairs.

Faithful or not, he has been unable to resist gazing appreciatively at Tara's body as she helped him pick out the red babydoll top and panty set. She has brown hair, dark eyes and an irresistibly cute personality that helps her immeasurably with her job. She wears an outfit entirely of items she sells: a pale sheer miniskirt over black thong, and a matching sheer camisole. Her small breasts are plainly visible; whenever a man notices, she can feel her nipples harden.

She hands him the signature red merchandise bag and receipt. "Thank you, sir... and good luck!" she adds, with just the hint of a naughty smile. He flushes, thanks her, and takes one last look at her slender body, almost completely revealed by the translucent outfit. He stares at her chest for a full second before tearing his gaze away and walking out.

Tara smiles. Customers like this, who get a thrill without pushing things too hard, are part of what makes her job so fun. Most of her shoppers are women, but it's the men who wander in that make things interesting. Dozens have propositioned her, asking what time she closes up. She suppresses a shiver as she turns them down; she knows they are tempted to strip her naked and fuck her where she stands. Oscar, a plainclothes security guard, escorts her out each night for mainly that reason.

In her fantasies, where she's safe from real-life harm, Oscar is not there to protect her. The man who she thinks is browsing is actually waiting for the right moment to approach her. She backs against the glass counter, cornered, as he tears at her sheer top. The delicate lingerie parts easily, and he stares hungrily at her bared breasts. Her sheer panties, all she has left, are moist from her fear-laced excitement. He rips those apart, and she is naked and completely vulnerable.

The man in her daydream drops his trousers, and roughly forces himself in her. With her boyfriends, she prefers some foreplay to make her ready; with this man, the first few thrusts are painful until she starts to lubricate. Then she grows excited very quickly, and comes, moaning, several times. He pays no notice until his climax, accented with a few hard grunting thrusts. His part done, he walks out, leaving her naked and heaving, gasping for breath.

It's a powerful fantasy, and has served her well many times as she lies in her own bed, fingering herself to climax.

Her fantasies have made Tara a little bolder in real life. Sometimes, on days she is sure the regional manager will not be visiting, she gathers up the courage to go without the thong, revealing her bare bottom and dark triangle of pubic hair under the see-through skirt. This both thrills and frightens her: even in the air-conditioned store, she sometimes has to dab nervous perspiration from her brow. Seeing Tara practically nude has made more than one man so obsessed he would not leave the store until Oscar shooed him out.

She enjoys strong men, especially those that protect her from peril. Oscar has appreciated looking at her body since the day she started, timidly emerging from the dressing room, wearing semi-sheer panties and a completely sheer bra. She was so worked up the first time she closed by herself, Oscar watching her work in her skimpy lingerie, that he seduced her easily. She has sex with him a few times a week now, sometimes right after closing, in the back of the store, just out of sight of the locked, gated entry. She likes to think he considers her safety extra important because of this. It's a good relationship.

A soft chime sounds as a brunette woman in blouse and slacks walks in. She's in her early 20s and usually carries a confident posture, but she is unfamiliar with Daphne's Daydreams and takes a moment to orient herself.

"Hi, my name's Tara. Can I help you?"

"I'm Joyce," she says, taken aback by Tara's attire. She recovers with a nervous smile. "I'm, uh, looking for a black leotard with full-length legs and sleeves."

"Yes. Body stockings," Tara says. "I'll show you where those are."

"It's my first time in a place like this," Joyce says, apologetically. "I don't have all the terminology down."

"Oh, don't worry about it. We actually have all sorts of different people shopping here. Here you go," Tara says, handing her a small package. "It should fit you fine, but you can try it on if you like."

"Oh, that would be great. It's for a party next weekend."

"There's a theme?"

Joyce brightens. "My friends are into this iPod thing, where you dress in a black silhouette, like the commercials."

"Yeah, with the solid color background! That sounds pretty cool." Tara grins. "So you dance around and stuff?"

"It's the 'and stuff' I'm worried about. My friends won't tell me exactly. They only say they know I'll like it."

FETISH

"Funny thing, the Apple Store is just around the corner," Tara says. "Maybe Daphne's Daydreams could co-brand with them."

Joyce laughs. "I'll go try this on." She disappears behind a sheer dark red curtain to the dressing area. Tara straightens some stock as she waits for Joyce's opinion. For a few minutes she hears nothing. Perhaps she doesn't like it; bodystockings aren't for everyone. And Joyce does seem a little timid about intimate apparel in general. She has a nice body for it, though. Tall and slim, with a nice full bustline, even in the casual clothes she wore walking in.

"Tara?" Joyce calls out.

"Yes?"

"My underwear is showing! Do you have one that's less see-through?"

"It's actually not meant for wearing anything underneath."

Joyce pauses. "Really?"

"Really. Try it without. It's best to see it now, while you have some privacy."

"Okay...."

Joyce is quiet for what seems like a long time before speaking. "Tara? Can you come in? I don't know if this will work. It's really see-through in some areas!"

Tara takes a look. The diaphanous material clings to Joyce's tall, lean body, and hides nothing. It's always fun to see a pretty but innocent-looking woman trying on lingerie for the first time; realizing exactly how alluring she can look always seems to disorient her at first.

"I think you'll be a smash hit," Tara says. "You're right about how sheer it is. None of our outfits do much for modesty."

"It feels like it's riding up my butt." Joyce turns around to show her.

"Don't worry, there's no way for it to ride up," Tara says. "There's just a seam here so it can cling more closely to your shape." She smiles. "You've got a cute butt. It really shows it off."

With fingertips at her shoulders, Tara gently turns Joyce to face her. "Since the material hugs every curve, it gets stretched in a few places and becomes a little more transparent. Like here," she says, reaching back to touch Joyce's bottom with her fingertips. "And here." She strokes the outside of her left breast.

Joyce inhales sharply, almost as if to hiccup, as her body tenses up. "My, um, nipples are really conspicuous in this too." The urge to cover up washes in like a wave, even though Tara is the only other person here, and dressed just as scantily.

Tara caresses the outside curves of Joyce's breasts. "Naturally, it's going to highlight some of your most interesting features."

Joyce feels a surge of warmth at Tara's touch. Their eyes meet. Joyce reaches for Tara, who quickly stays her hands.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry," Joyce says, chagrined.

"No, no, not at all," Tara says, still smiling. "It's just that what I'm wearing is quite fragile. Just give me a chance to get undressed."

Tara carefully lifts off her camisole and lays it on a table. Smiling, she gestures Joyce to be patient. She shimmies out of the sheer skirt, and lays that on top of the camisole. She's teasing Joyce a little, making her wait. The moment she steps out of her thong, Joyce embraces her and kisses her on the mouth.

* * *

Winston drives home, parking his convertible in front. His neighbor Janie stops and waves as he pulls in. She jogs up to greet him. "Hi, Mr. Jeffries!"

Janie is still in high school, and the dictionary entry for "forbidden fruit" contains her picture. White terrycloth shorts hug her cute ass, and a clingy pink tee showcases a great pair of tits. Her mother makes her wear a bra, but she doesn't need one. Light brown hair with blonde highlights is tied into a loose ponytail.

"Hello, Janie," he says warmly. "I hear you had a big party last night."

"Oh, yeah. I'm 18 now! I can vote now; join the army, buy cigarettes... can't drink yet. That's about it."

Eighteen, Winston thinks.

FIRST TIME

"I hope we didn't bother you," she says, concerned. "We were kind of noisy."

"No problem," he says. "I was your age not long ago. I haven't completely forgotten what it's like."

"I know! It would have been cool to have you come over!" she says. "But my mom would have freaked. She totally doesn't like me hanging out with older guys. Even my 18th birthday, six people slept over, all girls."

"I can understand. Twenty-six is a little too old to be with high school seniors."

She shakes her head. "She still treats me like a little kid. 'You are not going out of this house dressed like that,'" she says, mimicking her mother's voice.

He gives her a bemused smile. She's leaning on his car, her free arm waving and gesticulating to help make her points.

She says: "Luckily mom's not home right now, otherwise she'd be giving me grief about what I'm wearing right now."

He takes this excuse to give her an appraising look from head to toe. Even constricted by her bra, its straps revealed by the tight tee, Janie's nipples valiantly poke forward, just enough to be evident. A few inches of tight bare belly are revealed between the shirt and her white shorts. Below, fantastic legs lead down to cute feet with painted toenails, in cheap beach flipflops.

"It's a hot day; I see no problem with what you're wearing," he says.

"I know!" she says, with the tone of indignant agreement unique to teenagers.

Winston is ready to say goodbye when Janie leans forward, conspiratorially. "Wanna see my brand new swimsuit? I can show ya."

"Aw, I don't think that's a good idea," he says, weighing the risks. The rewards are easy to figure out. He knows that in any reasonable swimsuit she will look spectacular.

"Nobody's home!" she says. "Come on, it'll take five minutes. Just cross over the back yard, and like bring a hammer or something. If anyone asks, I'll say I needed your help with something."

He ponders this. He has known her as a neighbor for three years, back when she was a clumsy, insecure freshman with braces. He has gone fishing with the whole family a couple times, and even picked her up from school once when her mother was hospitalized. He doubts she would be springing a trap.

"Okay. Ten minutes from now?"

"Yeah. See you, Mr. Jeffries!"

You can call me Winston, he thinks.

He fetches a hammer and warily steps into Janie's backyard. The coast is clear. When he reaches the back door she is waiting for him, and takes him inside. "Upstairs," she says, taking him by the hand. Her energy is infectious. They step inside a room he has never visited: her bedroom. "Wait here," she says. "It's really sexy. You'll like it."

He sits on the corner of the bed. Stuffed animals keep watch from bookshelves. Orlando Bloom smiles in a poster. An iMac, TV and portable stereo stand silent. Pajamas or a nightshirt drape over the back of a chair.

Janie is in the bathroom changing. It is quiet enough that he wonders if she has gotten cold feet, perhaps opened a window and escaped. But she hasn't. Her voice is muffled through the closed door. "Ready to see it?"

"Go ahead," he says. He doesn't want to be too loud, to be heard from outside.

"Here it is," she announces, and opens the door wide. She is nude.

Her buoyant breasts and swelling nipples make Winston's mouth water. Her slender waist and hips lead to a pussy that adolescent wet dreams are made of. She is exhilarated that she was able to work up the courage to do this.

He is mesmerized and says nothing.

"It's my birthday suit," she says. "Get it?"

He nods.

"You like it?"

He nods. He notices for the first time that she has undone her ponytail. Long, soft hair falls past her bare shoulders.

"Do you want me?"

His voice returns. "Hell yeah." It is half baritone, half growl.

She nearly leaps onto the bed and reclines on her back, all her charms offered to him. He leans forward to kiss her belly, and slowly moves higher. "What do you like?" he says.

"It's my first time," she says. "I haven't done it all the way yet."

Her admission surprises him; but by this time, there is no question of his following through. If she wants to be deflowered by him, he won't deny her. "It may hurt," he says. "Just say 'stop' whenever you need to. I'll be gentle. And slow."

His lips have reached her breast, just the lower swell where soft skin slopes up from the ribcage. The feeling is already electric; she shivers and moans. It is time for him to disrobe and he does so quickly. As he strips his jockeys, her expression shows a flicker of fear, but is quickly replaced by ardent desire.

He explores her tender young body carefully, lovingly. She has climaxed before, at her own touch and from a steamy makeout session when she was supposed to be in study hall; but with this man, giving herself up completely to him, her orgasm reaches a higher level of ecstasy. His insertion is tantalizingly slow, and every millimeter deeper unleashes new waves of pleasure.

He can no longer hold back, and fires steaming come into her virgin pussy. "My god, that was awesome," he says.

"Mmmmmmm," she says, beaming.

Their post-coital languor is interrupted by the sound of the garage door opening.

"Omigod, my mom's back! You've gotta get out of here!"

Winston hurriedly pulls on his clothes. There is the sound of a door opening downstairs, followed by footsteps. He is trapped unless he can hide or exit through the window. He chooses the latter, jumping ten feet to the back lawn, ducking and rolling. He is not caught.

Meanwhile, Janie is paralyzed by fear and has crawled under the covers. Her mother is coming upstairs, and opens the door to Janie's room. The window is open, the bathroom door is open, and her clothes are on the floor. "What are you doing in bed?" her mother says, before pulling down the sheet. "Naked? Janie, what's going on?"

Janie has no answer.

* * *

Winston is happy to be back in his own house. The doorbell rings. His neighbor from across the street, a 30-year-old man in sweats and a muscle shirt, is holding a DVD.

"Hey Harv," says Winston.

GAY MALE

"Hey, W, wanted to get this back to you," says Harv.

"You liked it?"

"It was awesome!"

"What'd I tell you, man. Taye Diggs... hey, even I dig him. Anyway, thanks for bringing it back. Heading over to the gym?"

Harv scowled. "Yeah, gotta keep up."

"You're looking more cut than ever."




Extra Large Combo with Everything



"Thanks. Hey, when are you going to do something about those eyebrows, W?"

"Get outta here," Winston laughs, and shuts the door. He checks his watch: plenty of time before his blind date. He decides to walk toward downtown, see what might be good for lunch.

A block away, he encounters Iris, a divorced 30-year old enjoying being single. His neighborhood has a few more like her. She looks like she was swimming not long ago, or maybe just thrown in the pool: bare feet, bikini bottoms, and a white T-shirt that's not quite completely soaked. Iris is attractive, and this is the most revealing he has ever seen her dressed.

"Hey Wince," she says jovially. "Looks like you just got laid!"

He hesitates for a moment, paranoid. Does gossip travel this fast? "What do you mean?"

She laughs. "The glow on your face, spring in your step. I don't know. You just have that look."

He is relieved. Iris has an off-color sense of humor. She has teased him before and meant nothing of it. "Naw, I've been a good boy today. So far."

"Good for you. Hey, could I ask a favor?"

"Sure."

She folds her hands behind her back. "Do you have... one of those squirt nozzle things that goes on the end of a hose?"

"Yeah, back at the house."

"Could we borrow one? Mine's busted, and it would save a trip to Home Depot."

"Sure, I'll go grab it."

"Thank you so much! Here, I'll walk with you." Her T-shirt clings to some nice curves. Winston sneaks a peek every once in a while.

"In the middle of a project?" he asks.

"Yeah, washing our cars. Me and two girlfriends. Something broke in my nozzle and now it won't spray, so we're stuck with three cars covered in soap suds and three women soaking wet."

"I see," says Winston.

GROUP SEX

He finds the nozzle on his workbench. Purchased just last weekend, it hasn't even been used yet. It's rugged and bright green, with six different settings selectable by rotating the head.

"Wow, that's high tech," Iris says. She's standing quite close to him.

He chances casually putting an arm around her. "Let's go wash some cars."

Iris's driveway curves toward a garage set into the side of the house, out of sight from the street behind a copse of pine trees. This is a good thing: when Iris and Winston arrive, her friends Julia and Kirsten are playing around, spraying each other with the hose. Julia wears a striking black bikini bottom. Kirsten's outfit is even better: white bikini panties, soaked and mostly transparent. Both women are cute, drenched, and topless.

Ho ho, Winston thinks.

"I guess they got bored waiting for me," Iris says.

The women notice him and stop right away. Julia drops the hose and reaches for her bikini top, spinning around to face away and put it on. Kirsten looks around but apparently can't locate her top. She covers her breasts with her hands and shivers. Her pubic hair is still easily visible through her soaked panties.

"You didn't say you were bringing a guy back!" Kirsten says.

"He has a nozzle thingy," Iris says. "Plus this," she jokes, holding the nozzle up.

Racy sense of humor, Winston thinks.

Julia turns to them, her top now back on. "We're done, though. We sprayed things using our thumb." She mimes placing her thumb over the open end of a hose to force a spray.

The dropped hose still gushes water onto the driveway.

"Might as well hook it up, give everything a once over," Winston says. Kirsten runs to the spigot to turn off the water. Julia takes the nozzle and twists it onto the hose.

"Okay," she tells Kirsten, who turns on the water. "Let's try 'Shower'," she says, and dials the nozzle to that position. She aims at Winston and gives him a full blast in the chest. The spray soaks him from head to waist.

"Works great!" she says, releasing the trigger. Her smile is full of mischief, daring, and defiance.

Winston smiles gamely. He got a peek at her tits (and a nice pair indeed); surely getting sprayed at is only fair.

"Let's try..." Julia says, clicking the nozzle head to another setting, "... jet stream." She unleashes a narrow, sharp stream of water directly at Winston's crotch. Her aim is good. A moment later, he cups himself with his hands and turns aside.

"Girl, that stung!" he protests.

"I'm Julia," she says. "That's Kirsten over there. Iris should have introduced you but she has no manners."

"I'm Winston," he says, but Julia is already dialing up another weapon. On his own nozzle! That's just wrong, he thinks.

He looks around for a weapon or shield and spots the bucket of suds. He is hit by some sort of water stream (Power Wash? Gentle Rain?) as he plunges a hand in and fishes out a large yellow sponge. It's waterlogged, and foamy as a badly poured beer. "Time to get you cleaned off," he says, with as menacing as an expression as he can bring up. While trying not to laugh.

Julia is not prepared for this; perhaps it's been years since she's been in a fair fight. She shrieks and sprays him, but the setting is too weak and he advances easily. She retreats to the hood of her Toyota and stumbles backwards.

"I agree, she's been a dirty girl," says Kirsten, who pulls on the hose, yanking it out of Julia's hands. Kirsten has forgotten about modesty, and the sight of her bare breasts almost distracts him from his goal. The three of them surround Julia, who tries to fend them off with flailing hands.

"Don't, come on, don't," pleads Julia. "I'm sorry, I take it all back!"

As far as Winston can tell, she's still enjoying the game, doing a little playacting. He hopes that if she's really unhappy with things, one of her friends will notice and call things off. "Don't worry, it's only soap," he says, swiping the sponge across her bare tummy. He's very gentle, but she flinches and squirms like he's going to scour her with steel wool.

"You've got to get her all the way clean," Kirsten says. She yanks up Julia's top a few inches, just enough to free her breasts. Julia looks down in horror. "In fact," Kirsten says, nudging Winston aside, "let's get her prepared for this."

Julia can easily break free -- no one's physically restraining her -- and she can easily convince them that this is no longer funny and they need to stop. Instead, she stays where she is, and keeps to feeble, ineffectual pleas for mercy, which are gleefully turned down. Kirsten leans forward and unhooks Julia's top before pulling it over her head.

Winston's brain is about to announce to himself that this scene is indeed very hot when Kirsten kneels down and strips Julia completely. The girl is nude and in considerable peril, and enjoying every minute of it.

"Where should I start?" he asks.

"You shouldn't start anywhere!" Julia says.

He starts with her feet and works his way up. After a few strokes with the sponge, he decides it's getting in the way, and afterward simply dips his hands in the suds and applies them to her body. She's squirming quite a bit when he reaches her thighs. He pats her pubic mound, saying, "How about we save this for last?" She nods.

He moves to the torso and arms, and soon all of her body below the neck is soaped up, gently applied by his hands. He spends a little extra time with her breasts, getting her nipples nice and firm. "Ready with the spray?"

"Yep," says Kirsten. At some point, while he wasn't watching, she has taken off her panties, and she's naked too. On the Gentle Mist setting, she directs a fine spray to sluice the suds off Julia's slippery body. He helps with his hands when it seems necessary, which is nearly all the time.

"She clean?" Kirsten says.

"Let's see." Winston leans forward to her right breast, and licks the nipple, taking it briefly between his lips. Julia sighs. "Tastes a little soapy." He stands up and Kirsten gives her another spray.

This time, his taste test shows Julia is clean. He tries both her breasts to be sure. Julia is happy with the results too, at least by the way she is writhing and moaning.

What follows is not all connected in Winston's mind as a continuous thread. Things just happen, and what he remembers later are vignettes and single events. Most of the time he can hardly believe his good fortune.

While he's licking Julia's breasts, one of the other girls pulls down his shorts, and then has her hands underneath his shirt, caressing his back and chest. He might have had plans for more foreplay with Julia, but her hand guides his hardness inside her, and he begins thrusting.

Later, he is on his back in the grass. Iris, now also nude, kneels above him, her snatch in his face, his tongue between her labia, while he reaches up to fondle her hanging breasts. One of the other girls is going down on him. The other is doing something else with his ball sack. It's hard to keep track.

Later, he is on his side, screwing Kirsten at a 90-degree angle, while Iris and Julia sixty-nine each other. Numbers, numbers.

Still later, he is resting, with Iris on his lap. His hands idly play with her breasts, feeling their softness and warmth and weight, keeping her slightly aroused. They watch as Julia and Kirsten make love in the grass, rolling and wrestling. Sometimes they play surprisingly rough. Are they girlfriends? Or is this something they all discovered today? Winston has tons of questions, but now seems not the right time to ask.

HOW TO

Many authors ask, "How can I keep my story from shooting its wad too early, with nothing left but four pages of the old In and Out?"

The key is constructing an effective build-up. Provide likeable, realistic characters, add some anticipation, mix in a plausible plot, and your readers will enjoy the ride. After all, getting there is half the fun!

The following plot development is too fast:

Point A: "Now, Miss Bishop, on your resume it says-"

Point B: "Fuck my love hole NOW! I need your 9-1/8ths inch cock inside me!"

You need some stuff to happen between points A and B.

Ideally you want realistic people doing realistic things that somehow (realistically) leads to some fun sex. In other words:

Step 1: Interesting setup Step 2: ... Step 3: Sex!

Your job as an author is to fill in step 2.

HUMOR & SATIRE

During a sweltering D.C. evening, the still air is humid with the slurping sounds of oral sex.

"Don't stop, Rhianna," cries Dick Cheney's daughter.

"Don't stop, Fox News," cries George W. Bush.

"Don't stop, Rumsfeld," growls Satan.

ILLUSTRATED

:-)

( . Y . )

#8====D

:-0

INCEST/TABOO

Janie's mom shuts the bedroom door behind her and stands in front of the bed, arms crossed, furious. She wasn't born yesterday; it is obvious what Janie was doing. "Get up," she commands.

Janie climbs out of bed, looks for some clothes to put on.

"Too late for that now," Mom says, sarcastically. "Get over here, I need to talk to you."

Janie walks barefoot over to her mother, eyes already starting to tear up. She knows she's in serious trouble. Mom can probably smell the love juices still in her pussy, see the glistening wetness there.

"Who was it?" Mom says.

Janie doesn't answer. She'll be grounded anyway and who knows what else for punishment. But if she reveals Winston's name, a lot worse could happen. Police visiting his house. A trial. Winston in jail. Mom and Dad deciding to move away. No way. She can't tell.

"Dammit, we already know what happened here. Who was it? Brandon?"

Janie tries to keep a straight face, but she realizes her first time wasn't even with her boyfriend. She had been fending off his advances for months, and now she slept with someone else.

"It wasn't him," Mom says. "Then who? I'm your mother, just tell me who!"

Janie stands her ground, even as she starts to cry. She hates being in trouble. It's like she's four years old again. She seems to have never grown out of that.

Mom finally loses patience. "I'll find out anyway." She shakes her head. "Janie, you promised us. And you lied." She waves her daughter away. "We'll figure out punishment later. Meantime, you don't leave your room except for meals and church." She turns on her heel, leaves through the door, and slams it.

"What's the matter, Diane?" Janie's father Craig asks. A towel is wrapped around his waist. He has just returned from the municipal pool, where he swims laps every Saturday. His usual routine after getting home, to shower, change and have a late breakfast, is interrupted as Diane storms into the hall.

"Your daughter had a boy in her room," she says, fuming.

"Again? She just promised..."

"Well, she lied to us. And this time, she doesn't even have any clothes on."

"You said 'a boy.' So not Brandon?"

"No, someone else. And she won't tell me. You know, you go talk to her. I'm through with her."

"I need to get dressed first."

"Go talk to her NOW."

Okay, he thinks. You're the boss. Let's find out what really happened with Janie, if anything. He knocks on Janie's door, hears a soft "yes?" and steps inside. He freezes there, as the door swings shut behind him. His daughter is facing him, sitting on the side of her bed, naked.

Diane didn't say anything about this, he wants to protest. Then he remembers she did, in passing. He should have paid more attention.

He hasn't seen Janie naked since she was about five years old, old enough to bathe and dress herself. He has painstakingly avoided even glancing at her body too directly since her mid-teens, when it was obvious she was developing into a stunning beauty. It's not fair, he thinks, how daughters seem genetically engineered to be younger, hotter versions of their mothers. And the things they wear nowadays...

Diane is still a pretty woman, always will be, and he can see much of Diane in Janie's face and smile. He recognizes Diane's body there too, the slim waist and long legs; but Janie is even more gorgeous than Diane was at the same age, when he took her to the senior ball. Her breasts are larger, her pink nipples look even more tasty. Between her legs, under a trimmed bush, oh god...

He feels his dick getting stiff underneath the towel. But something about her getting trimmed bugs him; she doesn't to his knowledge have a swimsuit that would require this. So either she secretly wears more skimpy things or she's concerned about how she looks naked.

Keeping more than one secret from her mother and I, he thinks. He finds comfort in a more familiar emotion: anger.

"Who is it?" he demanded. "You wouldn't tell your mother."

"I can't tell anyone!" she says, starting to cry. "I just can't!"

Ironically, he is pleased that this pisses him off. Anger is much easier to deal with than lust. Maybe there are a few things a daughter might not want to tell her father. But she won't tell Diane either. This can't stand.

He pulls the chair from her desk, spins it to face her and sits down. "Kneel down," he says, pointing to his lap, and for a moment he fears she will interpret this the wrong way. But she remembers enough spankings from her youth to know what he means. Tears running down her face, she kneels at his side and leans over his lap. It must be at least ten years since I've done this, he thinks. And she's always had clothes before. Her tits are squeezed against my leg. Maybe she should...

Almost automatically, his right hand has given her a swat. "Ow!" she exclaims, and starts to cry in earnest. She squirms as he delivers another one. He watches her bare bottom jiggle slightly as he smacks it.

"Even though you're 18, you're still our daughter, you still live here, and you still follow the rules," he says, punctuating each phrase with another spank. Her bottom, once a pale pink, is starting to redden. She might be saying something in return, but all he hears are her sobs.

She writhes and squirms as he delivers three more spanks, crying more loudly with each one. Probably loud enough for Diane to hear. Hell, a spanking might be what Diane wanted him to do anyway.

Janie's bottom is very red now. He figures it's time to stop, or at least let her recover for a bit. Her long hair spills over her shoulders to his left. She's still squirming, even though his hand is now resting gently on her bottom. He lifts it. The red welts will not fade for a while. Her pubic thatch scruffs against his right leg, just beyond the fringe of the towel. Her legs are apart; he watches her muscles flex and release.

He touches her bottom again, gently, as if checking her forehead for a fever. The skin does seem as warm as its red color would imply. Maybe that's enough spanking, he thinks. Though her crying is softer now, she still squirms as if fearing more pain, even though he is lightly massaging her buttocks now, more like caressing, willing the blood to circulate out and the skin to heal. He slides his hand to rest on her inner thigh, just out of the way. It does seem like the redness is fading. Good. He finds his fingers stroking along her thigh, even though he has not spanked her there and the skin is smooth, lovely, unblemished.

Janie pushes herself farther up onto his lap, perhaps tired of kneeling. This causes the knot in the towel at his left hip to come undone. The flap of towel leading from underneath his buttocks now dangles toward the floor. No problem, he's sitting down; only a few inches of towel have come loose. He'll have to retie it when he gets up.

Her breasts are no longer compressed against his leg, but now hang free. He's supporting her weight now. Her legs are off the floor now, bent a little, pointing mostly straight out, and separated. This makes her ass even more round. He follows its contours, hoping his gentle touch will continue to restore the skin. He feels guilty about marring it earlier.

With his left hand, which had been resting on her shoulders, he scoops her hair out of the way, from left to right. She still faces the floor. She whimpers a bit, and writhes. Her chin is damp from tears. He places a hand high on her chest, just below the neck, to help steady her.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

"Uh huh," she says. She doesn't sound entirely lucid.

His right hand has been caressing her bottom and thighs, really wandering around a bit. The shallow dip in the small of her back leads to her rounded buttocks; his fingers trace this path, reaching the summit, and gliding down to her left thigh, closest to him. Halfway along her thigh, his touch reverses, moving back upward. She tenses, although he is being very gentle. His left hand has slid down a little bit, but is still just above where her breasts begin to cleave away from her chest. Her heartbeat is rapid. Well, getting spanked is always traumatic, stressful.

His right hand does not climb her butt cheek again, but drifts straight between her legs. A finger now rests on her pussy lips. She is very moist, and squirms even more, as if fearing he might start spanking again right away. His hand stays there for a moment, feeling her warmth.

He realizes he is very hard, his boner still safely underneath the loose towel, but poking against her abdomen. Maybe she isn't hurting at all anymore. He inserts a finger experimentally inside her pussy. She is moist and hot.

She responds instantly, her upper body shifting. She's not really sobbing anymore, though she is breathing hard. His left hand, steadying her, slides down and cups her left breast.

It's larger than Diane's, soft yet keeping its shape as it hangs, its lovely smoothness and weight almost filling his spread hand. Her hard nipple pokes between his spread fingers.

He removes his finger from her pussy and gazes at it. It's beautiful. The lips are puffy and opened and glazed. His cock is very hard now. He puts his finger back inside her and gently inserts it as far as it will go. She gasps.

His conscience is silent -- no voice telling him this is wrong -- but another voice cautions him of the consequences should Diane walk in. Yet he convinces himself that the chances of her doing this in the next five seconds, say, are very small.




Extra Large Combo with Everything



Janie is making noise, however, and that could raise suspicions. "Time to get up," he says. He removes his finger from inside her, and places the slightest upward pressure on her breast to coax her up. She slides back to her feet, to his right. The loose towel goes with her. As she stands up, both ends of the towel hang free from the sides of the chair. His cock points forward like a cannon.

Janie's eyes are red and teary. Her skin is flushed and reddened, in an area leading from her breasts up to her face. This isn't from spanking.

"You won't tell me who it is?" he asks.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she sobs, miserable.

"Come here," he says. She straddles him and sits on his lap, facing him. His cock pokes at her pubic mound. "It's okay." He cups her beautiful breasts, even though he knows this will only create more problems. He moves his hands down her bare sides to her ass, which is probably still a little red. He scoots her closer, until her pubic hair tickles the shaft of his upturned cock. She is taking deep breaths now, and her heart is hammering.

She starts to stand up, as if to walk away, but she is straddling him awkwardly. He holds her buttocks and eases her back down to envelop him inside her.

He rationalizes this away, that this blonde hottie he's fucking is someone else, not related to him. He cannot tell what she's thinking. She closes her eyes, and is silent at first. Her gorgeous breasts sway as they thrust. A soft moan starts to crescendo; alarmed, he places a finger on her slightly open lips. Her eyes pop open as if roused from sleep and she clamps her lips shut.

"Craig?" his wife calls from downstairs. "Is everything all right?"

They stop.

"Just having a talk, honey," he shouts. They don't dare move.

"Come down when you're finished," his wife says.

They both step up and he reties his towel. It was certainly for the best that this was interrupted. "Janie, you need to get dressed," he whispers.

She nods, but doesn't move.

"Who was it?" he asks, calmly.

"I can't tell you!" she says. Her eyes are tearing up again.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "We'll talk later." He leaves the room.

* * *

Winston leaves his car in the driveway and walks downtown to meet his blind date. It's a little over a mile, and a pleasant stroll. He reflects on what has happened so far: a strange day overall. Hopefully he won't run into any more cute women washing their cars. There's not enough time for a repeat of his episode with Iris, Julia and Kirsten.

Funny enough, a while before that he was unsure if his ass would ever feel well enough that he could walk long distances again. But the attack by the space squid has mercifully faded in his mind. It looks like Ryoko is right, and the monster won't bother him again.

He reaches the meeting point, a Mediterranian bistro, and sees a woman seated alone at an outdoor table for two, sipping an Italian soda, surveying the street and walkways. Is she Carrie, the one he's supposed to meet? He hopes so. She has a classy, confident beauty. Platinum blonde hair, gray eyes, and a silvery gray dress. He grins. If Rolls Royce made women instead of cars, perhaps this would be the result.

She catches his eye and waves. So she is his date. He finds his way inside and takes a seat.

So far I have not revealed to you the color of Winston's skin, because such things usually should not matter. Perhaps you already have an image in your mind. But the next section requires that I make this known.

INTERRACIAL LOVE

"Well, hi, handsome SBM," Carrie says, standing up to shake his hand. Her voice is quiet and discreet; blind-date terms such as SBM (Single Black Male) are best not shouted for all to hear. "You must be Winston?"

"Hello, Carrie," he says, as they sit down. She looks fantastic. The sleeveless silvery dress clings to her body. She might be wearing panties, but she's not wearing a bra. It looks like she really commits to a date, goes in with both barrels.

They make small talk, but it's effortless and not really necessary. The mutual attraction is obvious. Carrie suggests they finish their drinks and go to her house. I walked over here, Winston says. Carrie responds with a "pffft" and says she'll drive him home afterward. Whenever that might be.

"This is a nice house," he says as she leads him inside. "You live by yourself?"

"Yes," she says, but something about the house raises a warning flag briefly in his mind. But as he follows her upstairs (no panty lines at all) the thought fades.

She stands at the foot of her bed and peels off her dress. He's right; she was wearing nothing underneath. Winston spends a moment too long awestruck at the sight, because she starts stripping his clothes off as well. No time to waste, it seems.

His shirt is off, and she admires the shape he's on. Dockers and boxers come down, and then she stops, frowning.

"What's the matter?" He stands there nude, pants around his ankles, wondering what happened to the mood.

"It's, um... I thought you'd be bigger."

You've gotta be kidding me, he thinks. "You know, that's the average size. Median size, actually. Half are bigger, half are smaller."

"But not average for..."

"For what?"

"You know!"

"So that's why you specified SBM," he says, disgusted. "Well, uh, nice to meet you, Carrie." He reaches for his pants. "I think I'll be going now."

"Wait!" she says. Something in her tone makes him stop. A sound of authority or something. Or maybe it's the way she looks naked. "I'm sorry. That was kind of a shitty thing to do. I thought I was being clever."

"We were doing so well," he says. "But to be honest, now the mood's totally shot."

"I know," she says ruefully. "Stay, though. Can you just stay for a little bit?"

His inclination is still to wash his hands of this busted date, but he finds himself agreeing. "Okay. What'll we do, just hang out?"

"Maybe you can give me a little back rub. Shoulder massage."

"I'm a beginner at that sort of thing."

"You'll do all right." She plops down to a sitting position on the bed. "Sit in back."

Winston sits in back of her, legs spread. "Do you want hard or soft?"

"Just soft. More caress than deep tissue massage."

He starts on her shoulders, working out from the base of the neck. "That's good," she purrs. Soon he's fairly comfortable, enjoying having her body close to his, and he's put the earlier discontent out of his mind.

"Um, Winston?"

"Yes?"

"Your, um, small-"

"Medium," he interrupts.

"... your Medium penis is poking me in the back."

He chuckles. "I gather that's not the sort of professional conduct you'd have in a real spa."

"Oh no," she says. "Also, I wouldn't be sitting here exposed like this. I'd have a sheet or a towel."

"You'd really want to cover this body up?"

"I'd feel pretty vulnerable if I was just naked with a male therapist looking and touching me everywhere."

"Especially if he was attracted to you," he says. His hands leave her shoulders and reach around to cup her breasts. "And started doing this."

"Oh god, that is totally unprofessional," she says as he fondles her. He scoots closer to her. His penis (stiffer now) is pressed upward against the small of her back.

"At this point the I would lock the door." He speaks softly, as his lips are almost at her ear, and continues kneading her breasts. He slips a hand downward, over the slight curve of her belly, to her pubic thatch. "And I would take complete liberty with your-"

He strokes her moist lips with a gentle finger.

She turns around to face him, hungry. Any concerns about his penis size are gone. "Let's go for that happy ending."

He lays her down supine and enters her from above. And both are satisfied.

LESBIAN SEX

In the dressing room at Daphne's Daydreams, Joyce and Tara clinch and lock lips. Joyce lets her fingertips wander along the curves of Tara's nude body, while Tara caresses her along the sheer bodystocking. Neither are concerned about anyone walking in on them; the dressing area is fairly private and divided from the back corner of the shop by a dark sheer drape.

Joyce pauses to catch her breath and gaze down into Tara's eyes. "Is this the sort of attention I can expect with this outfit at the party?"

Tara cups her breasts through the slippery nylon. "All the guys, and many of the girls, will be imaging themselves helping you take it off. She flicks Joyce's nipples gently, like a light switch, and Joyce skips a breath.

"I think I'm ready to take this off," she says.

"Not yet," Tara says. She places one hand on her pubic mound and with the other traces the curve of her butt upwards. "This is still a lot of fun the way it is."

"I want your hands on me! I want you to taste me!" Joyce whispers.

"Later." Tara grins wickedly.

"The customer is always right!" Joyce stands with hands on hips. "Help me take this off now!"

Tara relents, but draws it out as long as possible. First her arms and shoulders are bared. Tara kisses her neck and upper back before peeling the stocking down just enough to free her breasts. She moves to kiss an exposed nipple when Joyce pushes the fabric down to her waist. As she tries to force it over her hips, it tears.

"I'm so sorry!" Joyce says. "I'll pay for it!"

"Later," Tara says, pulling it down further. Joyce sits on a padded bench while Tara peels the rest of her legs, and finally Joyce is nude too. "Stay there," Tara says. "Lie back."

Joyce is now supine on the bench, her breasts slightly flattened and separated by gravity, her legs spread for stability, her feet on the floor. "I'm going to kiss you everywhere," Tara says.

Joyce gasps and braces for this. Tara starts with a delicate kiss, delicate as a falling petal, on her forehead. Then bridge and tip of the nose, the lips, the chin, and every inch along her neck. She follows Joyce's cleavage, resisting the temptations to either side, straight to the navel and past; and now it is obvious where this arrow-straight path is leading. Tara moves to the foot of the bench so she can lean forward and lick Joyce's swelling pussy.

Her customer cannot conceal a keening moan as Tara kisses, gently sucks, and tongues the delicate folds. Tara simply does what she would want done to her, and the effect on Joyce is dramatic. She hopes Joyce will return the favor, but she's not the type to keep score.

She is eating Joyce out quite vigorously, her own ass pointing slightly in the air, when Hatwick the regional manager steps in.

"Hard at work, I see," he sneers. Startled, Tara leaps up, conscious of the glaze on her lips and chin. Joyce reflexively covers her breasts with her hands, and a few seconds later remembers to cover up down below.

What are you doing here, Tara wants to ask, but she knows she'd get an arrogant, sarcastic answer. Hatwick has always carried a grudge against her, even though her store is the highest performer in Southern California, and in a way making him look good.

"So you've moved from wearing clothing that's too revealing, to wearing nothing at all," he says.

"I'll get dressed," she says, looking for where she had laid down her outfit.

"No, come on out," he says, smiling evilly. "We'll go over the quarter numbers. Just come as you are." He leads her by the hand out of the dressing room, toward the small office at the opposite back corner of the store. A few customers give her a bemused stare.

* * *

Winston and Carrie lay next to each other in bed, hands intertwined. Winston recalls the last time he was in this situation, with Maribel. No space monsters so far, this time. Good.

Something beeps on Carrie's nightstand, startling him. "Sorry, should have turned it off," she says.

"What was that?"

"A Blackberry. It's pretty cool."

"I heard about those. You can check email and stuff."

"I can also send email." She grins. "Here, I'll send one to my friend." With her thumbs, she begins to type on the compact keypad.

LETTERS & TRANSCRIPTS

"Rachel,

I met a wonderful guy today. He's really good in bed, and he's a great listener. We're just chilling now.

Anyway-

Oh shit, my husband's home, bye"

LOVING WIVES

Alan, Carrie's husband barges into the doorway, filling the frame. He's six foot five and built like a bouncer.

"Carrie!" he bellows. "What the hell...?"

"Honey, it's not what it looks like!" Carrie protests.

(At this point, let's list some reader comments pertinent to the story.

"Fucken slut HORE!!1! (Anonymous)"

"I hate these stories! Every one I read, I hate! How can that limp-dick put up with that? (Anonymous)"

"Man, if I were him, I'd say 'Bitch! Get into the kitchen and make me some pie!' (Anonymous)"

"It would be more erotic if she ended up pregnant (the creepy guy who's always making this comment)"

Back to the story.)

Winston understandably feels betrayed. She gave him shit about not living up to some imaginary Black stereotype, but she didn't see fit to tell him she was married?

Alan fixes his glare on Winston. "You're not long for this earth, pal!" He advances. Winston sees Carrie won't be able to talk him out of anything; for the second time today, he'll be sneaking out of a girl's bedroom.

MATURE

Maribel drives to her sister's house, two cities distant, but does not call ahead to say she's coming. When she arrives, answering the door is not her sister, but her "cousin" Eddie, visiting from San Francisco. They're not truly related (their fathers served in the Navy together), but by Filipino conventions, he is family.

He's as surprised to see her, and they embrace on the doorstep. There are more strands of gray in his hair, but he's still rail-thin and looking great for 53. She wonders where he puts away all that fried food.

He notices the distress in her face, her wary, teared eyes. "What's wrong, Bel-bel?"

"Let's sit down," she says, leading him to the upholstered couch facing the entertainment center. "You probably won't believe this," she says, and tells him about the monster attack in her bedroom.

"You probably think I'm crazy," she concludes.

"No way. No, I don't. Remember all the things Uncle heard about in the Philippines? Some things he even saw?"

Maribel knows: witches, curses, ghosts. Monsters. Vampires, taking the form of the top half of a woman, flying at night and extending long tubes to feed on the blood of sleeping children.

"I don't want to go back to my house," she says.

"Stay here," he says. "Our guest room. Stay as long as you like."

"Thanks, kuya," she says, smiling, reaching over to hug him. "You've always watched out for me. Just like a big brother."

He grins. "You know, when you first came over, I was watching you for different reasons."

"Oh, that was so obvious," she laughs. "You think I didn't notice?"

"The things you'd wear would drive Mama crazy. Always complaining about you."

She scowls. "I was already 21. Not some little kid."

"I always told her that, trying to stick up for you."

"For your own self-interest," she laughs. "Always looking down my dress, checking out my legs... and at the beach? Pffft. I thought your eyes would fall out."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Of course. And when I was sunbathing in the yard, you'd always have some excuse to come walking by..."

"Oh yeah, with your top untied? Mama really hated that."

"I was always on my stomach. I never showed anything."

"My imagination filled in the rest." It's funny; twenty years later, he feels no shame confessing this to her, and no shame that even back then, she already knew.

"What about that one time in the shower?" she recalls. "You stared at me for like ten minutes. Really naughty." It was more like a second and a half, she remembers. Just a few weeks after arriving, while she stayed at the house and Eddie dropped by almost every day, she had showered and dried off, the room full of steam. She hung the towel and was ready to put on clothes when the door swung open right as Eddie walked by. For one long moment she froze and he stared at her nude body before she shrieked and grabbed her towel.

"Just an accident!" he protests. They are silent for a while, replaying the scene in their heads. "You make an old guy wish for younger days," he says.

"Maybe back then I did," she parries.

He looks at her. "No, even now. You're still pretty now as you were then."

She scoffs. "Stop it. I'm 44. Only nine years younger than you. That's not young."

He shrugs. "Just telling the truth."

She is pensive for a while. "You know, the shower thing, that wasn't an accident."

"What do you mean?"

"I let the door swing open on purpose."

He thinks of Maribel then, while gazing at Maribel now, and wonders about lost opportunities. "I don't suppose you'd like to... get cleaned up? Take a shower?"

She smiles, and reaches for him. "Maybe afterward."

* * *

Carrie steps off the bed and faces her husband, looking like Moses about to part the Red Sea. "Alan, don't make things worse. It's really just a mistake. Nothing to get upset about."

Winston doubts this will have any effect, but is astonished to see the anger drain out of Alan. Her voice somehow charms him, like a violin piece quieting a snarling lion. There's something forceful and steadfast about this woman, having this power over a man easily a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier. She radiates an energy Winston can't understand, but he can feel, and his dick grows quickly hard.

MIND CONTROL

"Why don't you go to the hardware store, get us some fertilizer or something," she commands. "Just forget about what you saw here." Alan turns and silently walks away.

She turns to Winston. "You'd best get out while the getting's good."

"What the hell just happened?"

"It won't last forever. He'll come back. You need to go."

He can feel her mentally pushing him, as she had pushed her husband. He shakes his head and walks out. He braces for an attack by Alan that doesn't materialize; her husband is already gone.

NONCONSENT / RELUCTANCE

At the beach, Garcia uncuffs Stephanie and leads her toward the buggy. Spencer takes the driver's seat; Garcia takes the passenger side and lifts Stephanie onto his lap.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"For a ride," he says.

Spencer starts up the buggy. It rumbles forward, heading south, back toward where they had picked her up. The springy suspension magnifies every bump in the trampled sand, making parts of her body jiggle that she'd rather stayed put. The spectacle is enough to cause everyone they pass to stare, even those that might not have noticed when the rangers marched her in the other direction a short time ago.

In order to keep her from bouncing off, Garcia holds her body against his, cupping both breasts. He enjoys the way they quiver in his hands, and plays with nipples that have become quite hard. It's good that she seems to be going along with this for now. She might have strong objections later.

Even as he holds on to her breasts, Stephanie still bounces and slides around a bit on his lap. Needing to restrain her down lower, he puts his right palm on her belly, fingers spread. She's more round there than he would prefer -- she could lose about 15 pounds, in his opinion -- but she's got decent tits, a great ass, and she's buck naked and sitting on his lap. Pretty good situation in his book.

His legs are together, and hers are spread for better balance. He decides the hand at her belly could do something more constructive, and he reaches down between her legs. He feels her flinch a bit, so he uses both hands to gently keep her legs where they are. He draws the tip of his middle finger up and down over her pussy lips, gently at first because she was less moist than a few minutes ago. He moves his other hand back to her breasts, fondling one then the other, while the finger at her pussy moves deliberately, patiently up and down.




Extra Large Combo with Everything



She's responding now; he can feel her tense up, but it's a different sensation with different causes. Her pussy grows very warm, wet and slick. The buggy is reaching the outer reaches of the common beach area; there are only a few people now, here and there. He feels her heart beating pretty fast, and she's moving on his lap in ways not caused by the bouncing buggy. I bet I could make her come this way, he thinks, without even sticking my finger inside.

Up and down he strokes her, back and forth. She's getting close; he's winding her up. Without the engine noise, it would be easier to hear her heavy breathing, even a little moaning. When Spencer rounds an outcropping of rock, however, he slows the buggy down. "Here we are."

Impatient, Garcia suddenly pushes his middle finger inside Stephanie. The sensation is enough to make her climax as the buggy rolls to a stop. She is still shuddering in his arms when Spencer hops off and grabs a blanket from the compartment in back. Garcia waits for her to get her bearings back, then nudges her to a standing position in the sand.

"You've had your fun," he says, smiling. "Now we'll have ours." Spencer has already laid the blanket out on the sand. "We're going to be reasonable about this. You don't have to act anything out or shit like that. Just lie back, enjoy it, don't say anything, and before you know it we'll be on our way."

Stephanie looks around. There's absolutely no one else here. Just cliffs, the sand, the three of them, and the ocean. No surfers, boats, houses, anything.

Garcia motions her onto the blanket. She sits down for a moment and then lies back. He strips off quickly, dumping his clothes to the side. She stares for a moment at his swelling dick, pointing at her chest as he crouches and leans over her, and then decides it is best to simply close her eyes.

He licks her breasts and nipples, nibbling, as her back seems to arch of its own accord. He moves a hand between her legs, operating by sense of touch, finding his way to her pussy lips. "Yeah, you're getting into this," he says, pushing one finger, then two inside to emphasize the point. He wants her good and ready.

Soon he tires of foreplay and moves forward. His dick bobs between her spread thighs, its head tapping her pussy lips. "Help me in," he commands. She reaches down and guides him inside.

He is forceful and fast. Stephanie feels herself being slid upward bit by bit, the blanket curling beneath her back. "God, you're fucking hot," he grunts, and moves even faster. It's almost as bumpy a ride as back on the buggy. With almost a growl, he comes inside her and grows still, staying above her in a pushup stance for a moment before hopping up.

"I gotta get one of those for my house," he jokes to Spencer as he grabs his clothes. "Just a young naked chick I can fuck whenever. Anyway, you're next."

Spencer regards her almost clinically and says, "Why don't you go in the water a second and clean up."

"Don't wanna get near someone else's jism?" Garcia teases. "You're too fastidious, man."

"Go," Spencer says, extending a hand to help her up.

She walks down to the waterline, lets the surf curl around her feet. It's ridiculously cold; no one swims out here without a wetsuit. She turns around, hoping for a reprieve, but Spencer motions her oceanward. Not until the water is above her waist, and the waves reaching her shoulders, does he give her an "OK" sign. The freezing water gives her goose pimples all over. With her right hand she makes motions approximating a thorough cleaning of Garcia's semen from between her legs.

She walks back out of the surf, keeping a wary eye on the waves. A sneaky whitecap still smacks her in the ass as she steps forward. Her nipples are rock hard from the chill, and she resignedly expects this will send the men the wrong signal.

"All right!" Spencer says. "This time, you're on all fours."

Stephanie stares at the cliffs as he fucks her doggy-style, occasionally grabbing at her hanging breasts. This round is no fun at all, and when he playfully spanks her bottom afterward, her only emotion is humiliation. She sits down on her feet, knees still bent, waiting for what's next.

She's saved not by the bell, but by a radio call: someone is wondering where the hell the guys are with the buggy.

"Sorry, gotta go," says Garcia. "You'll have to find your way back."

"That way," Spencer says, pointing along the beach, laughing.

Garcia tugs at the blanket and Stephanie hops off. A minute later, they're gone, around the cliff edge and narrow strip of sand separating this beach from the next.

Finally alone, she takes a few deep breaths to clear her head. She's surprised to realize how exhausted she is, and would love to just lie on the sand and sleep for a while. But the sand would probably get into places she wouldn't want it; and who knows what other mischief might happen while she sleeps. She needs to get home.

She considers washing off a good idea, hoping never to encounter a trace of those men again, and braves the cold surf one last time. She even ducks her head under, and wipes the salty taste from her mouth after she surfaces.

She ponders climbing the cliffs, but discards the idea as infeasible. It's dangerous climbing, especially with no protective gear (no gear at all, really). She can't tell what's on higher ground: a deserted walkway? Scrub? Some rich guy's back yard? And she still needs to return to her blanket, anyway, because her handbag and car keys are there. She starts walking north, back to civilization.

As she approaches the first group of people, her first instinct is to cover her nakedness. She worries she looks even more foolish doing this, and resolves to look casual and unbothered, and simply ignore the others. There are catcalls, and wise guys saying "forget something" or "five dolla"; those don't bother her after a while. When a 20-something nerd takes out a digital camera and starts blatantly taking pictures, she fights the impulse to run the other way. She does change directions slightly, to give him a more difficult angle; he simply scurries to another spot where he can set up a focused, full frontal shot. She flips him off, to scattered cheers. He'll still probably keep the photo.

She finds her towel, still spread out where it was; but her handbag is gone. Shit. She stands there, no longer sure what to do. No car keys. No money. No ID. No clothes. She'll have to ask a stranger for help. And what person is going to give a wet naked girl the benefit of the doubt?

"Hey Miss?" A guy named Jeremy, just out of high school, is holding up a handbag. He's by himself on what looks like a Star Wars blanket. "This is yours?"

It is. She walks to him, suspicious "Why do you have it?"

"After those guys took you away, it was just sitting there." The kid is lanky tall, with dark tousled hair and a large nose. All he's missing are the eyeglasses held together with masking tape.

She takes the bag and peeks inside. "I didn't open it," he says. "Nobody took anything. I was going to take it to the cops if you didn't come back."

Car keys, money, credit cards, license... it looks like everything's there. "Thank you."

"Hey, um..." He takes off his T-shirt, one of many around advertising Pizza Paradise. A bedraggled guy in frayed shorts and a long beard leans against a palm tree on a desert island the size of a pitcher's mound. He steadies a large slice dripping with cheese, ready to bite off a drooping inner corner. "Take this. Something to wear. You can have it."

She hesitates. After all, he was just wearing it. It somehow seems to intimate.

"Go ahead," he urges her. "I have like a thousand of them."

"Okay, thanks." She pulls it on over her head. Jeremy savors one last look at her body before the shirt covers it up. It's a mens' size, extra large, and covers everything it needs to. She looks at him. "You know, you're the only decent guy I've encountered all day." She spreads her arms and gives him a quick hug. "Thanks."

"Any time," he says. All too soon, she's gathering her towel and heading toward the parking lot.

The episode is enough to give Jeremy sexual fantasy material for a long time. In the earliest variations, he doesn't have a shirt to spare, but she's still grateful, giving him a long embrace. As her naked body pressed against his, he finds his hands accidentally grabbing her ass; but instead of scolding him, she hugs him tighter. Conveniently, there is no one else around now, and they lay down on his towel and make love.

In real life, Stephanie heads home and showers. This might be her last trip to the beach this summer. Who would want to return after what just happened?

NON-ENGLISH

"Ay caramba," Winston mutters as he walks home from Carrie's house.

NON-EROTIC

Iris sits cross-legged on the bedspread with Julia and Kirsten, an irregular triangle surrounding a square Scrabble board. At this point, I cannot tell you what they are wearing, but you will have to imagine it is quite modest and completely covering.

"'Kwyjibo' is not a word," Iris asserts. If Julia can place that, the game is pretty much over.

"Sure it is." Julia crosses her arms. Remember, she is wearing a shirt or something.

"What's it mean?"

"It's a type of hairless ape."

"You're bluffing."

"Look it up," Kirsten suggests. She is not lying back, her head resting in Julia's lap, and Julia's thighs are not bare. "Do you have a dictionary?"

"It's downstairs, near the phone."

"You gonna get it?" Julia says.

"You get it!" The phone is next to the sliding glass door, so anyone venturing down there can be seen from outside. Not that anything interesting would be seen.

"Let's arm wrestle."

Kirsten carefully picks up the board and places it atop the dresser. Iris and Julia lay prone on the bed, facing each other. They lock hands and arm wrestle for a few moments, but then their contest evolves into another activity, the details of which I can absolutely not report here, in the non-erotic section.

* * *

Ryoko's bathroom billows with steam as Captain Rebecca Carson showers. Carson gives herself another count to 30 before she'll have to shut off the water and towel off... or give herself another 30 seconds. She's already clean; and she knows that water, although incredibly cheap by 2033 standards, is nonetheless metered here in 2006, not free, and Ryoko will be billed for it. Also, her host probably has a hot water heater, a device that heats a reservoir of water for on-demand use. If Carson stays in the shower too long, the hot water will be "used up" until the heater can heat some more.

Still, all of this is a rare luxury in Carson's time. Everyone but the very rich, and those splurging on five-star hotel rooms, showers without water. A "shower box", seemingly the size of a coffin stood on end, bathes you in ultrasound and ions for about 60 seconds. Clinically, it's more effective than soap and water; the box exfoliates, disinfects, and cleans sweat, grime, and dirt. But instead of feeling pampered, you feel like you've been scrubbed with a coarse towel.

On board the Alert, Carson's spacecraft, you continue by hanging your uniform in the box, turning the lever to Clothing, and letting the shower clean your clothes. This takes about 2 minutes, and there's not much to do except stand there and wait. There's so little room to stand that you practically have to back into the corridor to turn around, with only a flimsy curtain for modesty's sake.

Thankfully, the crew on the Alert is pretty quiet and well-behaved. With almost any of the cadets she had graduated with, life in such close quarters would be nearly intolerable. The Force is still a boys' club, even after all these years, and a woman with a body like Carson's attracts a lot of attention. Her blonde hair is cut short, and her arms and legs are muscular, but her waist, butt and breasts are unmistakably feminine. With those guys on board, those two minutes of laundry during the day would easily be her worst. She might get goosed through the thin curtain, or even groped around the sides. Who knows; one day it might even disappear, with a fake "Curtain Under Repair" notice in its place, and she'd have to stand there in plain sight.

Her present crew gives her no such problems. Funny enough, they're not even really her crew: though she's a captain, no one reports to her. She's the only military on board. There's Jeffries, the avuncular TA from the aerospace contractor NGLM (which at one point used to be four separate companies); Ryoko Tanaka, another civilian TA from an Asian NGO; and Jake, an android she brought back from somewhere in the 2100s. It's a strange op, but interesting, and the Alert got all sort of experimental retrofits out of the deal.

There's about four hours to the next op; that's why they're cooling it at Ryoko's, who has property here in 2006. Heaven knows if it was feasible the crew would simply jump ahead four hours to the op. But time travel is uncomfortable (and more importantly, expensive), so they're traveling the old-fashioned way by simply letting time elapse.

Carson shuts off the water. Steam has cut visibility down to a couple feet. She reaches for a towel and dries off, savoring the unfamiliar scents of soap and shampoo. Her short hair dries easily; she remembers that in decades past, women with long hair would even use two towels, wrapping one around the head like a turban. She opens the sliding door, letting out eddies of steam.

A shirtless man, attractive in blue jeans, stands in the corner with folded arms.

"Jake!" Carson says, surprised. "She let you out?" She was planning to introduce Jake later.

Jake nods, with a bit of a smirk. Damn, he's handsome.

Carson wraps the towel around her, tying a knot at her side, beneath her armpit. It takes a couple tries for the knot to hold. Jake walks toward her.

"You're not even going to let me get dressed?" she says.

"No." He takes her in his arms. His lips, his skin feel absolutely real. That's why Carson took him in the first place.

NON-HUMAN

He moves behind her, kisses at her neck that remind her of butterflies taking flight. He undoes the knot and her towel drops to the floor. His hands roam to her sides, to breasts fog-slick from the steam, to jutting nipples. Her thighs are taut as his fingers trace along their insides. Her pussy, anticipating his touch, is already wet.

His denim pants feel rough against her bare bottom. She endures and enjoys this until she hungers for more, and leads him into the bedroom. It's Ryoko's bed, so she spreads out a clean towel on the bedspread and they lie on top of that.

Jake is an excellent lover, every bit as realistic as a man, even more human than human, except for one little detail: at the end, there's no mess. Almost. He is programmed to have erections, and even to (fake) an orgasm, but his designers saw little point in having him actually ejaculate. Aside from Carson's juices, there's never anything to clean up.

They lie back, spooning, and Ryoko walks into the room. She's nude, carrying a towel, and heading to the shower.

"This is Jake," Carson says. "He's, um, pretty good." She seems mortified, as if just realizing she has used her host's bed for sex.

"Hello, Ryoko," Jake says.

"After the shower, if you want, you can take him for a spin?" Carson says.

Ryoko blushes, and reflexively covers her black-bushed pubic area with a hand. "I am sorry, Captain. I couldn't resist. When you were in the shower, I already did."

NOVELS AND NOVELLAS

Nearly two centuries ago, well before Commodore Perry's visit, an innocuous event touches off generations of intrigue in a Kanazawa shogunate. Love, death and betrayal sweep over an epic background as decades pass. Japan awakes, expands, and girds for world war. America defeats her and aids her reconstruction, and they become allies. Among an 1100-page political-industrial saga echoing traditional themes, a girl named Ryoko is born.

That is all the time we have for this section.

REVIEWS & ESSAYS

Today we'll talk about the story "Extra Large Combo with Everything," by Greg Ossog.

He tries to include a few paragraphs, give or take, for every category that a story might be grouped into. Naturally it's a novelty tale and reads very gimmicky, and the overall category, Humor and Satire (for one must be chosen), is appropriate.

Ossog doesn't write thirty-three little separate tales; nor does he send his protagonist, Winston, lurching through every genre. Instead, about a half-dozen backstories, all of them connecting to Winston's at some point, provide a compromise between variety and continuity.

Still, the reader must prepare for jarring changes in tone. The story starts off mocking anal sex with little mercy, and enthusiasts of that noble vocation might stop reading right away. Yet when Ossog plays to his supposed strengths, or at least areas of interest, the writing is nearly immersive. His voyeuristic point of view pervades the entire story, not just the Exhib section; and when two women get within five feet of each other, they will probably touch lips and other body parts, whether or not "Lesbian Sex" is the theme of the moment.

On the plus side, the tale moves along quickly, spiced by present-tense narration, plot twists and acerbic humor; and there's a sweet ending that cannot be spoiled at this point. On the negative side, some genres are given very short-shrift (his "Illustrations" are simply puerile ASCII-art) and some characters are shallowly developed.

Perhaps the biggest liability is how "Combo" teases the reader: several appealing female characters are quickly introduced, rushed through their paces, and thrown back in the closet when the story comes to an end. We'd like to get to know more of some of these ladies; perhaps Ossog can resurrect a few into their own full-length tales.

ROMANCE

Winston strolls downtown, dimly wondering about what to do for dinner. Rounding a street corner, he encounters Stephanie, the young blonde girl from the beach. She's dressed now; jeans and a knit top. She is not happy to see him.

"Where were you?" she says.

Oh shit, Winston thinks. I forgot all about her. He tries to explain: "I'm sorry, they were out, and-"

"Too late for that," she says, shaking her head. "Geez, I don't even know your name, and I was going to let you do that to me."

"Winston," he says, gamely offering a hand.

She doesn't take it. "So, Winston, why the hell did you not even come back? I waited for you!" Her eyes are moist. "I really could have used you back there. I had a shitty day."

"What happened?"

"You know, I don't want to talk about it right now."

But you brought it up, he wants to protest. "Well... we could go have a cup of coffee... even get something to eat?"

"You think you can just restart like nothing happened?"

"No, no. Just so we can talk for a little bit -- if you're even up for that -- and part way to making it up to you, for not coming back."

"That really sucked. Really, really sucked." She looks at her shoes.

"You like Italian food? There's a nice place down the street, quiet, with some privacy. My treat. You get a good meal, I hear you out, and then we go separate ways."

She accepts, and they start walking, not hand in hand of course, giving each other space. "Why didn't you come back?" she says.

"Short answer, Costco was out of what I was looking for," he says, discreetly. "Long answer is, some very strange things happened, and I think I'll wait until we get our table before getting into that."

"Fair enough."

The restaurant is half full; it's still early in the evening. The server seats them at a table for four and lights a candle. WInston and Stephanie take opposite seats, like a job interview.

He opens with: "You had a bad day..."