The bed lurched. Sam was kneeling over her, his knees pressed against her side. She smelled cock, a hint of soap, the vaguely medicinal scent of lube. Her eyes began to tear with something close to gratitude. The sound of fist pumping cock filled her ears, and she felt her own heartbeat quicken to keep pace with his quick jerks.
Just then Sam cupped her cheek, tenderly, as if he were about to make love to her. “Take this, you greedy, come-covered slut.”
His voice was so perversely gentle that what came next actually took her by surprise: one, two, three, four pulsing jets of ejaculate oozing over her collarbone and neck, coating the white beads with warm, sticky glaze.
“Rub it on me, all of you,” Miranda cried. She grabbed the sperm-soaked lace and ripped the negligee open over her breasts. “Paint it the fuck all over me.”
Dozens of fingers obediently scooped up the viscous cream and began to massage her, anointing her nipples with it, icing her belly. Wherever they rubbed, her nerves sprang to life. One hand soothed the spunk from her neck over her shoulders, which were suddenly as exquisitely sensitive as a clit. Others spread gobs of it over her breasts, massaging her, healing her with the smooth, silky ointment.
“God, oh, god, yes,” she cooed, wanting them all to see how much she loved this. So many men were disgusted by their own come, but for her, at this moment, it was an intimate gift, the most honest exchange possible between a man and a woman. It wasn’t pretty, but she was done with pretty—pearls and satin, vows of eternal love and all those other lies that only made her feel dirtier in the end.
Desperately, she pressed her cunt up against the tireless tongue still brushing and stroking her swollen clit. It was her turn to give them a gift, to let them see a come-covered slut abandon herself to the ultimate animal release. Her mouth twisted into a grimace.
I’m going to come, oh, god…
Damn if she wasn’t doing it, too, coming, thrashing, screaming, gushing all over the sheet as eight faceless men urged her on with their slippery caresses.
She collapsed back onto the bed, limp, drenched, released.
“Nice show.”
“Yeah, that was wild.”
“Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll be sure to come again next week.”
Only then did she grace them with a smile.
“Well, it’s time to retire for our port and cigars, gentlemen,” Sam announced.
“The bathroom’s the second door on the left if you’d like to wash up.”
Miranda lay still until the men filed out and the door closed firmly behind them. Then she sat up and pulled off the blindfold to survey the damage. The negligee was a mess—stained, torn, stinking of locker room and spunk. Grinning, she peeled it from her body and stuffed it in the plastic-lined trash can beside the bed. Next she unclasped the goo-covered pearls and dropped them onto the crumpled gown.
“Goodbye, Tom,” she whispered.
Stepping into the guest bathroom, she washed her hands under hot water and dried them with one of the soft towels stacked neatly on the counter. Her chest still tingled, and she touched it with her heat-flushed fingertips. The skin was tender yet stronger, like a scar. Spunk really did seem to nourish her. She would sleep well tonight.
As for Sam’s standing invitation, Miranda felt no desire for him now. She would slip out the back, as usual, and be on her way. One day, when the lingerie drawer was empty and her jewelry box bare, she might stay. Until then she was far too greedy for one man to satisfy.
Before her shower, she paused for one last look at herself. The woman in the mirror over the sink made quite a painting, the dried semen decorating her chest and neck like fine lace. But this was no hesitant nymph, no wistful modernist muse. She was a Titian duchess, patron of the arts, a woman who could commission her own portrait that glowed with radiance beyond any commonplace beauty or understanding.
Miranda straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin high. After these Thursday night treatments, this formidable lady with her sly, satisfied expression was no stranger.
The woman smiling back at her seemed to agree.
TWO COCKS, ONE GIRL
Cecilia Tan
When my boyfriend became obsessed with other men’s cocks, I knew my life was going to change. The names have been changed in this story to reflect how absurd it is, so let’s call my boyfriend “Peter.” See, thing is, it was high time for a change, anyway. Peter was working a kind of crap job doing phone support for low pay, and I hadn’t had a job in two years, but that’s the recessionary economy. We were still pretty happy, not living large, but being good to each other and still having regular sex even after ten years together.
The first time I noticed Peter getting interested in other guys’ junk was when we were watching porn. A typical Friday night for us, if we didn’t have our gaming group over, was we’d download whatever we could get and then lie in bed watching it on one of our laptops until we got so horny we couldn’t stand it anymore, and then he’d just fuck my soaked pussy until I came. When you’ve been together as long as we have, all the other foreplay stuff gets boring, you know? It’s as if the only reason we did all the smooching and cuddling and petting back when we were shy virgins was we were too shy to just get right to it. Basically, if I’m wet, I’m good to go. (Plus, there is always lube.)