Random Rim Jobs

This was a response to an ad I placed on Craig’s List.  I don’t recall the content of the post that garnered this response, but I get the feeling that the content of the post didn’t matter to this guy.

Masturbate for me. Both hands. Both holes. Taste. Mourn loudly. Pee and drink. Force yourself to orgasm. Repeat 3 times.

Amazingly enough, we never scheduled a meeting.

Today is my birthday.  I’m trying not to feel old.  And feeling sorry for myself is just boring.

Geminis kick ass.  It’s true.  Really, think about it–the Geminis you know are cool people.  And Geminis get along well with other Geminis, which means we’re not self-loathing, always a good thing.  I even have a Gemini tattoo.

Some interesting people with May 30 birthdays:

• Cee-Lo (b. 1974) of Gnarles Barkley;
• Manny Ramirez (b. 1972), baseball player–actually I don’t give a fuck about him, but I’ve heard of him and some of you might give a shit;
• Wynonna Judd (b. 1964)–again, don’t give a shit, but I’ve heard of her;
• Colm Meany (b. 1953)–pretty cool actor;
• Christine Jorgensen (b. 1926)–transsexual pioneer.

More interesting are the May 30 deaths:

• Perry Ellis (d. 1986)–fashion designer;
• Voltaire (d. 1778)–French philospher dude who died a painful death;
• Christopher Marlowe (d. 1593)–contemporary of Shakespeare who died, on May 30, after being stabbed in a bar fight when he was 29; he wrote Edward II, the film version of which I saw and dissected in a queer theory film class that fulfilled a requirement of my college minor–Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Studies;
• Joan of Arc (d. 1431).  When I was four my mother had her first female lover (her word, not mine), Dawn, who was a radical feminist.  She told me that Joan of Arc was burned at the stake on my birthday.  Dawn gave me a Joan of Arc poster that hung on my bedroom wall for years.  (I would know the poster if I saw it again–Joan in silhouette kneeling– but so far no luck; I like this one though.)  Dawn explained that Joan of Arc was a feminist well before anyone knew what a feminist was because she fought in a war disguised as a man; that she was brave by doing something women weren’t allowed to do at the time.  I now know that Joan was a bit of a religious nut job, but I do like Dawn’s explanation to four-year-old me.

And not that I give two fucks about marriage, but some famous people have gotten married on May 30.  Some are even still married.

• Charlie Sheen & Brooke Allen (2008)–douche and arm candy wife; still married, but I don’t hold much hope considering his track record;
• Richard Dreyfuss & Janell Lacey (1999)–divorced;
• Ani DiFranco & Andrew Gilchrist (1998)–cool chick (that’s her over there ——>) who hasn’t sold out to the man; divorced;
• Joe Strummer & Lucinda Mellor (1995)–he died in 2002, but they weren’t divorced;
• Paul Simon & Edie Brickell (1992)–music royalty, of a sort; still married;
• Clarence Thomas & Virginia Lamp (1987)–Supreme Court Justice/conservative ass and the woman who has to put up with his pubic hair on soda cans and everywhere else; still married;
• Kelsey Grammer & Doreen Alderman (1982)–divorced;
• Tommy Lee Jones & Kimerlea Gayle Cloughley (1981)–divorced;
• Natalie Wood & Richard Gregson (1969)–divorced; hottie Natasha Gregson Wagner’s biological parents;
• Dolly Parton & Carl Dean (1966)–still married, though there have been rumors for years that Carl is Dolly’s beard.

May 30 was the original Memorial Day, before it was changed to fall on the last Monday of May so people could get a day off work.  Basically, if you weren’t born on the 150th day of the year, your life is barely worth living.  Maybe you should die a tragic death today so you’ll at least have something.

Notice I have a “Donate” button now?  Yeah, that’d be a nice birthday present.

I swear.  True story.

My first job was at Taco Bell.  My step-sister and I are the same age, with our birthdays only two months apart.  After my birthday, the later of the two, our parents–her mother, my father–sat us down and told us that now that we were sixteen we had to get jobs.

We panicked.  We lived in a crappy suburb of Sacramento, California, which is itself a crappy suburb that just happens to be the capital of California.  (To be fair, I think all suburbs are crappy.)  Driving was required to get anywhere, only we didn’t have cars or drivers’ licenses.  The town had no public transportation whatsoever.  Our parents had been making it clear for years that they did not like giving us rides anywhere.

The only jobs in the town were in the food service industry.  The town is between Sacramento and Tahoe, so it’s a common stop for people on road trips.  There were many fast-food franchises and a few “fancy” places too, like Sizzler.  But none of these places were particularly close to our house–definitely not walking distance.

We both applied for jobs at Taco Bell.  I remember actually being worried that we wouldn’t get hired.  Of course my worry was unfounded.  We were both hired without fanfare and issued maroon polyester pants and “Run for the Border” t-shirts in nice 80s pastels.

Our parents still refused to help us get to or from work but suggested we ride our bikes.  I, however, did not have a bicycle.  To this day I have never owned a bike.  My dad was nice enough to let me borrow his bicycle, a man’s 10-speed with a frame too large for my height.  I had to tip the bike to the side just to get on the seat.  My feet reached the pedals, barely.

The town had one major road that ran perpendicular to the freeway.  The speed limit in practice was around 45mph.  There was no bike lane; there was no sidewalk.  In order to ride to and from work we had to utilize the very small space between the white line marking the outside of the lane and the edge of the asphalt.  Beyond the asphalt was gravel, and potential maiming.  We rode our bikes on this road even at night, without lights, and without helmets.

Obviously I wasn’t killed on the side of that stupid road, but I’m still bitter that my parents were such assholes.

Everyone had his/her specialty at Taco Bell.  I was assigned to the drive-thru on most of my shifts.  On the register was a golden plaque that read, “UPSELL” to remind us to always ask the customers if they wanted anything else.  I utilized the somewhat silly, “Would you like Cinnamon Crispas with that?”

During my tenure at Taco Bell they stopped selling Cinnamon Crispas, which were fried flour tortilla pieces dredged in cinnamon and sugar, and started selling Cinnamon Twists, weird dry pasta-looking things that were fried and dredged in cinnamon and sugar.  Jeremy (his real name) was the fry guy.

Jeremy stood over vats of oil and fried the Crispas, and later the Twists.  He also fried the bowls for the taco salads, and the chips for the nachos.  Everything that was deep fried at that Taco Bell, Jeremy made.  Jeremy went to my high school but I didn’t know him at school at all.  The most amazing thing about Jeremy was the fact that he had the most beautiful, clear skin.  A teenager and a fry cook, but not a blemish in sight.  It really was incredible.

When school ended in June I continued to work at Taco Bell.  Because of the labor law’s application to minors I was allowed to work longer and later hours when school wasn’t in session.  Occasionally, when I worked late a co-worker would give me a ride home so I didn’t have to ride my bike in the dark.

Along with my parents being assholes about the transportation issue, they were assholes about letting me do anything other than work.  Usually when I asked if I could do something I was told no.  Consequently, I stopped asking and began sneaking.

One night Jeremy and I closed the Taco Bell together.  He told me he was on his way to a party and asked if I wanted to join him.  I knew I wouldn’t have been allowed to go if I asked my parents; they would have wanted to talk to the host’s parents, and make sure there wasn’t any alcohol served before they’d consent.  I assumed the host’s parents weren’t around, thus giving a reason for the party.  So without asking my parents, I went to the party with Jeremy.

I was right, there were no parents at the party.  And there was alcohol.  At the time I did not drink because of a nasty little alcohol overdose I’d had when I was fourteen.  Jeremy and I hung out for a while, and then we went for a drive.  We were bored but not yet ready to go to our respective homes.  Also, I figured I was going to get in trouble anyway so I might as well have enough fun so the punishment would be worth something.

Somehow we ended up in Folsom.  Jeremy parked the car in a random subdivision.  We talked.  I sucked his fingers.  And that’s when things changed.

Up to this point I’d had limited sexual experiences, none of which included a penis entering my vagina.  My first finger bang was part of a Big Red-flavored make-out session on a football field with Terrence (also his real name) when I was in ninth grade.  I’d had serious dry humping sessions here and there.  I might have given a blow job by this point, but I can’t recall.  I was most definitely still a virgin.

The way I felt at the time was that everyone had had sex but me.  I was convinced I was the last virgin out of all my friends.  My step-sister had lost her virginity a full two years prior, when we were fourteen.  I was getting left behind.

I was so awkward and insecure around boys that I’m sure I passed up a lot of opportunities because I was too clueless to notice when someone was actually into me.  But I was not going to let the time alone in a car with Jeremy go to waste.  As soon as I began sucking his fingers it was clear what we were going to do.

We got into the car’s back seat.  It was Jeremy’s mother’s Ford of some sort.  There was some lumbering making out, and then we were having sex.  Oh.  My.  God.  He was on top of me grunting and sweating.  There wasn’t much room to move.

I had always heard that teenage boys didn’t last very long when they were fucking.  I don’t know how much time had elapsed as he clumsily pushed his penis into me, but I was concerned that he would come inside me.  We weren’t using a condom. I said, “You’re going to pull out, right?”

At which point he pulled out.  I have no idea if he came.  I certainly did not.  We were finding our clothes when a loud tap at the window and a bright light got our attention.  Jeremy lowered the window and greeted the police officer very politely.

Jeremy hastily put on his pants and got out of the car.  As I was getting dressed the cop told us that someone in one of the many houses within our view had called the police because of our “suspicious activity.”  He asked us how old we were.  Jeremy answered that he was seventeen.  For some reason I thought it would look bad if he was older than me, so I lied and said I, too, was seventeen.  The police officer told us to leave.

Jeremy got in the driver’s seat and looked back at me.  I was so embarrassed I couldn’t make eye contact.  He was waiting for me to get in the front seat but I decided to stay where I was.  Neither one of us said anything while he drove me home.

He dropped me off in front of my house and drove away without a word.  It wasn’t until I reached into my empty pocket that I realized my house keys were still in the back seat of Jeremy’s mother’s car.  This was well before cell phones were in common use; I had no way to contact him.

I had to get in my house without my parents knowing how late I’d been out, so knocking on the door and waking them up was not an option.  I also was not ready to face my parents after having just had sex for the first time.  I checked the back door–locked, dammit.  The kitchen window was slightly ajar.

However, the bottom of the window was well above my head.  I found something to stand on but still had to jump to get my arms over the sill.  I hung there with my head, shoulders, and arms inside, and the rest of my body outside.  I tried to gain purchase by scraping my feet on the wall.  I was panicked.  My mind was darting everywhere and nowhere to try to figure out how the hell I was going to get myself out of the pickle when the kitchen light turned on.

My step-mother stood in the kitchen doorway.  She looked very sleepy.  And pissed (but she always looked angry).  I dropped to the ground, she let me in the back door, and I went to bed.

The next day I got one my my step-mother’s infamous lectures.  A form of punishment was to have to endure her harangue non-stop for at least an hour.  This particular speech lasted much longer than that.  Everything she said was repeated countless times.  I had learned soon after I moved in with her when I was eleven that it was best to say as little as possible when on the receiving end of one of her diatribes.  I answered direct questions with one-word responses if possible.  I said, “I don’t know” a lot.  If I had said too much, it would have meant her discourse would have continued even longer, because she would have felt the need to address everything I said, point by minute point.

The gist of this particular exhortation was clear:  She did not know where I was the night before but she suspected I was either at a bar (since the alcohol overdose when I was fourteen every time I left the house she thought I was getting wasted) or fucking; and I was lucky she didn’t shoot me right there in the kitchen window (she did not have a gun).  I did not tell her what I was doing or with whom I was doing it.  I did tell her I had not been at a bar, and I still wonder what bar she thought would let in a sixteen-year-old.

I’m sure I was grounded, but I was still allowed to go to work.  Jeremy’s friend, our co-worker, had heard about Jeremy and me and teased me about it.  I learned from this co-worker that Jeremy, too, had been a virgin, and that Jeremy was moving to Minnesota.  I never saw Jeremy again.  I never even talked to Jeremy again.

I vowed then that I would never again fuck in a car.  I haven’t and I won’t.  However, there’s nothing wrong with road head.

I swear.  True story.

I just keep coming … up with good tips.  Having casual sex means there is NO expectation of monogamy so you must take the proper precautions.  Or don’t, and see what happens–it doesn’t matter to me, I’m not fucking you.  Oh, I am fucking some of you?  Well, thank you, gentlemen for being such good lays, and keep the pointers in mind, please.

• Bring condoms.  This is especially important for you gentlemen who fall on the far ranges of the cock size scale; whether you require “snug fit” or XXL, bring the condoms that will stay in place until the job is done.  A proper slut will have her own supply, but isn’t it better to be sure the condoms you use don’t have the potential of making you a daddy?  Use your supply for fucking her pussy; use hers for fucking her ass.

• Don’t even attempt to stick your dick in her without donning a condom.  Assuming neither of you has an STI is just fucking stupid (pun intended).  The exception to this is oral sex, but if she insists on a condom for cock-sucking, respect her wishes, don’t attempt to wheedle her into submission.  Even blow jobs can transmit STIs, the risk is just lower than for other avenues of penetration.

• You are a sexually active adult–know what to do if the condom breaks, or if it feels like the burning of 1,000 suns when you take a piss a couple weeks after an encounter.  Be aware of the risks of various STIs, and be nice enough to let her know your test results should you find you’ve contracted something.  If you’re too much of a chickenshit to do that, try inSpot.org where you can have an anonymous email sent on your behalf.  DO NOT assume you got it from her.  Perhaps you gave it to her.  If you did get it from her, it’s not her fault–she didn’t set out to give it to you, and being a slut does not spontaneously generate any infection, sexual or otherwise.  If she is considerate enough to contact you after she’s been diagnosed with an STI do not try to make her feel worse than she already does–she’s definitely very sorry.  Also, as a sexually active adult it is your job to know where to get tested and what you need to do for treatment; she should not have to help you find your local clinic.

Believe it or not, more to come ….

I swear.  True story.

Made a complete fool of myself with 26yo last night.  The sex is so fucking good that I get loopy and gooshy.  Last night I said something along the lines of, “We clearly have a special connection and it needs to be acknowledged.”  To which I got crickets.  And then he made it clear that no such special connection exists.  Ouch.

Even if there is no “special connection” there’s more than he acknowledges.

We were on the couch making out and he told me our photo shoot was his first threesome (which I guess I had known but didn’t fully realize) and then went on to thank me further, I think because I’m willing to do such things with him.  But then he got quiet in a way that appeared to be thinking about something he’s not saying.  I could certainly be reading too much into it, but there was something.

Then we went upstairs.  Of course I wanted to suck his cock.  I rubbed my pussy on on his leg and my tits on his cock.  It was quite hot.

26yo’s very generous in bed and loves playing with my pussy–until he comes.  Once he’s come he’s done.  I have now fully grasped this.  We had gone upstairs in order for him to use gloves on me.

But rubbing my tits on his cock and pussy on his leg made him come–hard.  I think it kind of surprised him.

I had come all over my chest and he had come on his crotch area.  We lay there for a while with just the sheet over us and the sheet got soaked through with the come he had on him.  I must’ve rubbed the soaked-through sheet sticking to his skin for a couple of minutes.  I could feel the texture of the wet sheet and knowing it was come made it feel even better.

That would’ve been a time to get at my wet pussy but no such luck.

But I did get to thinking that our relationship, such as it is, is perfect for both of us–we can and do fuck other people and we’re genuinely happy for the other to meet new people.  We can be completely honest and nasty and dirty about what we want sexually.  We still talk like regular people, with an emphasis on sex, of course.

Why the fuck was I trying to push it into some sort of mold or place a label on it?  Silly.  I’m done doing anything other than enjoying him.  It does no good to think about when it might end because then I don’t enjoy the present as much.  And I want to enjoy every bit of him.

I like his feet, his skin, his hair, his smell, his cute little naked body, his beautiful face, his poufy booty, the way he touches me, how much he’s into my tits, that he likes to do to my pussy the things I’ve always wanted done to it, his cock, the way he fucks me.  The way his cock pushes past my palate and fills up my throat.

I swear.  True story.

Patrick is not his real name.  We first became acquainted via Craig’s List.  There were some nights I was horny but didn’t want to commit to having a guy over so I’d troll CL for guys who wanted to chat Online.  I tend to look at only the local CL ads–Patrick lived in Western Addition.

Since I don’t think names are all that important, I dubbed him Patrick.  He called me Umbrage, based on my response to his CL ad.  I think he claimed whomever responded wouldn’t be witty enough to keep up with him, so I responded that I took umbrage with his assumption.

We chatted via Yahoo! Instant Messenger several times.  We eventually began having phone sex.  On the phone he was very good at using a certain tone of voice that just put me in a certain head space, and we had a lot of fun.

One night we were talking on the phone and we were both very horny.  I suggested he just come over and fuck me already.  There was a lot of back and forth; I told him my Seattle Guy story.  We were both nervous that despite how hot we were for each other, we were really hot for our respective ideas of each other.

He came over.  We kissed, I think I sucked his dick.  Then we … nothing.  He clearly was not feeling it.  As he had been horny as hell when he arrived, I had to assume it was me.

No one likes to be rejected, for sure, but I would rather someone be honest with me than to pull the lame excuse of just being too tired, which was his explanation for no longer being turned on.  I’ve been pretty fucking tired in my day and that has never taken over my desire to have a new hot, hard cock pounding away at my cunt.

Patrick fell asleep.  I hadn’t invited him to stay; he hadn’t asked.  Not cool.  I had trouble sleeping with this stranger in my bed.  And I certainly wasn’t exhausted from hours of wild sex, so I just “slept” all night.

He left in the morning, but certainly not quickly enough.  I have no idea what I did wrong, other than not being his fantasy image of me.  He, on the other hand, did something wrong by not simply leaving when he realized he wasn’t attracted to me.

We continued to chat occasionally, but of course never to the level we had before the visit.  Despite my repeated requests for an explanation for his shitty behavior, the most he told me was that he thought spending the night would make things less awkward.  Wrong.

I am now firm about whether a person can spend the night thanks to Patrick.

I swear.  True story.

[Continued from "Correctional Officer, Part 1."]

This was also during a time I was doing my best to be a faithful wife.  I invited the guys to my room with the intent of talk and mutual lamentation of the misery of the craptastic town.  The three guys got into my rental car and gave me directions.  We dropped off the original cute guy so he could get some pussy.  Then I was in the car with T and CO, only I had no clue of their names at the time, and hadn’t yet had a chance to give them nicknames.  We drove to T’s apartment so he could pick up his car, and beer.

I told them where my hotel was and drove there myself.  T and CO later told me they were afraid I’d have a thug in my room ready to roll them.  I naively often think only women have to worry about personal safety, so their worst-case scenario hadn’t occurred to me.  If it had, I would have done my best to reassure them that they were in no danger.  That night we hung out in my hotel room and talked about movies, and books, and how miserable their little corner of hell was.  CO told me he was a correctional officer at a local county jail, that he was married, and that he had a young son.

Actually, he didn’t tell me so much as I drew the information out of him.  His phone rang throughout the time the three of us were hanging out.  When I suggested he should attend to the caller he told me it was “just” his wife and that she’d be fine so long as he went home eventually.

As I was drunkish I definitely was cuddlier than usual.  I made it a point to touch CO as much as possible while enmeshed in a conversation about zombies.  He was not receptive at all.  Which was good considering T was in the room as well, and both CO and I were married, not to each other.

The three of us agreed to get together again the next night after I was done with work.  We went to a Japanese restaurant that CO assured me would be good.  I was doubtful that the town knew good sushi, but CO was right.  T, CO, and I had a great meal.  After the previous night’s discussion about movies and books, and the realization that he knew good food, I had developed a bit of a crush on CO.

He was big–6′4″, 220 lbs.–and awkward, and cute.  Nice full lips.  A sweet personality that belied his chosen profession.  I love having my preconceived notions shattered, and I love people who are walking contradictions.  This guy was a dork in every way but his job.

After sushi we went to the same bar where we had met.  Our pregnant bartender was working hard for the kid’s future Ivy League tuition.  I got VERY drunk.  I was so hung over the next day I had a very difficult time checking out of my hotel by noon.  I was not looking forward to the several-hour drive home.

I had gotten T’s phone number the night before and I called him to thank him for making my stay in Crapville just a little better and to tell him I’d be back the following week (my work was not yet complete).  It was obvious I was in shit shape so he offered his couch for me to sleep on until I felt well enough to drive.  I took him up on the offer–really I was capable of little actual function and was concerned that I wouldn’t make the drive.

More to come ….

I swear.  True story.

I was walking Isis in Buena Vista Park one day when I came across something that assured that no matter what else happened, that day would be a good one.

The park is basically a wooded hill.  There a paved road to the top of the hill, and there are several dirt trials traversing up and down the hill on all sides.

Isis

Because it’s a big wooded hill, Buena Vista Park is not a good picnic park.  There are some benches strategically located to take in the view, but Isis and I treat it as an urban forest and “hike” though it.  It is well known for its view, and notorious as a cruising park for local gentlemen wanting to enjoy fresh air … on their dicks.

While hiking on one of the dirt trials I saw a condom wrapper.  Hmm, funny.  Then I saw, ever so gingerly draped over a small branch, a used condom.  Even funnier.  I should have continued the walk.  But I was interested.

I was interested like some people are thrilled to see car crashes.  I hate auto accidents–if I see a collision, or go by the aftermath of a crash, I actually look the other way.  I don’t need to see a mangled body, thankyouverymuch.  I never saw “Two Girls, One Cup” and I never will.  That video with the jar and the guy’s bleeding ass?  Won’t see it.

But this time I couldn’t tear my eyes away.  I looked at the used condom closer.  I wanted to see if it had come in it.  I don’t know why I wanted to see, but I did.  It did not have come in it.  It did, however, have shit on it.  YES!  I know, I’m a sick fuck, but that is damn hilarious.

I tried to take photos, but my phone has a crap camera.  And it’s probably for the best that the photos didn’t come out, because really, I may be the only person on earth who actually wants to see something like that.  People would think I’m into scat or something.  I am not.  The few times shit (yeah, more than once–don’t judge) has been involved in my sex life were messy and embarrassing accidents, NOT turn-ons.

A shitty used condom made my day.

I swear.  True story.

The series endures.  These pointers should be kept in mind every time you go to your fuck’s place.  Don’t get too comfortable, buddy.  Y’all are having casual sex so you don’t have to go through the bullshit of a “real” relationship.  So when she tires of your rude behavior it’s likely she won’t bother telling you you’ve been cut off; and you won’t realize you have been until all your emails to her go unanswered.  One must diligently maintain one’s manners if one wants the good sex is to continue.

• Her home is not a hotel.  That means you can’t leave used towels wadded on the floor or tangles of hair in the shower drain, or use her toiletries with impunity.  Put the toilet seat down for goodness’ sake.  You have been offered a generous gift of being a guest in her home–and in her pussy (and, if you’re lucky, her ass)–treat it like the the privilege it is.  She is not a maid, and even if she is a maid, she’s not your maid.  Leave a mess and she’ll punish you accordingly, i.e., no more pussy.

• Don’t help yourself to anything unless you hear the words, “Help yourself.”  And remember that “help yourself” is not a blanket statement that gives you permission to help yourself to everything.  This includes eating any food; drinking any beverage; changing the channel on the television; playing music; using toiletries; opening anything such as cabinets, the refrigerator, closets, bedroom doors, and so on.  Don’t nose around her computer, her desk, or her snail mail.  Just because you’re in her home does not mean she doesn’t deserve privacy.  You’re there to fuck her, not to do her taxes–you don’t need to see her W-2s.

• Use your phone–whether “smart” or otherwise–on your own time.  You have an actual person with a willing mouth and wet pussy in front of you–much better than your Internet “friends.”

More to come ….

I swear.  True story.

I want to go into Humphrey Slocombe and taste some ice cream.  They have these tiny metal tasting spoons and they’ll spend as much time with you as you want, and let you taste as many flavors as you’d like.  They’re so nice and friendly.  They must realize that a lot of people who go there are stoned out of their gourds.

I want to go there and taste a bunch of ice creams.  It won’t be busy at all so I won’t feel guilty about tasting every flavor and savoring each one for a LONG time.  Yum.  I’ll take a tiny spoonful into my mouth and slide it off the spoon.  Then I’ll push each tiny spoonful of ice cream to the roof of my mouth and let the bit of ice cream swim around my mouth, between my teeth, to all of my taste buds.  It’s all so fucking creamy.  I can smell it as I taste it, as if the smell is going to the backsides of my sinuses.  It’s so fucking good.

Then I’m on the counter.  I’m face down right at the register.  The register is going through me (this is a fantasy; anything can happen) but the employees can still work.  It’s almost as if I’m an enigma. But the customers can touch me because in order to get to the register they must walk between my legs.  My legs are wide open, my feet are bare.

In order to make any purchases people must walk between my legs.  I’m spread wide so each customer must snuggle up to my crotch in order to hand over cash to get his yummy, yummy ice cream.  Some slide their licked-clean tiny metal spoons into my ass.  In and out … in and out … in and out.  So slow, so nice.  And cold.  Some people bend down and lick as they’re sliding their tiny spoons into and out of my asshole.

Some people attend to my ass and slide fingers into my pussy as well.  Several people come into the shop and take it as normal that when making their purchases they play with my ass and my pussy.  My ass is always involved.  Eventually, I get wet enough that each customer is able to slowly and easily slip his entire hand into me.  The women fist me too.  Nice and rhythmic and easy.  In and out.  I’m so wet.  It feels especially good when someone’s fisting me and caressing my sphincter with her tongue simultaneously.

The shop starts to get busy.  No one can spend nearly enough time slowly sliding his fingers into my pussy and my ass; there’s a line forming.  The busier it gets in the shop the faster each person must thrust her hand into me.  Pretty soon, every time the register drawer opens there’s a fist punching my pussy.  Each time.  Faster and faster.  The shop is doing great business, as is my pussy.

Alternatively, I’m on my knees in front of the counter so I must suck and lick everything that’s put to my face.  Cocks are shoved down my throat.  Pussies are ground onto my face.  No matter what, all the store’s patrons can do whatever they want to me.  I’m a nasty, slutty tool for each person to use as s/he wants–my mouth, my cunt, my ass are all to be objectified, and heavily.

Harder and harder, faster and faster.  EVERYONE puts his hand in me.  They take turns thrusting into my wet, loose cunt.  Each time I grunt.  I can take it.  I can take more.  Until finally, I come.  I scream.  S-C-R-E-A-M out as I come.  Everyone looks up from eating their ice cream, but in a very nonchalant way.  “Yeah, that chick on the counter came because we were all treating her pussy like the sloppy cunt it is, but that’s so not a big deal.”

But then business slows down.  My pussy is spent, the store closes.  I sit on the floor naked and eat salt and pepper ice cream.  My legs are long and lean (it’s a fantasy, dammit) and stretched out before me.

I swear.  True story (of my fantasy).