Today I was mostly thinking about fruit! It all started out so innocently when the idea of sitting on his face and squirting cum into his mouth came to me as I was in the middle of an important but very boring meeting. Knowing he was in an impossible position to be able to wank over our mutual fantasies made my already bad bad mind work overtime. It was a very good idea he told me. But only on the condition that he could watch me slap my clit at the same time. I told him I was full of good ideas and that ‘yes that would be an option’. He said he hoped that my cunt was wet. In reply I said it... Continue»
"Johnny, quit masturbating, I'm right here, god!" Thyme pleaded. Then the eighteen-year-old laughed. She laughed so hard that she began to cough and sputter. Everything was funnier when she did coke.
"Shut up," John Magpie shouted. "I'm almost there...eeee...yah!" She watched as John's cum shot up and splattered her stomach.
She said, "Why did you do that, you asshole?"
Thyme Smytheson shoved her handsome prince of a boyfriend. He fell on the bed in a heap. She got up and crossed the room to retrieve a white washcloth from John's en suite bathroom. His parents, Dodie and Jenkins Magpie, used a decorator from New York to transform their three-bedroom ranch into a space inspired by Robert Rauschenberg's Erased DeKooning. The crème walls and dark hardwood floors, French provincial and Asian lacquer furniture mixed with slipper chairs and leather sofas created a minimalist's paradise - hence the white towels. John's bedroom overlooked the backyard with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and a French door leading to part of the large back patio. There was a plush brown suede configuration of squares attached to the wall as a headboard and off-white sheets that had crumpled on the floor.
Thyme wiped herself clean as she looked out one of the windows. She felt relaxed, as she always did when John's parents were away on a concert tour. They had complete privacy to fuck, to raise hell if they wanted. Thyme liked to imagine herself as a modern-day Factory Girl. Given the chance, she would have loved that gang-bang lifestyle of making love and art the easy way. Too bad Andy Warhol was dead. She looked a lot like Edie Sedgwick, with shoulder-length blonde hair and saucer-shaped brown eyes like her mother's. She knew that her lithe 5' 7" figure captivated her teenage partner with or without a d**g-enhancement. John sniffed the white line of powder he'd organized on the handy lap desk he'd gotten last Christmas. His long wavy hair partially concealed the act.
"I don't know why you had to yell at me like that," he said. "Dar Dar assured me that masturbating in front of you would turn you on. And if you do it in front of me I'd go from zero to hard lickity-split...you do that, right?"
Thyme said, "Sure I do. I discovered it a long time ago. I guess I was eight. My secret special thing. Called it tickling my pee-pee. I didn't know it was my pussy back then. Or cunt. You like cunt better, right Johnny?" She laughed hysterically and coughed again. Then she flopped onto the bed and kissed John's shoulder. "I used to do it at night once I was sure that Milly was asl**p. We slept in twin beds in one room. Mammo and Fader used to keep a guest bedroom back then. God, I've never told anyone this. Cocaine is like truth serum. It's like I can't keep a lid on the secrets inside my head."
"Keep going. I like your stories," he said. "And remember, I won't remember a thing. I've had more than you have." He chuckled.
"Okay. Once I heard my s****r's breathing change into a deeper hum and I was sure Milly was asl**p, I began to touch myself through my nightgown. I'd imagine being whisked away to an exotic location, the slave girl of a wealthy plantation owner."
"Sugar cane or tobacco?" he asked.
"I don't know. What difference does it make?"
"It's your fantasy."
"I'd dream of traveling on a plane, the way Mammo had, and never finding my way home," Thyme continued wistfully. "I'd envision myself the imprisoned maiden of a tall, dark and handsome stranger. Sometimes I'd think that Mammo was safely tucked away in a castle somewhere, living her life as an imprisoned maiden. And I wouldn't be afraid. Not so afraid of the dark, you know, and I could sl**p pretty soundly after that, I mean after having an orgasm. 'Course I didn't know it was called an orgasm then."
"Dark and handsome, huh?" John asked sarcastically, gesturing to his dark hair and lean teenage body.
Lying side by side, they kissed.
"Cunt. Your cunt," John said and laughed again.
Thyme turned and faced away from him. He put his arms around her and together they spooned like Yoko Ono and John Lennon in that famous Annie Leibovitz photograph.
She asked, "Who's Dar Dar - and a hardy-har-har?"
John chuckled again. "He likes my music," he replied. "He's been hanging around Digby's." He kissed her shoulder then pinched a nipple as though he was preparing to strum his guitar. "I might be doing a gig there next Thursday. They heard me do Black, you know, Pearl Jam? Said I sounded a lot like my dad when he first started Bleu Pumice. And I'm supposed to play a Sunday brunch thing. A little coffee, a little pastry, a little grunge...."
"So a guy you met at a coffee shop gives you advice about sex? What're you, inexperienced or something? I thought your rock star father would have given you a few pointers by now."
"Shut up, Thyme. I'm as experienced as you are. I haven't heard you complain so don't try and make me feel insecure or anything," John responded. "And Dar Dar's not just any guy, he's really cool. Like 007. You'll like him. He's coming over to hang out." John rolled off his bed. He stretched and yawned, roaring in the key of B-flat.
"Right around now," he said. "I'm gonna take a shower." He shut the bathroom door. Knowing John, he'd linger in the hot shower indefinitely or until he sobered up. He liked the acoustics in there. He'd recite the entire collection of retro ABC rock jingles to warm up and then work his way through his gig play-list. Thyme heard the shower start and simultaneously, a tap on the French doors.
Wow, that was fast. Whoever he was, this Dar Dar person had impeccable timing, she thought. She quickly grabbed the crumpled bed sheet from the floor and wrapped it around herself before letting in John's friend. He was tall and a stranger, but not dark-haired like Johnny or her fantasy man. None the less, he was extremely handsome. Thyme gasped inadvertently when faced with the sandy-haired young man with sparkling hazel eyes. He looked like he'd stepped out of a J.Crew catalog, all model perfect in a charcoal cashmere V-neck over a white T and loose fitting khakis. He greeted her with a kiss.
"Hello, darling," he said with a beaming smile. He handed her a bottle of wine. "You must be Thyme. I'm...."
"Uh, that's right," he said as though he was uncertain of his own name. "Darwin. Darwin Darlington, Dar Dar."
"That's like darling, but twice and English," Thyme said giggling.
"Yes, I suppose it is," Darwin answered and continued smiling. He produced an extra little dimple on his cheek. Cute.
"Dar Dar," she repeated and laughed until she fell backwards on the bed. Darwin followed her.
"Steady there. You know what they say about that first step," he said.
"It's a killer?"
"I hope so," he whispered as he dived to join her.
She said, "I'm not ready to die."
"Then I'll rescue you."
They began to kiss passionately, like two soul mates that had finally found each other again. It seemed so oddly natural that Thyme would be kissing this completely gorgeous stranger. She felt like the a****l that instinctively finds a mate well-prepared to offer its seed or something to that effect, in a hazy d**g-intoxicated way. The sheet she'd been using for modesty fell away and she took it as a sign. She wanted to be rescued and acquiesced to his dominance until the glass bottle slipped to the floor. Thyme rose to retrieve it and settled it on the chest of drawers next to the bathroom door.
"Come back here, darling," he said.
Thyme half whispered as if they shared a secret. "Why did you tell Johnny to masturbate instead of coming inside me?"
"So that I could have your clean cunt to myself," Darwin said. He slid his trousers down. Thyme noticed a strong erect cock tenting through silk boxers, bigger, she suspected, than John's younger model.
Had fucking John a handful of times prepared her for this surreal moment? It seemed the natural thing to do given the dream-like circumstances, to drop to her knees in front of Darwin and help herself to the enormous rod behind the silk curtain. Taking the thing into her mouth hungrily, she deep-throated and nearly choked on it. She looked up into his eyes. He nodded and she proceeded, throating him again and again until it felt like the most common experience as though her mouth and his cock were a joint work of art. Pulling back she moved her hand around the shaft, marveling at the site of the blue veins pulsing, and squeezing gently to feel how hard it was. Rock hard. His cock was really beautiful, she thought, well-proportioned, like it could exist in space on its own like a Brancusi sculpture.
Thyme had a weird daydream scenario, which she attributed to the coke, this vision of taking the erect thing and casting it in plaster, making a mold and creating it in bronze, something she could keep on her nightstand and use anytime she wanted, a replica dildo in case she never saw him again, one to which all others could be compared. Bigger than John's. Bigger, she thought, than most. Would she see him again after this?
She licked and sucked. The sucking she liked best because it felt so strong in her mouth, like no amount of friction would damage it. Wow. He was fantastic. If her state of mind teetered towards d**gged out she didn't care, because the sucking-him-off felt luscious. Just as she began to find the rhythm in her blowjob, he pulled away. Cashmere and cotton shed to reveal a magnificent chest. Was she dreaming it?
"I'm going to fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked," he commanded. He readied his member with a condom from John's stash, she guessed, as it seemed to appear out of nowhere else in particular. He'd picked the ribbed kind, tan in color, which made his cock look like a criminal shrouded in a silk stocking. "Don't want you getting pregnant, fertile Myrtle."
Thyme didn't worry about such things. She'd been fucking John Magpie for less than a month, and she was on the pill, at least when she remembered to take it. John was the one who preferred to use extra measure, something he'd learned from his father's groupie-loving days.
"You're treating me like a common tramp. I thought the English were more reserved, more gentlemanly," she said. "Aren't you supposed to ask me out first, you know, court me a little, before fucking?"
"It's a little late for that, don't you think, darling?" he replied. "You've already handled me rather expertly. There'll be time later for courting and gentlemanly behavior. I assure you that."
Not allowing for a response, he drew her closer and kissed her. Guiding her to the bed confidently, he slipped on top of her.
"I've waited a long time for this," he whispered.
He eased that huge cock into her awaiting wet pussy. Thyme accepted him willingly, so satisfying the pounding, inviting him to further stretch her out. John's cock was trustworthy, and she did love him, but the sensations she felt now caused her to want this experience in a twenty-four-seven type of way. Naturally, being touched by strong hands and a knowledgeable cock felt immensely more satisfying than simply doing it herself and had she known that sex felt this good she probably wouldn't have waited until a month ago to try it.
That had something to do with her dead mother. For the past seven years, Thyme had imagined Tay Smytheson lurking above as a ghost, watching her masturbate. Thyme wondered if she had been waiting for her to do something terrible so that she could haunt her properly. She tried to be a good girl and repress her desires. Then one day Thyme had just said fuck it, and did just that and consequences be damned. She fucked John Magpie right in this room and now she was fucking this gorgeous Brit with the funny name.
"Me too," she said, as if she had been confirming a decision. Darwin was just so beautiful from an aesthetic standpoint, and Thyme felt so lucky.
He contracted his hips and slammed hard against her with such athleticism that she needed a break. Her body answered with intense release. She cried out for mercy, laughing hysterically.
Thyme bellowed, "Stop, I'm...done. I can't take it anymore." He laughed too.
"I've never heard a woman call having an orgasm being done," he said.
"I didn't say I had an orgasm," she replied slyly. Darwin kissed her forehead.
"I'm not accustomed to trifling during sex," he said. He flipped her over f***efully and with one hand, held her wrists up above her head. This left her ass jacked up and vulnerable. He slapped it once but hard then Darwin entered Thyme's well-lubricated pussy again and nuzzled the back of her neck.
"You will submit to my will," he said with bravado.
Thyme grunted. She struggled with the explosive thoughts circulating her brain. Had he taken her virginity, she'd have never needed anyone else, she thought -- and she hardly knew him! What the hell was going on? She'd never felt desire for a man like this before, and she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing it.
And John was only steps away in the other room. She said, "This could be construed as ****, you know, uhnh...."
He enveloped her like a net, like the fabric Christo used to constrict the Pont Neuf Bridge, tangible and surreal. She felt every inch of his massive rod explore her insides. Thyme imagined the baby that could sprout from this coupling, all British, Slavic and Danish bits clashing together to form a beautiful c***d they could raise in an artist's loft in the city. Her name would be Violet or Scarlett, or Indigo or Rainbow. Well, not Rainbow, but a colorful name suited her artistic sensibility and the vibrancy of the fuck cluttered her mind with intensity.
Tay Smytheson had been a young mother, having given birth to Thyme when she had been only fifteen. When she'd been Thyme's age she'd had two c***dren already! And then she'd died young. That scenario wasn't really what Thyme wanted for herself. And the invading thoughts of her mother really pissed on her pleasure. This certainly wasn't a factory girl sensibility.
"No!" she cried to break the daydream's spell. She struggled to free herself and then fuck, fuck, fuck - his climax came moments later.
"You are so tight," he whispered.
They kissed again, Darwin turning Thyme so that his chest swallowed hers, crushing her breasts to him. She waited for the post coital witty repartée. Wasn't that the calling card of a Brit? The use of language to seduce? She needed his thoughts to counter balance hers. He lay there with his eyes half-closed, spent and sl**py.
Thyme thought of a way to get him to speak. She moved to reach the condom and slowly rolled it from his flaccid cock. He winced, but she'd been gentle. Holding the tan glove like a shot glass she placed it to her mouth and allowed the juice to drain down her throat. Then she bent to lick off his scrotum.
"Good girl," he said. "Very well done, princess."
She smiled and snickered, feeling proud of herself. She loved accolades.
"You are perfection, darling," he said.
"My pleasure," Thyme responded. She crawled on top of him and kissed him for the compliment, and, she thought, to hear more. She loved his voice.
"Perfectly filthy," he said.
She said, "We need a shower."
Darwin lifted and carried her towards the bathroom. She didn't protest. He looked at her with a boyish grin in that way she defined as puppy love, which gave her a jubilant feeling of sexual power. Her legs danced back and forth as she lay in his arms. Euphoria consumed her so completely that she kissed Darwin on the cheek before he put her down.
"That's for luck," she said in a silly way. She heard John singing a stupid cartoon theme and that made her laugh. Coke gave her such a happy buzz. Was it the reason she felt such a perfect connection?
There was plenty of room in John's steamy shower, all stainless steel appliances and pearlescent glass tile walls of it, for three people. John didn't even seem surprised to see them. No doubt wasted, he continued singing, providing the musical medley for the impending ménage a trois. Maybe he hadn't noticed Darwin there once his focus turned to Thyme. He rubbed the water away from his eyes and began to seduce her nipples, tweaking them f***efully then leaning in, shoving one of her small breasts into his mouth, his cock at vertical bumping her abdomen.
The room sparkled like the silvery walls of the factory and she began to offer herself to that fantasy. It was so easy. She pretended that Andy Warhol held a movie camera from somewhere across the room.
There was a minty scent to the steam. Thyme felt like a fuck-enhanced bath would reenergize her sore muscles and sober her up like a rebirth. It would change her, somehow. Darwin Darlington caressed her buttocks with his large hands. Her new lover reached for the large organic sponge and soaped up her back end. Very nice. As she kissed John, she felt Darwin's fingers explore her tender pussy. And then, minus condom, he entered her from behind.
She wasn't a princess, but a queen, she thought. This was a perfect day, one she'd remember forever - two beautiful men gently exploring her hot and wet body. Everyday should be like this one! Thyme felt Darwin's fingers dipping into her asshole. It felt good. Amazing, in fact. The massive cock inside of her became the key, igniting her passion. She moaned in tune with John's musical play-by-play, something about fucking a lover in a sandwich. Darwin ejected while still fondling her ass. This made way for a forward invasion by John. He lifted her into position and she hoped he was sober enough not to slip, but Darwin had her back. Thyme engulfed John's cock with her pussy. She felt Darwin nudge his member against her ass then he used it to nudge her virgin hole. Allowing the intrusion willingly, she became the unwilling slave of her fantasies.
The manipulation of her body by four hands and two cocks ignited explosive sensations. John kissed her lips while he held up her thighs. Darwin fondled her tits from behind and kissed the top of her head while his cock tentatively explored unexplored terrain. Thyme heard the grunts of her fuckers.
Help me. Screaming out would have been such a porno movie thing to do, she thought. But when John released her lips, she couldn't help it. The sounds were not of her own volition. They were the guttural screams of an explosive orgasm. The big O, even better than the first she'd had with Darwin, the first without using her own hand. She felt herself separate from reality and fall into a pleasure c***.
She found herself on the bed with a cold and wet washcloth at her head. What happened? "I don't like you anymore, Dar Dar," she heard John say. She saw that the guys were both dry and dressed. Time seemed to have left her behind somehow - she was disoriented. How long had she been u*********s? "Look at what you did." He pointed to Thyme.
"Johnny, don't be rude. You invited him," she managed. Then her status became focused. She rose slowly and moved to Dar Dar's side by the bathroom entrance. Catching a glimpse of her face in the mirror, she noticed bl**d had trickled from her nose. She used the washcloth to stop the bleeding.
"I'm mad at him right now, T," John announced.
"Look, Johnny, it is my business," Darwin said. "Thyme needs a man who can take care of her. I'm that man."
"Get out!" John yelled. Now Thyme splashed water on her face and towel dried.
"It's okay, Johnny, I'm fine," she insisted. There was no headache. She felt only an airy separation between her brain and her skull. She laughed at the idea of being an airhead. Why did everything seem so funny?
Thyme slipped into her white sports bra, gray hoodie and black leggings with minor difficulty -- her bra went on inside out and she had to do a redo. She sat on the bed and slid into her running sneakers then shoved the baseball cap over her damp shoulder length hair.
"Not you, Thyme," John screeched. Once his voice escalated while in a tirade it often took time before he could settle back into normal speak. He always got a little angry in the aftermath of an intense high. It was better not to stick around nor get into his way when he acted like that. John needed to calm down and she wasn't in the mood to be nurturing.
"I'll walk you out Dar Dar," Thyme said grabbing Darwin's wine gift. "Johnny, no worries. I'll call you."
"Don't bother, cunt-wipe," John blurted.
"Johnny, don't," she said. "Don't be like that. I'll accept your apology later."
"You're leaving with a chiseler, T."
"Hey, you invited him. I'm just trying to be polite."
Together Darwin and Thyme took the wet grassy path that led to the Magpie's long driveway. He pushed the gate open allowing her to walk through. She would have preferred to watch him walk out first so that she could stare at his ass. They walked in silence, like two ousted houseguests banished from the residence in shame or something. Were they that? Darwin hopped into his navy blue Saab convertible and started the car.
Thyme offered, "I'm sorry about Johnny. He's usually so laid back."
"d**gs are bad business, princess," Darwin replied.
"Just say no?"
"But not to me," he said with a smile, presenting that dimpled cheek. They looked at one another and Thyme had the strangest sensation that they shared unfinished business. This often happened when she encountered a submissive situation. It made her feel almost hypnotized. Where did it come from? It felt like a curse had meshed with her DNA or something weirdly foreign, which made her think of Mammo again and her bizarre Slavic fairy-tales where the girl was often rescued by the man she desired most. And Darwin had said he'd wanted to rescue her.
She said, "Well...bye."
"May I offer you a ride, Thyme, darling?" Darwin asked.
"No, thanks," she replied. "I'm supposed to be out for a run. Fader will probably ground me if he finds out I've been screwing around with Johnny or with a British stranger like you. Old country-old fashioned, you know? Which makes very little sense considering the business he runs. You'd think he'd be more open-minded about sex. I guess he is but not when it comes to his daughters. He'll want to keep me in his sights. He's been threatening to make me work with him at the gallery for the rest of the summer. To keep me out of trouble."
"Perhaps you should take him up on that," Darwin said. "I'm sure there are worse things than learning the ropes at an erotic art shop like The Tiger's Eye."
"Have you heard of it?"
"Johnny may have mentioned it."
"Really?" she said.
He nodded. "So," he said, "I guess your father won't have a problem with that bottle of wine in your hand?" Thyme looked at the bottle. It was a French wine from Lyon. The letter C and its reverse interlocked under a gryphon standing on a crown, with a sort of lush green meadow behind it.
"Yes, eh -- it was meant for Johnny."
"Oh." Thyme handed Darwin the bottle.
"No, keep it. There's plenty more where that came from. f****y business. We own the vineyard."
"I don't want it," she said as she handed the bottle over to him. "But thanks." She would have preferred it as a souvenir of some sort but it seemed the right thing to do.
He began to pull his car out of the driveway, the bottle between his legs like a sinewy blush-glass cock. Before he drove off, Darwin held his hand out the window. She shook it then stood away from the vehicle. "Soon, darling, you will metamorphose," he said. Thyme smiled, nodded and waved even though she didn't understand his meaning.
Who was he?
HE'S YOUR DESTINY, said that tiny voice inside, the silly dreamer who believed in fate and stupid fantasies. There was something about Darwin though, something confident, even dangerous, she'd thought as she started down the street attempting to avoid the sting of the droplets of rain on her face by running faster. It was more than a simple fuck. She had a strange sensation that he had the potential to become more than that and she hoped she'd see him again. Maybe it was that older man thing even if he was only a couple of years older. She started running a little faster because of the drizzle, and if it looked like she was chasing his car she didn't care. As she rounded the corner nearing the high school, Thyme stopped. The Saab, parked in front of a fire hydrant with the top up now, sat waiting for her. She opened the door and got in.
She asked, "Who are you, really?"
"I'm someone who wants to know you better, Thyme." She shrugged at that comment, one of those open-ended statements that men often said to throw the ball in a woman's court, to make them carry on the conversation.
He'd opened the bottle as if he'd known she would have accepted his invitation, like a cad. She swigged the warm red wine, but only a little. Mixing d**gs was never a good thing, and since she'd had little to eat, she thought she might forget this experience all together. And she didn't want that.
It smelled lightly of roses but tasted faintly of cherries. She took another swig and handed it back. Darwin did the same then replaced the cork and set it in back.
He removed her cap and tousled her damp hair a bit before he caught her with his arm, embracing her, pulling her toward him. They kissed. Was it just heightened senses? Apart from the wine, his breath smelled like a mixture of peppermint and clove. Thyme wrapped her hands around his head and buried her fingers in his thick hair. She felt his hands on her waistband pulling her leggings down to mid-thigh.
Thyme straddled him and found that Darwin had already freed his cock, releasing it to its upright position. She felt a sense of urgency in this fuck, like it was necessary. It was like a fuck fire, an inferno - the component to building a beautiful yet fragile piece of glass. It made her think of glass cock sculptures. Was she crazy? Thyme wondered how easy it could be to slip into a dream world. She spent way too much time lost in thought.
The drizzle turned to rain pellets pounding the car, encasing them in their own little world. It felt tawdry and sexy, and adult. Would she metamorphose in this car? (Whatever that meant). Their lips locked in a frenzy of deep French kisses. This time the sex felt so much more intimate and wet, and completely right, like she wanted to be bound to him forever, no John in sight, and if that meant having Darwin Darlington's baby, then she'd warm up to it. Crazy, yes. At the same time, she began to sober from the cocaine high. How did forever with a stranger ever become a possibility, she thought? A pang of consciousness smacked her hard and she pulled away.
Thyme said, "I can't do this."
"I only wish I'd gotten here sooner and been you're first," Darwin offered.
What made him say that? Was he some sort of mind-reader? Thyme moved back over to the passenger seat and pulled up her pants as she countered, "You fucked my ass. That was a first."
"Does it hurt?"
He laughed in a curious way, as though he didn't expect their banter to be so fluid. She certainly hadn't. "A young woman's first time should be special, memorable," he said.
Thyme said, "My ass thanks you, if that's what you're getting at."
"Do you love Johnny, Thyme?" he asked.
"Of course, I do. I love everybody and everything," she replied as she smashed the baseball cap back over her wet hair. "I love you too. I love this car. I love summer rain storms." She got out of the car. "And no one ever marries their first love." She shut the door and ran into the rain.