Popping The Bubble

An adult stories – Popping The Bubble by Voboy,Voboy WARNING: This story contains poetry! Not much, but some.

This connects only VERY tangentially to my other stories, so feel free to kick back and enjoy it. I’ve written it for Lit’s annual Nude Day contest, so read all the entries and vote up your favorites!

* * *

I popped a new piece of gum and looked over into the corner of the studio, where Grundle sat with his feet up on the console and his nose buried in his phone. As I sometimes did, I wondered about his life: here he was in a little room with three naked people (two of them svelte, eager fillies, which I knew was the kind of thing he was into), running sound and lighting for a show with every kind of raunchy question imaginable, and yet there he sat, watching the clock, unwilling or unable to raise even the slightest hard-on in his black basketball shorts.

That’s what you get when you produce sex shows for four years, I guessed: a case of terminal boredom. We paid Grundle a hundred an hour, and these days he could get these things taped, edited, pixellated, and posted in like three hours, start to finish.

I stirred as Elliot aimed the mic toward his mouth and lobbed another softball at our guest. “And so what’s your favorite sex position, would you say?” He said it with that old-radio plumminess he often found buried in his vocal cords; El had always had a fantastic voice.

The guest was a young lady named Kaylen, who must have had a last name. But I’d forgotten it. She was on the show ostensibly because she’d just come back from a summer internship on some island off the coast of god knew where, where she’d counted puffins or something, but in reality the show was taking its usual course: guest comes in, everyone gets nude, we open with some innocuous questions (about puffins, in this case, and islands), we play a song, and then we all start talking about sex.

A lot.

“Well,” the puffin lady mused, scratching at her pubes, “I mean, doesn’t everyone say doggy?”

“Yeah, but I was just wondering whether being on a bird-covered rock in the Atlantic might have made you think of anything more creative. Or something.” They chuckled at each other, already fucking in their minds, and I found my eye wandering to Grundle’s clock. Fuck. Eight more minutes of runtime before this recording of Nude Mood with Bubble and the Whang would be safely finished, and the real show could start. I zoned out as they prattled, a fake smile on my face for the benefit of the cameras.

I had an itchy butt, but I’d long since learned not to scratch there on camera. If I did, the eventual webcast would get a flurry of online comments about me picking dingleberries, or whatever. The camera caught just about everything. And what it missed, the commenters surely found.

She was in the middle of some sort of answer, with me giving appropriate coos and smiles, when Grundle lit up his little yellow light. I waited for a pause in her story, some bullshit she was spinning about masturbating in a tent during a nor’easter, whatever that was, and then I lifted my lips to my mic and cut smoothly in. I did check my notecard first, to remember her last name. “So, for those of you listening live? You’ve just heard from Kaylen Rapp, a grad student in the College of Arts and Sciences, right here on Nude Mood With Bubbles And The Whang. We record new content every other Wednesday, then upload on Fridays, so be sure to check us out.”

“We want to thank you, Ms Rapp,” Elliot added, clean, with no dead air, “for your enlightening comments. We’re now going to move into the… well, call it the ‘afterparty’ segment of the show.”

“We call it Sloppy Seconds,” I added, putting the usual sass in my voice. I was chewing my bubblegum loudly, as usual.

“That’s where we see if anything develops from sitting here nude.” He laughed. “See if we can, you know, have a little fun. If you’re up for it.”

“Oh, I’m definitely up for it.” You could hear the truth of that in Kaylen’s voice: this chick was the German Army in 1939: she had a very flexible definition of the term boundaries. “Definitely.”

“Sweet. Well, then this is the point in the show where we sign off on the Comm Department platform and move the party over to our Pixboox Passion Pit…”

“…which you can join live with your Pixboox Plus account,” I finished. “Sign up today for special offers and bonus content, including the Whang and I getting up to a few shenanigans on our old show Kinkytime, which is fully archived over there. Among other gems, you can watch the time the Whang spread peanut butter on his dick to see how well it would work as anal lube.”

“Hell yeah,” Elliot gloated. He’d told me once that the best two years of his entire life had been when he was banging me on the webcam, and it gave him a little thrill every time I plugged the archives. “If I recall correctly, creamy beat chunky. Right, Bubbles?”

“Well, we definitely wound up creamy, Whang,” I cooed. The guest was glancing back and forth between the two of us, transparently uncomfortable thinking about me and him fucking.

“Yes, indeed we did,” he leered, then turned back to Kaylen with his cock visibly harder. “So, before we sign off here and drift out of the Nude Mood, there’s only one question to ask: would you rather pop the Bubbles?” He raised an eyebrow. “Or bang the Whang?” I blew a big pink bubble, the gum already losing its flavor.

I was fully expecting her to pick him, which would mean an hour or so of the two of them webcamming, Elliot and I getting paid for every depraved act the Passion Pit audience wanted to suggest. It was a great business model, and it sure beat just me and El doing it every few days like we used to. Female guests usually wanted to bang the Whang and male guests chose to pop the Bubbles, as a rule, but there were exceptions. Elliot sometimes ended up with a dick in his ass, while I occasionally wound up with my tongue in someone’s cooter. Kaylen Rapp did not strike me as the kind of girl who’d like me.

She surprised me, then, when she crowed, “Oh, I’ll take both of you!”

I glued on a huge, fake grin as I nodded at the camera. “Well, great! Let’s get it the fuck on!” I was not enthusiastic… but I was a good actress. Webcam girls learn that skill really quick. So, while the play-out music started thumping and Elliot beamed at our guest, I let my mind wander toward the logistics: this woman was a hottie, with a nicely rounded ass and tits almost as sweet as mine. Where would the cameras go? Who’d suck what? Where would Elliot’s penis end up? Who’d take the cumshot?

Threesomes were always a little difficult.

“Okay, guys.” Grundle slapped a button, then messed with some of his dials. “That’s a wrap on the webcast. I’ll get set up for the livestream, then you guys can fuck. Or whatever.” Elliot stretched, needing no time; he was already halfway hard. Our guest, fingering her nipples, looked speculatively at his genitals.

“Now I know why they call you the Whang,” she mused, her voice rich with the kind of playfulness a lot of women used on Elliot. “Before I came in, I figured you’d be Chinese.”

“Yeah, a lot of people do.” He shrugged. “When we picked the name, we didn’t really think of that.”

“Did you pick it?” She was ignoring me utterly, which didn’t surprise me. That was fine; I was checking my texts.

“No. She did.” Presumably, he’d nodded at me. It was true: I’d given him that name when we’d first started out doing the webcam thing, because he was massive down there. “I’m the one who picked hers.”

The woman paused, then sniffed. “Bubbles.” I was still in my phone, but I could feel her eyes on me, judging. “I can figure out at least two reasons why you chose that name,” she laughed, and it wasn’t a kind laugh. “What’s your real name?” Kaylen asked. I was having a hard time not thinking of her as Puffinslut, though Gingerbitch would have been just as appropriate. I laid my phone aside and sighed my way over to their side of the little studio. Time was a’wasting.

“She’s Christa,” he replied once I didn’t answer. His eyes rested unabashed on her tits. “I’m Elliot.”

She laughed. “Like in ET?”

“Yeah, but with a bigger dick,” he leered, starting to jack himself. Elliot’s ability to produce a reliable hard-on was legendary, but I’d seen it hundreds of times over the years. I didn’t even bother watching anymore. “Phone home, baby.”

I interrupted Puffinslut’s giggle. “So usually, when guests do us both, we don’t bother opening it up to suggestions or audience requests.” It was the dozenth time I’d given this spiel. “Usually, when it’s one-on-one, the livestream viewers in the Pit get to pay to tell us what they want to see, but we’ve found that there are just too many moving parts and pieces with threesomes.”

She stopped her examination of Elliot’s penis and looked slowly over my body, plainly offended that I was not ugly. “Whatever,” she shrugged, smiling sweetly, “as long as I don’t have to eat out your cunt.”

I arched an immediate eyebrow. I had been doing this far too long for customer service to be all that important to me. “Look, you’re the one who said she wanted both of us. I’m just as happy to sit off to the side and do my homework while you let El nail you. This is on you.”

“Honey,” she said after a moment, her voice dripping with contempt, “I think I’d like you to lick my asshole. Deal?”

I shrugged, ignoring the ill-will behind her smile. “Why not.” Rimjobs made for excellent content; we’d clear four figures, easy, if Grundle could get a close-up of my tongue in her shitter. “Just do me a favor and clean yourself out first? You can use one of the wipes on the table,” I nodded.

She fumed, but I didn’t care. I had work to do.

* * *

So important to know!

Certainty, so necessary

To the face we want to show:

So, so hard to accept ambiguity.

* * *

I was sore after the gym the next day, but that was par for the course. When you spend your working life naked on a camera, your trainer and your waxer become your best friends. I returned to my dorm to face yet another nastygram from the Dean’s Office. Fuckers kept trying to get me to graduate. I had long, long since met the university’s requirements, but you had to actually apply and pay a fee to graduate. And my grant would run out as soon as I did that.

Besides, I’d changed majors more often than I’d changed nail colors. So even the Dean admitted he wasn’t quite sure which degrees I’d earned.

I reckoned until he figured that out, he could get fucked. I’d started avoiding all his plaintive phone messages asking for a meeting, especially once Grundle had compared the IPs and figured out that the Dean watched our webcasts. Meaning, he enjoyed the pixellated version of me nude, probably whacked off to it. “Or maybe it’s me he’s doing it to,” Elliot had mused, mostly because Elliot always assumes everything is about him.

I wondered, sometimes, whether the Dean was also one of our 633,249 Pixboox subscribers. Hell. Of course he was. I’d long since found it was best for my mental health just to assume every person I met had found our Passion Pit site. Pixboox had really hit it out of the park with that app; they’d been slow to realize they had to compete with OnlyFans, but once they’d gotten their act together, they’d given all us content providers a license to print as much money as we wanted.

Well. At least until we got bored.

We’d gotten thoroughly sick of each other already, Elliot and I: two years of camming had, it turned out, been too long. We’d only gotten back together because we’d changed it up and gone semi-legit, and because it was no longer just us fucking.

Usually, anyway. Now that I thought about it, the recording with that Puffinslut whore had been the first time in months I’d actually had physical contact with Elliot’s penis. Once upon a time, that thing had been everywhere on (and in) my body, several times a week, for the edification of the hordes of subscribers who’d filled our wallets. Now, I could barely even remember how his nutsack tasted.

Not that I’d done much last night, either, once I’d rimmed the bitch. All I’d done had been to give his cock a good-natured lick, then I’d smeared some lube on it and lined it up at her backdoor for the camera’s unblinking gaze. After that, my night had been over: I’d curled up on Grundle’s couch and pulled out my tattered volume of Tennyson, gnawing on a breath mint while Elliot had given her the business.

Definitely had an anal fixation, that girl.

My calendar was packed for the first part of the month, then pretty empty. We had another recording just next week, then a third just a few days later, but then nothing for a couple weeks. The forecast looked pretty clear to me: both recordings were return customers, and they’d always chosen to bang the Whang rather than pop the Bubbles. Next was Lynne Tirado, and then that hockey player Tyler Schiff. I’d been interested in him the first time we’d had him on the show, but then he’d picked Elliot and I’d written him off as gay.

I might need to line up an actual date, I reflected. Someone needed to tend my vagina, and if I wasn’t getting it at work?

I sighed and propped my feet on the little coffee table I’d slid into the dorm. I needed a shower, and I was already naked: I tended to strip the moment I got into my room. But for the moment I was just relaxing, stewing in the soreness of my overworked muscles, contemplating my life. Gotta grow up sometime, Christa, I reminded myself. There’d be a time, probably soon now, when the internet sex work would dry up, I’d be forced to graduate, and I’d need to actually get a job that required something other than loose morals and vaginal elasticity.

Or? There was always grad school.

* * *

My mind is a caravan

Wandering lost in the wastes,

Seeking for something unknown and

With only the very vaguest, most fleeting sense

Of confidence.

* * *

“So that’s it for another edition of Nude Mood With Bubbles And The Whang,” I crooned into the mic. Beside me sat Lynne Tirado, PhD, an associate professor of some sort of “Studies” department: gender studies, diversity studies, womens’ studies. Something like that. “As always, we want to thank Dr T for coming along and sharing her insights.”

“Absolutely.” Elliot sat there with a visible hard-on, knowing what was coming. Lynne was a wild thing. She had a tall, toned body and a secret crush on Elliot, along with a surprisingly well-developed exhibitionist streak for a thirty-four-year-old on the tenure track. She sat there with her back straight, lean and pale and extremely horny. He liked her because she let him do anything he wanted; in some ways, she reminded me of myself in my freshman year. “So. Doc. You know what comes next…”

“…Sloppy Seconds, over on our Pixboox Passion Pit livestream; log in using your Pixboox Plus account, or just send the Whang or me a buddy request. Join tonight for special offers and bonus content, including every single one of the Whang and I’s archived videos from our old Kinkytime webcast.” I smiled for the camera, wondering how he’d take her this time. “Including the memorable time we used shark repellent during sex.”

“And before we lose the Nude Mood this evening, we just want to let our live listeners hear your answer to one very important question: are you going to pop the Bubbles? Or are you going to bang the Whang?” He stared at her expectantly, then broke into a wide grin as she reached confidently out and took his penis in her long-fingered hand.

“With the greatest love to Bubbles?” she smiled, turning to wink at me, “I think I’d like to bang the Whang.” I just blew my bubble and let it pop against my lower face, smirking behind it.

It was just five minutes later that the two of them were engrossed in each other’s bodies while Grundle messed with the handheld and I sat naked on the couch, just barely within the view of the fixed camera, and monitored our feed. Usually, the host that wasn’t getting popped or banged was in charge of fielding comments, handling requests, and making witty attempts to upsell our audience: sex, after all, was hardly the name of the game. Money was.

“Whang,” I called out as he crouched over Doctor Tirado with his heavy balls swinging gently against her tongue, “there’s someone who’ll pay a hundred bucks to see her stick her finger in your butt!”

“That’s hardly a challenge,” Elliot scoffed, and that was certainly true: he’d had all sorts of things in there. “Go for it, professor,” he urged.

I tapped whimsically at the keyboard: I can make him lick his own ass off her fingers afterward for fifty. The reply came back a moment later, enthusiastically, and I cackled. “Gotta lick her finger clean, though.” He blinked a few times at that, but Elliot Wiley was nothing if not game, and he knew I’d have squeezed some bucks out of it.

I immersed myself in the work after that, guiding the Sloppy Seconds webcast through a dizzying array of moves in line with the relative and slowly escalating monetary contributions of our subscribers. And it was somewhere between a $100 ass-to-mouth tease and a $30 flat-chest titfuck that my wandering mind started to drift off into where it always went, if I gave it long enough.

Caesura.

Assonance.

Iambic pentameter.

Topos.

Metonymy.

And then, as sometimes happened, my mind went further, skipping dangerously away from the here and now and into a valley of words, a thicket of them, tangling me and tripping me up until only I could figure out how to tame them and impose any kind of order. And so I tried to, my brain sorting words, concepts, putting them together, trying to fit them like the perfect puzzle I knew they could become.

Enjambment.

Consonance.

Couplet.

I saw flushed flesh and slapping bodies. I saw sweat fly in the air from fevered foreheads. I smelled the richness of a woman in heat and a man ready to breed her. I experienced all of this not as visuals, the way Grundle and the world needed to see them, but as themes. As patterns. Of words. And they unfolded suddenly, sprouting into something… an elegy…

“Uh, Bubbles?”

I blinked, shaking out my reverie, noting offhand that my nipples had gone hard, my pussy weeping onto the couch. Before me crouched Lynne and the Whang, improbably twisted, pretzeled around each other beneath an air of expectancy that, I sensed, seemed to have something to do with me. I shook my head slowly. “What?”

Elliot arched an eyebrow, his mouth in Lynne’s armpit. “What does the audience want us to do next, Buns?”

Buns. Bunny. My first nickname from him, from way before. Those first heady days, days of sunlight on permanently naked bodies, days of my first freedom away from home and of the heady liberty, unapologetic, pure, as I finally got to use my body the way I’d felt I should: in the service of this man and his dick.

It had been so, so easy for him to get me onto the camera.

I dragged my awareness back to the laptop resting on my pubes. “Um. The people want you to titfuck her again, Whang.”

“Whoah.” His eyes lit up, but it was all an act; this had to be a hard-core fetishist calling in, because Lynne had no tits to speak of and already had a long red mark in her cleavage from the last time he’d laid his dick there. I wondered, tangentially, how many of her students were watching her here. “You sure that’s not a request for you, Bubbles?” He snickered, then bent the panting Dr Tirado down over the rumpled couch and without much ado, slid his cock straight into her. She blew out a grunt, part-helpless, part-excited.

I made myself wink, my gum snapping loudly in my mouth. “Not tonight, kids!” I crowed into the webcam, corralling my wandering thoughts. “I’m taking the night off.” I hiked myself up and straddled the webcam, giving the subscribers a closeup of my vag in their thumbnails. Over the years I’d read a thousand comments about every possible aspect of my snatch, and the consensus was clear: people loved looking at it.

So? Why not. I spread my pussy lips for the camera and made a kissy face, only to be rewarded by a flurry of chimes as a series of one and five-dollar contributions flowed in. There we go. It was the cardinal rule of porn, at whatever level, from home movies to Deep Throat: when in doubt, just show your twat. And all was right with the world: the livestream was back on track, the Whang was once again pummelling some helpless damsel, and I wasn’t thinking about poetry anymore.

Fucking poetry. I had no clue why it was obsessing me these days.

It all ended in a poll, with a five-dollar participation fee, about where the Whang should finish. That netted a quick $755, most of which wanted to see the prof get her eyes glued shut. The sweaty pair obliged with good grace, Grundle leaning way over to get the studio lights glistening in the pearls Elliot lined Lynne’s face with. Pearls, sea-bountied, scattered before swine…

I shook my head again. Fucking poetry.

We lounged around afterward, sharing a blunt and sitting there in no particular hurry to put clothes on and go home. Elliot Wiley and I had spent countless hours together, and probably less than fifteen percent of it had included so much as underwear. I knew his naked body better than I knew my own, in some ways. “Tuesday. Tyler Schiff again.” I held in the smoke and passed the joint. “Make sure you stretch your ass. He destroyed you last time.”

El made a face. He always took pains to remind people that he was not “bi;” he was what he called omnisexual. I had no doubt he’d have fucked anything he could legally get away with. Someday, I reflected, his amazing penis would quit producing such reliable erections. But so far, at 26, he showed no signs of slowing down. “Yeah, he’s pretty big. This time, I hope he just wants oral.”

I laughed. “He never just wants oral. Nice guy, though.”

“Oh, he’s the best.” I stared closely at his dick, still dusted with the dried remains of Dr Tirado’s sluice. “Jesus. You’re getting it up? Again?”

“You know me,” he shrugged.

“None better,” I agreed. “So. Is that for Lynne, for Tyler, for me, or… just because?”

His eyes glinted. “Been awhile. You and me.” It had, in fact, been eight months. Give or take. “I mean, here we are…”

“No.” It was a final, chopped syllable, cutting through the pot, through the lassitude, through the strange poem-fog in my mind. “No. On the job is one thing, but I’m not fucking you just because.”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” he smiled, his hands held up. “No worries, Christa. You know that. No pressure, ever.” We stared at his penis, which did not stop rising. “I mean, I guess I’ll just yank it? Or… oral?” he asked hopefully.

“No.” I passed him the last of the doob. “I’ve got to go, anyway.”

“Homework?”

“Something like that.” Elliot had about a year still to go in his pharmacy doctorate, but he never seemed to do any work for it. “I… I might just write.”

“Write?” He didn’t seem much interested, bringing his cock fully to life. Goddamn, it always looked beautiful. That was the word for it: beautiful. Elliot’s member, I knew, would always be my archetype for phallic perfection.

But I wasn’t going back to it. “Yeah.” I pulled my hair back into a loose ponytail and started hunting for my clothing. I had no real wish to tell him I was writing poetry, that was for damn sure. “You know. Words.”

“Whatever.” The old, cold finality had come creeping into the back of his voice. When Elliot was in the mood, he cared about nothing but getting relief. And anything that didn’t contribute to that, he had no time for. “Tuesday. Let me know if you find out anything new, as far as show prep.”

“Later.”

* * *

Barracudas eat,

Feasting on the least they find.

They beware the shark.

* * *

The problem with being a poet is that you never quite know when your stuff is any good. That’s because we’re hardly living in a Golden Age of Poetry anymore; it’s not like you can use sales figures or critiques to let you know how you’ve done.

This had stopped being an existential problem for me midway through my sophomore year, when I’d finally abandoned my Creative Writing/Romantic Literature double major in favor of a brief toe-dip into an Anthropology program. I’d always enjoyed poetry, but that year had finally convinced me of two things that I took as truths:

I’d never be as good as I wanted to be, and it wouldn’t matter even if I was.

Because I was at least sixty years too late to make an actual living as a poet. No, more like a hundred-fifty; it staggered me that there’d ever been a time when a professional poet could rattle off some lines, send them in, and get a paycheck from Punch or Harper’s or whatever.

And yet, now, here it was. The urge had returned with a vengeance. It was distracting me as I tried to prep for my interview with the Schiff kid. He was a hockey player, I remembered, and our school’s hockey team was doing well that year, so I assumed I could make a few jokes about how puck rhymes with fuck, or puns about swinging his stick, or whatever.

I remembered his first time with us, about three months after we’d launched Nude Mood. El had been tentative and I’d been surly, still jaded about how the end of Kinkytime had played out, and neither of us had been sure about the Nude Mood concept. But Tyler had come striding in, sporting one of those hockey-player grins where every tooth is dazzling white except for the gaps where the missing ones belonged. He’d heard the concept, nodded calmly, and stripped naked with no compunction at all.

And even Grundle had admitted, later, that the kid looked like a stud.

I’d been salivating during the whole interview, staring unabashedly at his penis and knowing it would fill me ever-so-neatly, but then he’d chosen to bang the Whang and I’d had to sit there and watch as their two perfect dicks had a brief swordfight before they’d gotten down to it. It had been my first time seeing El take it from another guy, and I’d been mesmerized.

This was going to be his second visit to the studio, I figured, but I’ve got a bad head for remembering shit like that. Maybe third? There was some big tournament the hockey team was headed for, and that was worth reading up on. I’d need to plug it.

I could do that Tuesday, before the Mood started.

I thought about my vagina, then scrolled through my phone and chose a few of the men I knew I could get on demand. My mind ranked them swiftly: Glen, with the wide cock that never lasted long; Jeff, average, but a good pussylicker; Todd, with the really nice penis that, alas, performed unevenly. Some nights he was a one-pump chump, the next he could go for hours.

I sent them each a text, figuring I’d see who replied first. Then I crashed on my roommate’s bed; she wasn’t coming home tonight, I knew, and my hair smelled all marijuana-y. I figured her pillow could suffer, instead of mine.

* * *

Cold water to the face is a sudden understanding,

Dripping down the face of a nameless, senseless man

Just in from the gym, needy with heat, craving

Clarity.

* * *

Tyler was supposed to arrive at five, but the fucker was running late. Which meant we were paying Grundle for nothing. “Like old times,” Elliot sighed, playing Tetris on his phone, “just you, me, and Grundle.”

“Yeah,” I sniped after a pause, “only if this was still Kinkytime, I’d probably be pegging you with a bacon-greased cucumber or something.” I watched, incredulous, as his eyes took on a faraway look. “Ew. Don’t get any ideas, perv.”

“You didn’t used to mind my ideas,” he mused, and then it was my turn to go wading through the swamp of memory. Which always made me moist.

“Yeah. Well, that was then, this is now.” I glanced at the clock. “And he’s late.”

“Only five minutes.” El sipped at his coffee. “That’s not a problem yet.”

“It will be soon, though.” I glanced uneasily at Grundle, who was seeing dollar signs. We were contracted for 45 minutes of Nude Mood content, meaning we were already cutting it close with soundchecks, retakes and the like. Five more minutes was all we had before we’d either have to pay Grundle an extra hundo, or speed up Sloppy Seconds.

I was just about to open my mouth about that when the door burst open. “Fuck! Sorry, guys.” He said sorry like a Canadian, with the o all fucked up like in sore. I recalled he was from Minnesota or Montana, someplace like that. “Parking, man. You know?”

“Let’s do this,” I nodded before Elliot could open his mouth. He tended to enjoy pleasantries, and the best way to stop that was to steamroll him right off the line. “Strip, kid.”

Tyler Schiff wasn’t a kid, really; he was a junior, already 21, but that made him younger than me by two years of time and what felt like decades of nudity. He flashed me a lopsided grin. “Hi there, Bubbles.”

“Tyler,” I nodded, feeling a burst of satisfaction as his eyes maneuvered over my body. He lingered on my tits, so I gave him a little shake; it’s always nice to be appreciated, especially by a gay guy. “I’m going to ask you some raunchy ones tonight.”

“No prob.” I remembered his last visit where, intrigued that he’d chosen to bang the Whang, I’d asked him if he’d ever fucked a woman. He’d winked. Only up the butt, he’d deadpanned, and I’d been pretty sure it had been a lie. But the comments on the webcast had told us he’d hit it out of the park, lie or not. I watched now, feeling a tingle behind my belly button as I watched him undress, folding his clothes with Upper Midwest neatness and laying them carefully on the shelf by the window.

I’d never really fucked all that many athletes. Most of my partners had been, well, Elliot. And a few of the kinds of people we’d had as occasional guests on Kinkytime, who’d tended to be the emo type into weird stuff, sexually, and not all that physically attractive. And nowadays, when guests chose to pop the Bubbles… well, let’s just say we never really could get a lot of athletes to agree to show up and do a nude interview show for public consumption, however pixellated it would be once it aired.

So? Many of our Bubbles-poppers these days tended to be the same kind of guys from Kinkytime.

As a result, I’d never really seen all that many nude guys who were actually studly-looking. It was one of the reasons I looked forward to Tyler’s visits: the guy was mouth-watering, easily the finest-looking dude I’d ever seen in the flesh. That I got to watch him fuck, even if it was another guy he was doing, was merely a bonus.

He was down to his boxer-briefs by that time while Elliot logged his medical information in the spreadsheet. All our guests had to bring in clean tests, and the men were expected to have clean testes as well, and Tyler Schiff certainly had both: his balls swung most gloriously, firm and round and fat as he stepped out of his underwear. It’s rare that balls are awesome enough to draw my eye, but, well… yeah.

I wondered whether I was puddling my stool yet. “You’ve shaved? Or, what, waxed?” I called out to him, smiling across the little room. He looked quizzically down at himself. “No, mostly just the balls. You were hairier last time.”

“Oh! Yeah.” He blushed cutely, gesturing at himself. “One of my dates complained, so I did like a general trim. And, yes, the balls. That’s a wax.”

“Kinky,” I hummed. “They look edible.” He smiled at me as he took his seat and messed with the mic. “We ready to go?” I asked Grundle, thinking we could just barely get the taping done before the second hour started, if we all stayed on the ball.

“I was born ready.” I wondered sometimes what went through Grundle’s mind. He’d been filming us for years, and pixellating enough closeups that he undoubtedly knew my cooch better than my gyno did, but it wasn’t like we were friends. He had a pregnant wife at the moment, and I often wondered what he thought about while he filmed other people banging. Granted, he produced a lot more shows than just Nude Mood, so we were probably just another gig as far as he was concerned. “I’m already rolling.”

“Great.” I cleared my throat, squared up to the camera, arched my back, and launched into my spiel while El was still finishing with the paperwork. “Hey there, friends! Welcome to another episode of Nude Mood With Bubbles And The Whang! I’m Bubbles…”

“…and I’m the Whang…” Elliot leaned up and spouted the line on autopilot.

“…and we’re here on the Monroe College Comms Platform today broadcasting live as a podcast, with a video version posting this Friday. For those new to the show, we’re a… well, a different sort of experience than you’ll typically find on the air, wouldn’t you say so Whang?”

“Very different, Bubbles.”

“We do interviews, which isn’t special, but both hosts and every guest is stark naked! We always find that tends to open our guests up. We do take audience questions; buddy up with us on our Pixboox link or call in with any requests. Might also spin some tunes for y’all, if our guest doesn’t mind. Do you mind, Guest?” I smiled over my mic at Tyler, who was just settling onto the couch.

“Spin whatever you want!” he replied easily, that low surfer-dude voice of his booming through the studio.

“Ooh. I just might.” I winked at the camera. “Our guest today is a repeat customer, Tyler Schiff from our very own Monroe Marauders hockey team, where he plays… forward? I think you’re a winger, right Tyler?”

“Left wing, Bubbles.” Goddamn, the way his cock lay draped casually across his thigh! I liked his confidence.

“Left wing, right. Well. I’m sure we’ll get to the hockey talk, but we’ll start with something I noticed as you strolled on in here: tell me all about your newfound scrotal hairlessness, hmm? Is it normal for hockey players to wax their sacks?” And so it went, the cut and thrust of innocuous interview questions, with Elliot chiming in every now and then from his own stool. We had so much history, he and I; it sometimes amazed me that we could work together this well, but we both knew our content was primo even without the money rolling in.

It took ten minutes for us to get Tyler to admit he enjoyed Belle and Sebastian, so once Grundle found “Sukey In The Graveyard” and started playing it, I was ready for a break. My arms reached for the ceiling, cramped back stretching. “Want something, Ty? Coffee? Water?”

He watched me stretch. “You should take the couch. You look like you need it more than I do.”

I shrugged. “Just a rough workout this afternoon, that’s all.” I patted my thighs. “Leg day.”

“It’s working.”

“Aw. Thanks.”

“Use the couch, Christa.” Elliot was scrolling through his email. “It’ll be good content, you and him sharing it.”

“Yeah.” Tyler scooted over. “Come on down. I don’t bite.”

“Bullshit,” I snickered, “I’ve seen you on the Whang’s nipple,” but Elliot had a point. I didn’t usually slide down onto the couch until later in the show, and more often than not I did it when it was obvious the guest was going to pop the Bubbles, but the content would be rad. Tyler looked beautiful under the lights, and I knew I did too, so… “Would that cause you problems, Grundel? More pixels?”

“Nah. It’s no real difference,” he shrugged.

“Well then.” I slid sideways off the stool, hoping my butt would squeegee the puddle I suspected I’d leave there otherwise, and scampered over to plop down on the couch, which badly needed a cleaning. We tried to shampoo it a couple times a week, but we were also college students and therefore lazy. “Hi there,” I grinned at Tyler.

“Hi yourself.”

“Thirty seconds,” Grundle announced, and then we were right back into it, with Elliot asking about the ethics of nudity in hockey locker rooms.

Just another interview.

My last piece of bubblegum was just starting to lose its flavor as I went through the bit about our Passion Pit buddy list with the special offers and the Kinkytime archive, and Elliot dragged the show to its grateful conclusion. “So! Tyler! You’ve been here a few times before; you know the drill. You up for some Sloppy Seconds?”

“Sure.” He’d maintained a nicely firmed penis for most of the interview, a trick Elliot had clued him into: it looked better that way, pixellated. We had a significant gay audience, and they paid well.

“Okay! Well, in that case, there’s really just one more question to ask as we wrap up this edition of Nude Mood: would you like pop the Bubbles?” I dutifully gave my gum a smack. “Or you want to take another chance to bang the Whang?”

Tyler grinned hugely at the camera and half-turned, reaching out to rest a big hand on Elliot’s knee. “Well, I’ll tell you, it’s tough to go wrong either way, but you know what? I think I’m going to have to take this opportunity to pop those luscious Bubbles over there.”

I blinked, unable to hear Tyler over the choir of angels that suddenly burst into song in my head. “No shit?” I blurted, my mouth falling open.

“Not if you’ve wiped your ass properly,” Elliot snickered. He turned to the camera. “So we’ll take a few minutes to get set up here. Thanks for watching another episode of Nude Mood; I’m the Whang, and we’ll see you soon.” Grundle signaled the sign-off, and then El rolled his eyes theatrically. “Well, hot damn! My ass gets a rest.”

“You pitched last time, instead of catching.” Tyler brushed his hair back. He had that tangled-up flow that a lot of hockey players went for, like an updated mullet. “You don’t mind, do you Bubbles?”

“Fuck no.” I was still in blurt mode. “Just a pleasant surprise, is all. What are you, feeling experimental tonight?” I didn’t bother wasting time, laying a proprietary hand on those balls of his. “These have been calling my name since you got here, honestly.”

He laughed and opened his thighs for me as Elliot scooped up my laptop and settled in for hosting duties. “We’ll see what we can do about that. And, how do you know I wasn’t experimenting before? With your buddy over there?” He winked. “I told you, I had a girl complain about my nuthair. So.”

“No, you said you had a date complain about your nuthair.” It was all I could do to keep myself from leaning in, dipping low, and sweeping that glorious sack into my mouth then and there. They were firm in my hand, as juicy a pair of balls as I’d ever cupped. “I assumed it was a guy.”

“Nah. A girl. One of the chicks on the Marilyns.” I nodded. Monroe College had a dance team we all called the Marilyns, because they tended to be blonde and busty. And because Monroe. “They do ice dancing during the intermissions. Most of them aren’t very good skaters, but they can certainly fuck.”

“I bet.” I rolled him like dice in my hand, unable to let go. “You should get one of them to come here and interview.” My hand was going to smell like his crotch, and I loved that shit. “Jesus. This is going to be fun.”

His smile melted me. “I’m glad you’re looking forward to it.”

“I’m Christa.” I gave his scrotum one last tug while Grundle finished his tech bullshit. “I’m going to go pee real quick. Don’t go anywhere.” I did, then let him see me baby-wipe myself as I strode back toward the couch, past an incredulous Elliot.

“We’re already at fuckin’ $1200,” he marveled. “People really want to see you two get down.”

“Of course they do.” I winked at the camera. “It’s been a few episodes since the Bubbles got popped. Thanks, friends!” I blew a kiss at the lens, backing off to make sure I put my boobs in the frame before turning toward Tyler. “I wonder if the audience knows how badly I want your balls in my mouth?” I pondered aloud. “I probably shouldn’t mention that I’d do it for free.” I gave the camera one last wink, a cute one over my shoulder, then strutted over to my lover for the evening. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m doing great.” He lounged easily, his arm along the back of the couch with his legs sprawled out, his whole body on display. Goddamn, I loved a confident man! “Come sit with me.”

“Of course.” I sank down between his thighs like the submissive slut I instinctively figured most of the audience wanted me to be tonight, laying my body across his with a possessive hand tracing along his abs. “You’re fucking beautiful,” I raved. Bubbles and the Whang were known for their honesty.

“Not compared to you.” His finger had already found my nipple, sending a buzz through me even before El got the audience requests all sorted out. “Ready when you are, Bubbles.”

“People want to see you eat her out,” Elliot observed, “but maybe we should build to that?”

“I don’t see why,” I purred, my lips already skating along his chest. He smelled so good, a deep jolt of male sweat prodding directly at my sex drive. My hips already undulated softly against him without any input from my conscious brain, my skin attuned to every motion of his body. I gave a throaty laugh when I felt his cock twitch. “You don’t see why, either.” My voice was a husky promise of the paradise I could offer him, my whole being already sold to this part of the job.

I was going to let this man have me any way he wanted. I hunched low and whispered in his ear, “I don’t fake it.” His fingers flexed on my ass, and I knew I was in for a winner.

“They really want to see it,” Elliot called out, so I took over and crawled up his body, feeling his muscles between my thighs as he took the hint and scooted down to lie on the couch. Plainly, we saw no point in waiting. I shuddered when his hands found my ass, tracing its curves, handling it with something that felt like reverence as he pulled me up his chest. “Well. There you go,” Elliot laughed, finally glancing up.

But he was no longer there for me. It got this way sometimes… rarely, to be honest. Usually this whole Sloppy Seconds thing was nothing but a gig, an enjoyable one, but a gig nonetheless. Tonight, I could already tell, was going to be art. I savored his body under mine, his breath on my mound, my own zero-to-sixty transformation from “mildly aroused,” through “flat-out horny” and straight to “wanton whore” with no pause, no segue, just the rising lust behind my pussy and the firmness of my fingers in his hair, pulling him up so he could eat me.

Behind me, in an increasingly distant part of my awareness, I could hear El’s laptop going apeshit with wild chimes. Each one of those was money in my pocket, but I’d think about that later.

His tongue found me first, spearing out hard and ready toward my flesh: nothing about Tyler was passive. He timed it just right, mouth on my cunt and fingertips slipping into my asscrack, pulling me into his mouth with the kind of power that reminds you you might think you’re in charge… but you’re not. It’s all him. His needs. His wants. His desires.

And he wanted me.

The realization swept me along even as his tongue trawled my slit, bottom to top, lapping at me with bulldog ferocity. I was already biting my tongue, but it was no use: a low, keening moan came bursting out of me, smashing aside my brief glance at Grundle, sneaking in with the handheld to get my pubes on Tyler’s face in hi-def. I sensed his strength and knew not to hold back, spreading my thighs to drive my mound directly into his face, trying to crush him the way you’d crush a bug… only this bug was made of marble, or titanium, a rock against which my pussy lips ground helplessly, desperately, my clit already singing as it brushed his nose.

The audience would all have their dicks in their hands already.

Kinkytime had been a success for a few reasons, but one of the major ones was because I had no real difficulty finding an orgasm. Which meant the main reason the couch so often needed a shampoo was more me than Elliot, and my first one today was already on its way. The pace of the laptop chimes accelerated, Grundle’s unblinking eye greedy for images as I rode Tyler’s face with fluid, controlled grinds of my vulva against his beard-scruff.

I heard a sharp crack, then Grundle moved into my peripheral vision, slinking aside to get a look at an ass left jiggling from Tyler’s slap. I was not necessarily into spankings, but I was not necessarily not into spankings either, and Tyler had read me just as clearly as I’d read him when I’d collapsed on top of his nose: the guy had a good sense for what I could stand.

It moved my orgasm even closer, knowing I was in such good hands. I liked it when I knew I could give in and relax. I made up my mind to kick El’s ass later for hogging this dude last time. His lips locked around my clit now, sucking, and I wasn’t even surprised when another sharp smack on my buttcheek signaled the arrival of my climax, rolling toward me, unstoppable as a British battalion entering some Victorian landmass, and I closed my eyes and gave up.

My body arched high, propped on arms that had at some point rooted themselves to Tyler Schiff’s legs, and I let out one of those theatrically sobby moans as he plunged his triumphant nose against my clit and then planted his tongue firmly up against my g-spot.

I rode myself through it, hips in rhythm over his face, knowing the camera was seeing a wildly orgasmic slut on top of a gorgeous piece of man. Knowing we were making huge money. Feeling my body explode, like all of me was flying around the room, then contract back into a tight, harshly-focused point right where his tongue met my cunt. “Whang?” I gasped, not turning around as Tyler continued to lap calmly at my snatch, “how much for me to lick my pussy off this guy’s face?”

I heard him laugh, fingers tapping, then a pause. “Hundred-twenty,” he crowed back, and I gave a shaky sigh as I pushed myself back upright, then hitched my pelvis back over his chest. He gazed back up at me, content, his face glimmering with what he’d sucked out of me. “No. More. More people are getting in on it now.” He sounded smug as he typed his sass back to the audience, no doubt hard as a rock himself.

He always enjoyed it when I came.

It would have been so easy to just keep scooting backward, moving my hole down to a cock I knew would be straining already, to leave my trail down Tyler’s abs and just park myself right over his meat. But no. This was business, and there was cash coming in. “Thank you, Tyler,” I winked, arching the other way with my knees astride his torso, my face hovering over his. “That was nice.” I didn’t particularly like how I tasted, but that didn’t stop me from flattening my tongue and moving it in great, carving trails up along his chin and jaw, cleaning him like a cat after a meal.

“Wasn’t bad.” He nipped at me playfully as my mouth went by, wanting a kiss, but I jerked my head back. “What? Do I have bad breath or something?”

Even Grundle chuckled at that one. “People pay good money for kisses, hon,” I winked. “Best not to waste it. Hey! Whang!” I called as I made another pass along his jawline; he squirmed, ticklish. “See what people will pay for me to play with his dick.” I could feel it pressing against me from beneath; I mean, that was obvious. Of course I could feel it. The thing was big and very, very hard. “I’d do it for free, but what’s the fun in that?” I whispered to him, finishing up on his face.

“Yeah,” he agreed vaguely. His hand rested lazily on my butt, a dreamy look on his face. Guys always love it when they know they’ve made you cum, especially right off the bat; the pressure was off him now. “Probably should have tried to pop the Bubbles the time before.”

“Damn straight,” I yawned, reckless with my hand running around his nuts, but not over them. Not for free. “My ass is tighter than the Whang’s,” I laughed.

“Bullshit!” El piped up at once. “My shits are like ribbons.” We all giggled. “Ready for something else? I’m being destroyed here; there are like five suggestions per second.”

“Buncha pervs, buddying us.” I shook my head. I risked a quick flick of his shaft, the thing rising over his belly like a battleship gun. “Ready when you are, Ty,” I sang, internal fireworks still snapping through my synapses.

“I mean, I think it’s pretty obvious I’m interested in a little something,” he mocked, gesturing toward his penis.

“That thing is downright threatening,” I agreed. I wanted it. I wanted it in my mouth, clasped in my sweaty hand. I wanted it poking at my asshole. I wanted it deep, deep up me, pulsing in my pussy.

Pulsing in my pussy, I mused to myself, the poetry finding me once more. Pulsing in my pussy stands the turgid todger… I laughed.

“What’s funny?” Tyler shifted on the wide couch, dick swaying ponderously.

“Nothing. Just some alliterative verse,” I shrugged, suddenly bashful. “A little bit Anglo-Saxon in style, maybe.” Not really, my former-English-major mind screamed at me; there’s no caesura! “It’s nothing. My mind wanders sometimes.” I gave him a small kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Sounds fucking sexy,” he laughed lightly, but by then Elliot was calling the next dance, his chime sounding almost continuously, and it was time to go back to work.

* * *

Wrestling, twisting bodies coil

In mutual need:

The restless lassitude of the body,

The mindlessness of the coital mind.

* * *

“I’d have taken your load, you know,” I apologized, feeling myself blush with the admission. “Inside. But it’s against show policy.”

He flashed me that smile again. He’d been doing that a lot over the past half-hour as he’d plundered the shit out of me. “It’s not a problem.” His voice had that masculine gloat men get when they know they’ve shown what great lovers they are. “Gives us something to do after dinner on Friday.”

It took me about four solid seconds to figure out what he meant. “Wait. You’re asking me out?” I was sponging his semen carefully off my lower back, where he’d just barely been able to leave it after pulling out a heartbeat away from unloading inside my cooch.

“Of course. Zimbardo’s. I’ll pick you up at seven.” I couldn’t believe his confidence. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to give me your address. Can’t be too careful, you know…”

“Quannack Hall, room 424. My door code is 68822.” I’m certain I was giving him those huge, shining Disney eyes as I felt my grin spread. “If you want, I’ll also give you my social security number, birthdate, and mother’s maiden name.”

Jesus, even his chuckle was sexy. “We’ll wait on all that. Got to save some mystery for the second date.” We’d been whispering, almost, which I didn’t even realize until he cleared his throat. “Are we good? I need to get home. I’ve got a game tomorrow.” He said tomorrow the Canadian way too, which gave my pussy an unexpected surge.

“We’re better than good! We’re rich!” Elliot sat there beaming, his dick standing up. “That was hot.”

I glanced over at Tyler, then both of us looked down by his laptop. His cock was hard enough to cast a sundial shadow across the keyboard. “Yeah. I can tell you think so,” I snickered. I hadn’t felt this good in weeks, which put me in the mood to poke fun. “Might want to take care of that.”

“Go for it,” he winked, setting the laptop aside before spreading his arms to take in both Tyler and I. “Hey! Why not both of you? I can film it and we can throw it on the Pit!”

“Can’t, bro,” Tyler shrugged, jacking his own package, “I’m a little drained, you know? I need a shower and an iced coffee.”

“Yeah, and you already know my answer,” I winked. “You’re about a year and a half too late, especially after I just took this thing.” I reached over and joined Tyler, giving his junk a squeeze of my own. “I’m officially oversexed, plus I’ve got a fucking summary due tomorrow.” I felt a twinge of genuine grief when I let go of that dick of Tyler’s. “See you, Ty.”

“Later, Christa.” He nodded at El. “Next time, huh?”

We left him there with Elliot’s poor, unattended penis waving high, following Grundle out the front door. But Tyler stopped at the door and waited for me to turn. “Yeah?” I blinked.

“What’s your last name, Christa?”

I cocked my head. “I’ll tell you if you actually show up on Friday at seven, Tyler Schiff.” I pushed a tendril of hair behind my ear.

“Room 424. 68822,” he smiled, and given the depravity Tyler and I had just been engaged in on camera, it might be difficult to understand why I flushed when he leaned in and gave me a slow, warm kiss as we hit the sidewalk.

But I did.

* * *

It might never come another time,

But it might never come even once:

The needy wish for that endless chime,

Of rhythm, bodies heaving like the surf.

* * *

I’d forgotten I’d given Tyler my doorcode, which was why it was a little odd to see him open my door and come striding in at 6:50 on Friday. My eyes widened in my mirror until I processed who he was and what he was doing here, then I smiled.

“Hi, handsome.” He was, too, in dark Luckies and what looked like a slightly elderly Tommy Bahama shirt. His eyes were not on my face, but given what I was wearing, that wasn’t unexpected. “Nice boots.”

“Thank you.” They looked like ostrich? I’m no expert on cowboy boots, but they sure weren’t normal leather. “I love these, and they sound cool when you’re walking. Ominous.”

“Yep. Like something big is coming,” I winked, letting him get the joke. “Take a seat on Jenn’s bed. I’ll be ready in a sec.” I’d just gotten my underwear sorted out when he’d busted in, so I was in nothing but black lace bottom to top: thigh-highs, thong, and bra, with my dress just about ready to fall over my head. “This is the most you’ve seen me wearing, which is impressive.”

“Yeah.” He sat gingerly on the very edge of my roommate’s bed, still smiling as he looked at my body. “You look really good. Like, good enough to pay decent money for at a club.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I simpered. I put a little extra arch in my back, just to let him know I appreciated it. But he wasn’t quite done.

“You should just leave the dress off. We can stay here and fuck.”

“Nah. I’m hungry. And you promised me Zimbardo’s.” I pulled the dress over my head, then eased it down over my body. “This thing’s fucking tight, both literally and figuratively. We’re both going to have the hottest date in the place.” I smoothed as I went, hauling the material over my hips. It had been a thong or boyshorts, and his eyes told me I’d made the right choice. “Some people look better in clothes, you know. Like a frame for a picture.”

“Yeah,” he said again, “I guess. It’s just weird seeing you covered up. You look so fucking good nude.” I smiled at him, still in the mirror, and tugged the dress where it need to be tugged. His eyes finally rose as I gathered my hair to clear my neck.

“Zip me up?” The dress was my favorite, rouched just right and still allowing me to breathe. I didn’t wear it much, but then I wasn’t really a dater. I was pleased it still fit so well. He loomed behind me as he fiddled with the zipper, and I tried hard not to close my eyes when I smelled him. I knew I’d be lucky not to wreck my thong, and we hadn’t even left yet. I felt the dress cocoon around me as he worked the zipper higher, his finger tracing the line of my spine as it passed.

“You’re shivering.”

“You made me cum so easily on air,” I admitted softly. “Just one of those things.”

“Ah.” He reached the top. “So, wait, you’re cumming now?”

I did close my eyes then, and I no longer cared that he saw it in the mirror. “I could.”

“Have you always been like that? So sexual?” He stood there with his hands on my shoulders, tracing my skin. “A lot of women don’t do it that easily.”

“Even with you?” I smiled, daydreaming, then sighed. “Back off so I can get my makeup done. No need to be in a rush.” I started on my face, talking to him as I went. “Always. I’ve never had trouble with orgasms.”

“You picked a good career for yourself, then.” He took his seat on Jenn’s bed again, more comfortably this time, then frowned when he saw my scowl. “What? What’d I say?”

“This isn’t a career, Tyler.” I twisted my fingers, working my eyelashes. “Not even a little. This is paying my way through school.” I patted my mound. “This pussy is not a permanent commodity.”

“Oh?” He blinked.

“No.” I finished with my lips, both of them shining under the cheap fluorescents. “I’m made for better things than webcam sex.”

“Mmhmm.” He was squinting at the books on my shelf. “What’s your major?”

“Take your pick,” I shrugged, deciding my hair was fine. I was gorgeous. Hell, I’d fuck me.

“Exercise physiology, looks like?”

I laughed. “For a quarter or two. Creative writing, mostly. Then there was philosophy. Anthro. Psych. Speech pathology. Comm. History. Back to anthro.” I hesitated, my mind wandering again, feeling a compulsion to tell him. “You can’t major in… in poetry. But if you could, I would.” I’d never told anyone that.

“Poetry?” He arched an eyebrow, but not in that judgey way like my father did in these situations. “Cool.”

“Not really.” I barked a dry laugh. “A portfolio of a hundred outstanding published poems and five dollars will get you a coffee at Samurai’s Teahouse. Medium, maybe a large if you combine it with a loyalty card.”

He laughed. “That sucks.”

“Yeah, but what are you going to do?”

He winked at me. “You’re going to do amateur porn on webcams, duh,” he smiled.

“Apparently.” Suddenly feeling a sense of unease I wanted to keep far away from me, I shook my head and spun, leaning against the sink. “Ready? I’m hungry.”

“You can eat my dick?” he suggested.

“I already did that,” I laughed, “and after Grundle uploads the footage tonight at ten, you can go check out the video and wander down memory lane.” I smiled and offered him my hand, cotillion-style. “Shall we?”

He nodded coolly, taking my hand under his arm. “I plan to be busy around ten tonight,” he shrugged.

I waited for the thickness in my throat to clear up. I didn’t need to sound like a fool in front of this guy. “I bet you do.” It came out husky, dammit, and once again I lamented the early demise of this thong. $23.99 for that fucking thing. I’d already been resigned to giving it to Tyler over breakfast the next morning, obviously, but I didn’t want it to look like a dishrag when I did.

“Just letting you know.” It came out in that low, easy voice of his I’d liked right from the start. I cleared my throat.

“The Whang might not like that, you being busy when your own video posts.”

He chuckled. “The Whang’s not here.”

“You seemed to enjoy doing him.” I was not bothered by that. Jealousy had zero place in our business. But I was curious about this: why he’d waited so long to pop me.

“Yes.” He ushered me into the elevator. “But I never once even thought about asking him to dinner.”

I squeezed his arm. “It’s just that I’ve never really attracted tall, studly jocks,” I needled.

“Times change, Christa.” He escorted me out into the lobby. Outside, he opened the door of a red Highlander for me, handing me up. “Watch your shoe.”

“Thanks.” I waited until he looked at me, then laid a gentle hand on his face. “I’m happy you asked me out, Tyler Schiff.”

“What’s your last name?” He turned his head but not his eyes, watching me while he kissed my hand. I shuddered again.

“Nelson,” I smiled, “and I’m dangerously attracted to you.”

“Nonsense.” He stepped back, that Ken-doll smile flashing across his lips. “There’s nothing dangerous about the two of us going to dinner. Make sure you don’t damage your tits when you put your seatbelt on.”

“I’ll let you inspect them later,” I laughed, winking, “if you ask nicely.” His answer was a long, slow nod as he put on some Wayfarers and moved us smoothly down the road toward town.

“So,” he smiled as we whizzed along. “Poetry.”

“I never tell anyone about that,” I sighed. “I’m surprised I told you.”

“I’m not. You told me your doorcode pretty spontaneously.”

“Yeah,” I snorted, “but you’d just made me cum about four times. I was not exactly in my right mind.” He nodded thoughtfully.

“You’re a fascinating woman, Christa Nelson,” he said at last as he whipped us into the parking lot. I flushed hard, I knew, looking out the side window to hide it. “And I think you think I’m pretty fascinating, too.”

I took a deep breath, feeling him beside me, wanting him inside me. “See? Dangerous.”

He just laughed as he pulled into a space. I didn’t even have time to slide out of the Highlander before he was there, opening my door, offering his hand. And as I stepped to the pavement, he curled his arm around my waist and did not let go, fingers spread over my hip, steering me. Possessing me.

It was incredibly sexy.

“It’s been forever since I was on a date,” I confessed as soon as we ordered drinks. I was relieved when it turned out he was 21; I didn’t need to deal with a guy with a fake ID. “Maybe since high school, honestly.”

His eyebrows rose. “You don’t date?

“No.” I’d only been to Zimbardo’s once before. It was halfway between ritzy and merely “nice,” the kind of place with really great desserts and good drinks. “I went on a couple, halfheartedly, with subscribers who seemed nice. But people used to get the wrong idea. They didn’t understand the difference between Bubbles and Christa. It led to misunderstandings.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. Guys get jealous sometimes.”

We sat back as the waitress brought our drinks. I’d gone for a rum and Coke, him an old-fashioned. I thought that was classy. She took the dinner order and vanished, as desired. “jealous. Of the Whang?”

“Of anyone other than them.” I sipped. “It’s just easier not to date.”

“Lucky me, then.” He nodded, pondering. “Well, what about sex?”

“What about it?” I winked. “I love it. As I think you know well.”

He grinned at that, drawing himself up in the chair, that self-satisfied look coming back into his eyes. “Yeah. I guess you get plenty on the show,” he mused.

“Actually, our guests choose to bang the Whang more often than popping the Bubbles.” I shrugged. “As of last month, the proportion was 61% to 39%.”

“No way.”

I flapped a dismissive hand his way. “Don’t go playing innocent, dude. You skewed those numbers yourself.”

He nodded, reflecting. “Good point.” His drink had an orange peel, artfully arranged, looking almost like a flower. My brain began composing a poem to it reflexively, automatically. Its curl… “So. You masturbate, then?”

“No. I call up old guests and other random hookups. One of them usually comes through.” As Glen, he of the wide dick and narrow stamina, had. He’d texted me that same night, but I’d canceled once Tyler had asked me out. I thought for a moment. “I don’t think I’ve had to masturbate since, like, the second night here at Monroe.”

His head cocked. “That seems like a pretty specific estimate.”

I felt a smile grow, an ironic one. “I met Elliot on the third night here.”

“Ah!”

“Yep. I liked him, he liked me, and that was it.”

“It?”

“It. He popped my cherry and held onto it for years. We were insatiable. He could have gotten me to do anything at all, and he often did.”

Tyler’s eyes glittered. “No limits?”

“None. His dick has done literally anything a penis can do with my body. Every hole, every nook and cranny. Once, he even tried to nose-fuck me. Ended up cumming in there.” I chuckled at the memory. “Most of it was amazing. We were great for a long time.”

He nodded. “I’ve seen some of the archived stuff.”

“Kinkytime.”

“Right. What’s the most bizarre thing you guys did?”

“Ever?” I laughed. “What’s this, an interview?” The waitress glided across the room while I pondered, her hands loaded down with my grilled chicken and Tyler’s planked salmon. We made appreciative noises as the plates landed, me sitting there pretty sure she didn’t need to hear what I’d come up with. So as soon as her pretty little ass began its retreat, I leaned over the table to whisper to him. Though I was definitely careful not to dredge my breasts in my potatoes. “So. His brother’s a cop.”

“Elliot’s?”

“Yeah. Or maybe cousin? I dunno. Anyway, he was curious about what a taser would do to me.”

He arched an eyebrow, loading a forkful of salmon. “Is this going to be illegal?”

“Would it matter if it was?”

He laughed and waved his hand. “Go on.”

I smiled. “This wasn’t something we did for Kinkytime. This was too much even for that. He clipped a clothespin to my clit; you know, the wooden ones. Tied a string to that, and tugged on it to make me cum while zapping me with the goddamn taser.” I giggled, shaking my head as I went to cut my chicken. “Fuck, we were dumb. That was freshman year. Like, four months after I met him.”

“Wow!”

“Right?” I sat back. “We were crazy there for awhile. Once he got me on cam? I lost all my inhibitions.”

He nodded, then lifted his fork across the table for me. “This is delicious. I want you to taste it.”

“Thank you.” It should not have thrilled me to eat off his fork, not after what we’d done during Sloppy Seconds the other night, but sharing his food seemed somehow much more intimate than, say, licking his taint. “Fuck, that’s good.”

“Right? The capers.”

“Yes. The capers.” I swallowed. “It was really hard to find a hosting site for Kinkytime, until OnlyFans came along. But we figured we’d get booted from there, so when Pixboox started their Passion Pit?” I shrugged. “They’ve been great.” He said nothing, just stared at me, so I narrowed my eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.” He smiled. “I’m just looking at you.”

I blushed. “I’ve never dated a hockey player before. I had no idea you guys were such fucking charmers.” I took another drink. And through it all, my brain wouldn’t stop churning through a poem about his orange peel… “Especially when you know you don’t even have to be on your game,” I added.

“Don’t I?” I just stared at him, letting him think about the things he’d already done to me, and then he returned my grin. “Guess not.”

“You’ve probably dated a million little cheerleader types,” I sighed. “That was never really my thing. I was always either goth, or goth-adjacent.”

“Puck bunnies.” He shrugged. “They’re called puck bunnies. The chicks who hang around hockey teams, looking for blowjobs to give.” He looked away. “I’d say I’ve had my share,” he nodded, “but not lately.”

“No? What about that Marilyn?”

“I called her the other night and told her it wasn’t going to work out,” he said at once.

My blush deepened. “The other night.”

“The other night.” He winked. “I met a chick I’m interested in.”

“Gee. I can’t imagine.” The choirs of angels were returning, bringing some butterflies with them for my stomach. “Is she a webcam whore?”

“No. Worse.” He sipped. “She’s a poet.” I laughed hard at that. “What?”

I hesitated, then glanced around. “I’m doing it right now,” I admitted, clarifying for the benefit of his upraised eyebrows. “Poet-ing.”

“Oh.” He shook his head. “It’s just, when you said ‘doing it,’ I was thinking you were… you know…”

“Strumming my clit?” I suggested. He smiled and nodded. “Yeah. It’s these past few weeks or so, I’m just, like, spontaneously generating poems and shit.”

“What are you poet-ing about? Right now?” He leaned in, eyes intent.

“That’s way too personal, bub. This is our first date.”

“A few days ago, you had two fingers in my anus while you sucked my left testicle down to your tonsils.” He smiled, a warm one, and then his hand crossed the table to clasp mine. I shivered again. “Come on. Tell me. I won’t laugh.”

I swallowed past a sudden constriction in my throat, like I’d just been called on to balance a chemistry equation on the board. “No, you won’t,” I said quietly, after a few moments. His hand was warm, caring. Possessive, like it had been on my hip as we’d crossed the parking lot, and I loved that. I squeezed his fingers. “Little things sometimes set me off. Unexpected things.”

“Go on,” he nodded.

“The curl of the orange peel,” I told him at last, forcing the words out past a strange reluctance, like I was giving up a part of my soul. He shook his head at that, more than a little confused, before he remembered his drink order and glanced down. “It’s beautiful. As soon as I saw it, I started composing. Couldn’t stop.”

“Don’t tell me what you came up with,” he said at once.

I cocked my head. “Why not? I’d have thought you’d want to hear the poem.”

“Oh, I do.” He smile glittered. “But you don’t want to tell me yet.” His fingers tightened on mine. “If you’re ever ready, I’d love to hear it.”

“Fuck.” I whispered it, and I’m sure my eyes sent out those awed, inspired vibes. “Who the hell are you, and are all hockey players like you?”

He laughed. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve never taken one of them out to dinner.”

* * *

Birds seek the sky. And

Even in the tree, they pine

For where they belong.

* * *

“So. Got something in mind?” He’d laid his hand on my leg the moment I’d gotten my seatbelt buckled, and already it was driving me crazy.

“I thought we could sit. Relax. Maybe change into something more comfortable.”

I laughed again. “You just want to get me in my underwear.”

“Temporarily,” he nodded, his hand huge on my thigh. It rested right where my thigh-highs ended, and I wondered whether he could feel the lace through the dress.

“I’m not thinking I want to get it on in your backseat,” I mused, covering his hand with mine.

He shook his head in mock disgust. “Who said anything about getting it on? I’m a gentleman. I almost never put out on the first date.”

“No. You just fuck dudes on webcams, then seduce their innocent, virginal co-stars.”

“Elliot and I didn’t fuck much,” he protested, “mostly mouth stuff.”

I smacked his shoulder. “That? That’s your problem with my statement?”

“Well, yeah, I guess there is also that tiny little quibble I might have with you describing yourself as either ‘innocent’ or ‘virginal.’ Seems to me those might be slightly misleading.”

“No comment.” He nodded knowingly. “Like, you don’t have an apartment or something?”

“I do, but so do the three other hockey players I share it with.”

“Ooh.” I gave him a broad wink. “There’s a webcam experience simply waiting to be filmed. I’ve never done a bukkake before. Or a gangbang.”

“And you won’t do one tonight, either.” He was not jealous about it. He was just stating a fact. And it all rolled into everything else he had done to me this evening: I was his. No one else’s. And I found that alarmingly sexy. I thought about simply going down on him right here and now. Because I don’t think I’d ever wanted a man so badly in my life.

“Got other ideas for me?” Getting the words out normally felt like squeezing out the last of the ketchup.

“I was thinking we could go to the library and discuss your poetry.”

“Okay,” I agreed at once. And I meant it.

“Or. Your roommate is still out, probably?”

“Jenn?” I laughed, warm with the glow of two cocktails as he drove us down the beach. “She’s basically a live-in sex toy for one of her professors. I see her about once a week, if that.” I glanced over at him and burped. “Why?”

“Hanging out in a dorm room is so cliche,” he sighed, “almost tawdry.”

“And you’re a gentleman. You never put out on the first date.”

“Yeah, might have been stretching the truth about that.” We chuckled, but he was already steering toward campus, and it was decided just that easily. I held his hand, strong and warm under mine, my knee bouncing crazily as we drew closer and closer to my dorm. Well, to my bed: let’s be honest. That’s what we were both thinking about.

I let him in through the security door and past the eyes of the Resident Assistant, hooded and suspicious; I’d long suspected that particular RA had a crush on me, and there was a better-than-average chance he’d seen Nude Mood. Not that I cared all that much, the two of his waiting with our fingers interlaced as the elevator wheezed through its shaft.

He pulled me into the ‘vator, not stopping until his solid body reached the back wall and leaned there like some kind of monument, not stopping even then: he kept pulling me into his body until I fetched up against him, pressing close with his arms settling calmly around me. I’d seldom felt so secure, so owned. “Hi there,” I whispered up at him, smiling with unusual shyness.

“Hello.” His face was already dipping down toward mine as we passed the second floor, his lips waiting for me as I craned my head back, grinning, my mouth meeting his with that full, generous sense of surrender I was so happy to give to him. I moaned low into his mouth at this, our first real kiss, even his hand on my ass feeling new even though he’d smacked me there already.

Because that had been at work. That had been Bubbles. This was Christa.

I offered my tongue willingly, wanting him to suck it between his lips, then shuddering against him when he did. He tasted like whiskey and orange, like capers, like himself. I felt my foot leave the cheap linoleum floor of the elevator and crawl up his calf, desperate to open my legs for him. To give him my body.

Ruined, that thong. Absolutely ruined.

His hand was sure as it slid down the back of my dress, cupping my ass with the same hunger I felt for him, leaving me moaning my need into his mouth as the elevator dinged its way up to the fourth floor. I slipped back out of his mouth and smiled up at him. “Let’s go to my place.”

“Deal.” I walked proudly out into the lounge outside the elevator bank, every step a gloat as the girls there studied Tyler and noted his hand in mine. His hip pressed to me. My spit on his chin. We passed into my hallway, smiling, and I imagined the smell of wet pussy surrounding me like a cloud.

His mouth was back on me even before I even got my door opened, lips grazing my neck and ear as he loomed behind me. “Fuck,” I muttered, screwing up the door combo. “You make it hard to focus.”

“You just make it hard.” It was a whisper, but the feel of his dick through his pants as he nudged it against my back left me in no doubt that he wasn’t simply flirting. The guy felt like he was already more than halfway up, and I whimpered as I gave the door code another teeth-gritted try. “You got this.” I felt hands on my waist, his pinkies stroking gently on my hips.

“Yeah, maybe.” I punched the last digit, feeling my heart lurch triumphantly as the lock kicked and the door swung open. I stumbled into my room, whirling to see him boot the door closed behind him. “Gimme,” I mewed, my fingers flexing at his belt; they were shaking so hard I could barely figure out the buckle. I could feel my breath already beginning to speed up, his hands returning to my hips as though magnetized before he brought them swiftly up to grip hard at my tits. “Jesus!” I yelped.

“Just inspecting. To make sure the seatbelt didn’t fuck anything up.”

“If you rip this dress, Ty, I swear to god…” I began, but by that time I’d gotten his pants open, my greedy hands worming down to grip his meat, and I wasn’t able to speak after that. Instead, I fell to my knees on my own grotty carpet and swept my hands down his thighs, dragging his jeans along with them.

It jutted out before me, already thick but getting rapidly harder, his shirt draped over it. I’d had this dick in many ways the other night in the studio, but that had been porn-trope stuff: reverse cowgirl, doggy, the stuff that looked good on camera. It had felt amazing and he’d left me thoroughly satisfied, but there’d been no soul, no feeling, no real connection. Now? Connection was all I felt, my hands trailing back up to worship his skin, my smile proud where it hovered just a hair’s breadth from his velvet head. “My god,” I managed, my voice hushed, inhaling the scent of his body.

I doubted I’d ever been so soaked.

Tyler worked his shirt buttons above me, his fingers as certain as they’d been on my butt in the elevator, while I watched in rapture as he hardened for me. The man had an amazing penis, thick and meaty, nicely veined and with a lovely big swell behind the head. His balls hung as low as they had the other night, once again begging for my touch. I fluttered my eyelids and reminded myself this was real. He was here.

So I laid my hands gently on the front of his hips, feeling the stir in his warm body, and stared up at his eyes as his shirt at last fell away. “You’re so beautiful,” I whispered. We waited a harsh, dragging minute before, slowly, I leaned in and with awe, even reverence, matched my eager mouth to his strongly throbbing cock and, eyes directly on his, laid a powerful sucking kiss to his head, my lips molding themselves to that soft velvet flesh just above the bell where his head flared.

I’d tasted him the other night, but this was different. This time, I was paying attention. I waited there, breathing in slowly, inhaling him while my tongue spread along his tip, savoring what I found there. His eyes glittered when he looked down at me, pushing slightly, my lips widening just a bit more to take him deeper…

But no. That was for just a bit later. I slid off him, my fingers drifting slowly off his hairy legs, rising straight-backed to my feet and facing him for a few silent seconds before I turned. “Unzip me please, Tyler.”

I was gorgeous. Desirable. I wanted him to unwrap me. He dropped the zipper with a clean, decisive swipe of his hand, leaving me to bend at the knees to gather my dress, unpeeling it upward with long, practiced strokes, revealing legs, then ass, then back, then neck. I tossed it loosely onto Jenn’s desk and let my arms relax to my sides, breathing deeply. Behind me I could hear him stomping on his own heels, struggling out of his ostrich boots, so I stood there leaking into my thong and waited for him.

We had all night.

Once I heard him get one boot off, I pushed my thong contemptuously down my legs, letting it slap onto the carpet. Then I bent slowly at the waist, letting him study my naked ass, reveling in the effect I knew I had on that long, virile dick of his. Letting him see my pussy lips framed by my thighs, and remember how I felt around him. Letting him think about how much better it would be, facing me. Kissing me. Cumming in me.

Because we both knew I’d let him.

I lifted the sodden thong off the carpet, then turned with a wicked smile and lifted the wrecked thing to present it to him. His adam’s apple bobbed once, then twice as he got the other boot off, so I let my smile morph into a smirk and draped my destroyed underwear over his stiff dick, a sacrifice laid over an altar, before kinking my arms and unhooking my bra. It fell to the floor as I turned, in nothing but my thigh-highs, and sashayed the short distance to my bed.

Not Jenn’s. We were going to stain the sheets, and I wanted to sleep in this man’s leavings. Needed it.

I sat at the edge of my bed and watched him approach, sitting in that classic debutante pose with my back straight and my hands resting on legs locked together. His eyes told me he liked that, juxtaposed with bare breasts, thigh-highs and the pussy he knew would be leaking onto my sheets. I thought about how I must look, my brain racing, making words. Images.

Poetry.

I leaned forward gracefully as he came to me, his naked body alive with planes and shadows from my desk lamp. My mouth opened, enfolding the head of his dick once again: I was picking up where I’d left off by the door. Not that he needed to be any harder, but so that he could look down and see my eyes staring back at him with the root of his cock buried in my mouth. I wanted that for him, the experience of that image, an image my mind was already turning into words even as I let him push me, slipping the front half of his organ into my waiting mouth.

He tasted so good. And there was poetry in that, too, my mind already overwhelmed. And nothing had even touched my pussy yet!

He lifted my thong from his flesh as he arched forward, feeding me more of himself, looking down at my underwear with a curious look on his face. I saw him finger the crotch. “Nice,” he nodded, my face glowing as I felt him nudge the back of my throat. I moved my hands to his sides, then around to his ass, feeling the bunched muscles there. “I’m going to enjoy fucking you, Christa.”

“Mmm,” was all I could manage around the flesh that choked my throat, for I had begun trying to swallow him. I knew he could feel me, the contractions of my tonsils massaging his head, and I also knew (a little glumly) that I probably wouldn’t be able to deep-throat such a thick beast. But it was important to me that he knew I was trying to give him everything I had, and I hoped my eyes told him so, even as the tears started forming there, my throat rebelling against the insistent prod of his cock.

When he pulled back, I felt it first in the muscles of his ass relaxing in my hands; then the pressure eased in my mouth, my tongue lapping along the ridges of his underside, and now when I looked down I saw his penis glowing with my saliva, running with it, like it had been set in shining crystal to immortalize how perfect its shape was. Even before he withdrew fully, tapping his head on my lips on his way out, I was already pivoting on my bed, scooting down to let him mount me on my thin, squeaky mattress.

I spread for him as far as the skinny bed would allow, knees bent, giving him my cunt. He knelt swiftly between my legs, staring at my nude body, his cock bouncing slightly with the wild beat of his heart as he sank down onto me. Into me. For I reached down to grasp that lovely dick of his, guiding it between the swollen lips of my drooling pussy as if it was the only thing that could put out the fire there.

I moaned, my head falling back into the puddle my hair had made on my pillow, feeling every veiny inch as he rutted into me, my arms rising to clasp his body tightly to myself as my hips took his weight. He felt the closeness: I could read it in his eyes, even as my feet rose to wrap tightly around his legs, keeping him close to me. “More,” I sighed, blissful, and then I keened again as he rammed himself home to the hilt, stabbing far into my body and holding himself there while I reshaped myself around his girth.

I’d had bigger. But not better.

I flushed when he ran a finger tenderly across my face, clearing my hair out of my eyes, his own face serious and intent like he was viewing art, or something. A twinge in the muscles of my arms told me I was holding on too tightly to him, but there was no part of my mind that wanted to let him go. And I needed him to know that he was home, in my arms. His dick was home, in my cunt. His tongue was home, in my mouth.

I was already on the threshold of an orgasm.

So when he began moving, his body nailing me to the mattress in liquid waves, I could feel the ripple of my pussy around his thrusting cock with a clarity and awareness I couldn’t remember ever feeling before. I was alive, my mind clinging to everything that was happening to me, somehow certain that this was a life-changing experience he was putting me through, even as he trawled his meat through my slicked pussy. I needed this, I knew, and I would need the memory of it, and I could only hope he knew it too.

His sweat smeared across me as we moved together, his hips driving him into me in slow, even, very deep thrusts as we kissed languidly. This was closeness, togetherness of the best kind, my heart and my body synchronized with each other and with his. And when my climax came, I barely noticed the difference between it and the pleasure he was already giving me, a seamless transition from bliss into transcendence as I lay my head back and whimpered.

And still he kept on, tireless and smooth, fucking me through that orgasm and straight into another as he changed his motion, his cock now sawing directly actross my clit like a violin bow. I opened my eyes in lazy, perfect rapture, only to find his, connecting once more with mine, and as his thrusts sped up and his rhythm began to crumble I pulled his tongue back into my mouth and lifted my legs high into the air to welcome his load.

His grunt was low, content, a long drawn-out sigh into my mouth that melted me from the inside, his hot eager sperm roping into me in long, warm slaps that left me with an exquisite sense of fullness, even apart from the physical sensation of his cum in me. We kept moving, still smooth, still glued together by more than just our desires, feeling the pleasure we gave each other in mind and body.

Poetry.

It was like that all night, that same closeness and intimacy, so different from the cynically visual fuck we’d shared in the studio the other night. Three times I took his load, and each time was slow, sensuous. Different. And in the small hours of the deep night, as I lay on his chest in my narrow bed, my vagina full and overfull with what his balls had given me, I asked him if he wanted to hear my poem.

“Hmm?” One of his hands stroked my hair, which had been known to get me off before even on its own. I took a deep breath.

“My poem. About your orange peel?” It was a murmur. I knew my neighbors on both sides of the dorm room would have heard what we’d been doing all night, but why give them ammo? “The one I composed in the restaurant.”

He stayed silent until I looked up at him, to catch a slow grin and a beaming face. “I’d love to,” he rumbled.

“It’s not that great,” I hastened to add, “and I’ve not recited a poem for anyone since, like, fourth grade. Remember, I never got the chance to edit it…”

“Shut up and tell me.”

So, I told him.

Upswept, a butterfly’s wing

But smoke-curled, gleaming in the night:

The shining rind, trembling-sweet,

Awaits my lover’s mouth.

His kiss in reply was a reward. “So then, you already thought of me as your lover. At dinner.”

I returned the kiss, softly, comfortably. Familiarly. “Was I wrong?”

He replied with his tongue. “No.” And that’s how we started fucking the fourth time that night.

* * *

The lines between us blur,

Soul on soul, mind on mind

We curl: dirty clumps of fur

Intertangled. Sense falls behind.

So yeah. We started dating. And fucking. A lot. With that extra little spice of actually enjoying the other one’s pleasure.

Heaven.

* * *

At some point about six weeks later, Elliot finally figured it out. “You’re seeing someone.” It was an accusation.

“It’s my life, El.” Never mind that once upon a time, he had been my life; he wasn’t any longer. “Personal.”

“Here’s the thing though, Bun. When it starts affecting Nude Mood, well…”

“How is it affecting the show?” I demanded.

“You’re only booking women these days,” he shot back evenly. “Nobody’s popped the Bubbles in weeks.”

“Getting tired of fucking?” I needled.

He spread his hands. “I mean, it’s never nice to feel like I’m pulling more than my weight,” he complained.

I arched an eyebrow. We were sharing a coffee at Ahab’s. “You and I both know your penis is more than capable of doing whatever you ask of it.” I flipped my hair back. “Besides, that one chick did pick me. The girls’ basketball player.”

“She sure did,” he leered after a pause, and I blushed. She and I had gone absolutely crazy on each other, and the money that night had been through the roof. “Kelly.”

“Yeah. Kelly.” I shivered. The woman had eaten a mean pussy, that was for sure. “So it’s not like I’m not willing to put out, El.”

“I wonder,” he mused. It was hard to lie to Elliot. He and I had shared far, far too many bodily fluids to ever feel comfortable with dishonesty. “What would happen if I booked a man, Christa? I have to know.”

My heart stilled a moment. “Why? Who are you thinking of?”

“A guy in one of the frats. The Greek League is doing some kind of big combined party for something called National Nude Day. Perfect for our show.”

“National Nude Day?” I scoffed. “Sounds made-up.”

“Right? Anyway. It’s a thing, at least with all the kids still on campus in July. Summer Quarter.” I nodded. “If I bring him in, he’ll pick you. Will you sell it?” he pressed.

I looked away. “I’ll sell the fuck out of it,” I sighed. “But… yeah. You’re right. I’m seeing someone. So I might want to talk to him about it first.”

He waited, quiet, until I looked at him, our eyes meeting strongly. “Shit,” he muttered, “you’re in love.” I blushed. “Have you said it yet? The three little words?”

“Hell no. We’ve only been dating, like, a month. He’ll think I’m desperate.”

“But you’re not.” He nodded at me. “I know you. You loved me once, and you felt it then. If you feel it now, it’s just as real.” I hung my head. He was right: he’d always been right about me. “Well. This is a problem.”

I hesitated. “Doesn’t have to be,” I shrugged. “I fucked plenty of other guys back when you and I were a thing.” It had been hot, too: Guest Night On Kinkytime, when El had set me up with his friends and then run the camera while they destroyed me.

“Yeah, but I was right there enabling it. I got off on it, too. That’s different from this.” He took a long sip from whatever soy bullshit he was drinking these days. “Is he treating you right?” he asked more gently.

I knew I had to tell him. “It’s Tyler Schiff, that hockey player.”

“Wait. What?” He blinked, genuinely confused. “The gay guy?”

“You saw what he did to me when he popped the Bubbles,” I pointed out. “He ain’t gay.”

“Well, true. So bi. Whatever.” His forehead wrinkled as he pondered, thinking about Tyler and the times he’d shoved it in Elliot’s ass. “I guess I can see it?” he suggested doubtfully.

“You took his dick yourself,” I pointed out dryly, “and then you watched him fuck me. You know he’s something special.” I hesitated, on the verge of telling him more. So much more. About Tyler, and me, and the way my mind was going… “It’s not just his body, though. He’s got a little extra schwerve to him,” was all I ended up saying.

Elliot nodded, his lips contorting into a sad smile. “Well. That’s it, then. Gravy train’s over.” He leaned back in the booth. “Bubbles and the Whang work because it’s not just the Whang. We’re going to need to rethink our business model.”

“Bullshit,” I flared, “I’m telling you, I can sell it.” But he was shaking his head, still with that sad smile.

“Bunny,” he sighed after a pause, “that’s not the point. I loved you. A lot of that has gone away, but there’s still some left. I want you happy.” He squeezed my hand. “I’ll feel like shit if you end up fucking for our money when you’re in love with someone else. That would make me feel like a pimp, or something.”

“Goddamn you.” I wasn’t mad at him, though. He’d always been right about me.

“Gotta grow up sometime.” His smile went wistful for a moment. “When you invite me to the wedding, don’t let me make a toast. Because I’d have to tell everyone that I’d fucked both the bride and the groom.”

I laughed. “You could just bend over for the priest, if you want. Make it a wedding-party trifecta.”

“No. The whole shebang. All the bridesmaids and groomsmen.”

“And the mother of the bride. On cam.”

“Well, duh. Your mom’s hot.” He squeezed my hand. “Look, I’m not going to lie. This is not the greatest news I’ve ever heard. I love what we do and it’s basically free money. But I knew it would have to end sometime, and that time might just be now.”

“Dude.” I shook my head. “You’re reaching. Me finding a boyfriend doesn’t mean we need to blow the whole thing up.”

“If it doesn’t, then maybe it should.” He drained his drink. “Look, talk to him. See what he says. And I’ll make sure that if we ever have him on the show anymore, I won’t fuck him. Out of respect for you.”

“Gee. You’re a prince.”

“I’ll just teabag him, maybe a little rimming or something.”

“Um.” I thought about last night, when Tyler had very lovingly dipped his ballsack in my mouth while rubbing his taint across my face. I’d cum just from that. “Maybe not.”

He just smiled.

* * *

So strong, the meeting of the heart

Of two halves, no longer pried apart.

* * *

“So. Yeah.” I sat cross-legged on my bed, plucking at the edge of a quilt I’d crocheted once, in another lifetime. “I guess I’m going to tell the Whang I’m done after this next guest. I’ll keep co-hosting until he finds a new partner, if he wants, but no more fucking.”

“How’s he going to take that?”

“I had coffee with him at Ahab’s. We talked about this. He already knows, but I’ll make it official after this next guy.”

Tyler raised his eyebrow. He lay stretched out on Jenn’s bed, long and muscled with her bedside lamp making his body hair glow. He was a breathtaking sight. I couldn’t quite believe, still, that I got to fuck this man. He lay now sated, his sweat drying on his skin, softened penis streaked with our fluids. He loved being naked with me. “Fuck,” he observed, looking across the room at me. “No more of you on the Pit? It seems a shame to waste like five years of branding.”

“Yeah?” I studied him closely for any idea that he was mocking me, but he seemed serious. So I took a breath and decided to see where he was taking this. “Meaning what? I should keep on with Nude Mood?”

“You’re great in front of the camera. And so many people love you.” He pursed his lips, considering. “Ever consider branching out on your own?”

“Never.” It came out at once, with an actual shudder. The idea horrified me: sitting there nude in front of a webcam? Without Elliot? “No. Never. I’d freeze.”

“Why?” He shifted, propping himself on his elbow. I watched, mesmerized, as the skin of his scrotum pulled slowly off his inner thighs, my mind composing a poem about it at once. Completely unbidden, the lines rising complete in my head without any thought as I watched his skin move. He captivated me.

“I’ve never done anything without Elliot,” I sighed. “Hell. I never would have done anything without Elliot. He’s the force behind all this, everything I’ve ever done. I’m just the talent.”

“Yeah. That’s what I’m getting at.” He stared at my nude tits, obsessed. He’d left the marks from his beard all over them just a half-hour ago, as he’d pumped into me. “You can be the force now. It’d be something new.”

“New?”

“New,” he nodded. “There’s no reason you have to keep taking dick online, Christa. There just isn’t. Let him be the guy who got you into video sex; when you leave him in the past? You leave the sex in the past.”

“I want sex in the present. With you,” I blurted.

“No.” His voice was firm. Powerful, even. “You want sex in the future, with me. Because we’re perfect.”

“We are.” I bowed my head.

“Every time.”

“Every time,” I breathed.

“And that’s what I want, too.” I felt myself shiver, my mind going blank with everything except him, and me, and us, and I sprang off my bed and crossed my dorm room in three quick strides, needing to be close to him. He opened his arms and legs as I sank down alongside him, and the clasp of his body around mine was my food and my drink. “So. Reinvent yourself. I’ll help.”

“Yeah?” I kissed him, a long and soulful sharing of tongues and spit, needing to be closer always. “You’ll help? Like, you and me doing it on cam?”

“No.” His hand found my butt, caressing. Adoring. “Reinvent. Something new, Christa.”

“You said that already.”

“But you didn’t listen.” His eyes pinned mine, staring. “You need to want to do something else. Something that’s you. Not Bubbles.”

I poked his chest. “People like Bubbles.” His arms and legs buried me, and I craved it.

“People will like Christa more. Ask me how I know.”

Fuck. This man. No way could I resist him. I assumed that at some point the bloom would fade off the rose, but not right then. “Want to hear a poem about your scrotum, Tyler?” I whispered, my hand going down there.

Perfect. Every time.

* * *

Even Lucifer fell, and when he did?

Sublime heights above, dazzling, potent,

Gave way to mean dark scrabbling things below.

And still, knowing this, he descended.

* * *

The frat guy’s name was Jason, but in my mind I just thought of him as Shaved Pubes. I’m a girl who likes a little friction down there, so it wasn’t really an attractive feature. He was reasonably good-looking, though, as he sat there on the Nude Mood couch, legs proudly splayed so he could display what he had.

It wasn’t the best penis, but it wasn’t the worst. Plumpish, circumcised, disease-free (according to the paperwork he’d given Elliot). Decent balls, a bit undersized.

From the moment he’d arrived and sauntered out of his clothes, it had been blatantly obvious he’d choose to pop the Bubbles. He eyed me with that fairly typical frat-bro attitude that sometimes came across through the comments on our videos, that sense of easy entitlement, the one that announced I’m here, and you’re here, so obviously you’ll want to fuck me.

I didn’t want to fuck him.

He wouldn’t be the first guy I hadn’t wanted to fuck, though; it was the nature of the beast when handling the edgier side of the webcam universe. Elliot and I had made a conscious decision to push things, to make our show unique and spectacular and inclusive and, yes, titillating, so that meant that every now and then, he and I would have to make a genital connection we weren’t necessarily happy about. So there I sat, all trimmed, tweezed, plucked, waxed, and bleached, ready to go.

Shaved Pubes wasn’t all that bad, I decided after we’d all sat down. He was certainly attractive, in that lacrosse-player-who-also-surfs kind of way, and he seemed polite enough. But I’d never met a Jason I’d liked, and that looked to continue today. Especially given his first musical selection. “So, like, here on the Nude Mood we like to gauge our guests’ musical tastes,” I began just as Grundle’s clock ticked past the tenth minute. Right on schedule.

“The theory being that sexy people can’t possibly listen to shit music,” Elliot put in.

“I can see that,” Shaved Pubes shrugged, his eyes on my nipples. I gave him a little shimmy, because that’s the kind of thing Bubbles did.

“Yeah, so, what’s your favorite song? We’ll play it for you right now,” I grinned. My jaws worked automatically at what I figured would be the last piece of bubblegum I’d ever chew, maybe. “Pick something that’ll put us all in the mood for nude.”

“Yeah,” El cackled. He wasn’t high, but he liked to give the impression he was. “Totally.”

“I’m a real fan of Aerosmith,” Shaved Pubes grinned, and something deep inside me died as I realized I’d soon have to let a man who liked Aerosmith put his dick in me. “I’ve seen them like fourteen times?”

“Bubbles loves Aerosmith,” Elliot enthused. He knew damn well I did not. “She especially likes the ballads.” He winked at me.

“Yeah!” The dude’s dick gave a visible twitch. “Angel. Crazy. Don’t Want To Miss A Thing.” He winked at me. “What do you want to hear, Bubbles? I always like to let a lady pick what she likes,” he added.

“Such a gentleman!” I tapped at the computer, pulling up Bubbles and the Whang’s massive playlist, scrolling up to the top of the alphabet. “But you’re the guest. I insist, cutie.” Because if I’d picked, I’d have pressed DELETE after highlighting every song.

“I think I want to hear Blind Man,” he smiled, and the thing that had been dying inside me finally gave up the fight. It was among the worst songs in history. “Every time I hear it, it sounds so new. So fuckin’ perfect, you know?”

“Oh, absolutely!” I lied. I blew a bubble as I cued up the song, my mind sorting through responses, trying to figure out what I should say. “I fucked to this album once, Jason.”

“You could do that again in a little bit, here,” he leered, already coaxing his dick. I cursed inwardly, but I was a pro. So I played it out.

“Well, shit. If that doesn’t get the ol’ juices flowing,” I purred.

“Y’all can see that,” Elliot said, speaking rapidly over the song’s intro, “if you buddy us on Pixboox and tune in to our Sloppy Seconds show over on the Passion Pit there, after this installment of… Nude Mood!” He wrapped up just as Steven Tyler opened his mouth, hitting the post perfectly, then glanced at me once he was sure the mic was off. “Juices flowing, huh?”

“Well.” I shrugged. “You know how it is.”

“I sure do,” Shaved Pubes butted in, leaning sideways to get a view of my pussy past my laptop. “I’m starting to feel some juices myself.” Indeed he was; his hand hadn’t left his dick, which was starting to grow. I nodded at it.

“Down, boy. We’ve still got thirty minutes of content.” Only once had we tried to film out of sequence, the attraction between me and some guy from the tennis team completely unavoidable, so we’d started Sloppy Seconds at minute 26, fucked wildly, and then tried to get ourselves back under control for the other twenty minutes of Nude Mood content.

It had been difficult. We’d ended up doing it again right afterward. He’d been a delight.

Shaved Pubes barely managed to control himself until the end of the show when, in one of the least-surprising twists in the history of amateur pornography, he told the world that he was dying to pop the Bubbles. I sat there, beaming, as Elliot wrapped up the webcast. “Please join us over on the Pixboox Passion Pit for Sloppy Seconds, friends!”

“We’re out,” Grundle sighed, bored as hell, and then Elliot shot to his feet.

“Gotta pee,” he announced, yawning.

“Wanna start now?” Shaved Pubes sounded greedy, a kid in a candy store. He was producing a nice hard-on, I’d say that for him.

“Hell fuck no.” I knew I sounded brusque, but I had things to do. “I have to manage the subscribers until the Whang gets back. So hold your horses.”

“What’s your name?”

“Bubbles,” I snapped, “and remember your consent and release forms. I tell you to stop, you stop. No question. And no cumming inside me.”

“No problem.” He licked his lips. “You’re so hot.”

I gave him a thin smile. “Thanks.” I decided then and there to get this dude off as quickly as I possibly could. I squinted into his crotch. “You’ve got a mole on your taint. Anyone ever tell you that?”

He lifted his leg, unabashed, and leaned over in a deep curl to try to get a look. It was not an attractive pose. “Want to come show me?”

I gazed at the rough skin of his perineum, the beefy curve at the back of his thigh, and the winking pucker of his asshole. “No, thank you.” My mind was reading him, evaluating, trying to figure out the fastest way to get him to unload.

So I didn’t waste time with a whole lot of foreplay. The guy was a sophomore, just nineteen, and I was thinking he’d blow his wad pretty quickly if I just started fucking him. I let the camera catch me weighing his ballsack on my tongue, then batted my eyelashes at Grundle’s lens as I let my cheeks hollow deeply in a loud, eager-looking suck at his head, but I was thinking I’d just go ahead and mount him as soon as possible.

Alas, though, he had other plans: he surprised me, as I tongued his cock, by reaching down and plunging two fingers right up into my cooze. Distantly, I wondered how wet I was, but it obviously didn’t matter to him as he got more handsy. Then I decided not to put up a fight when he flipped me over and started in on a voracious 69. Though I’d done many (it looked great on camera), this was hardly my favorite position.

Still, I persevered. I made sure Grundle could see as I took my gum out of my mouth and strung it out, wrapping it around his shaft before sucking it back into my mouth. A trademark Bubbles move, that, and hopefully for the last time.

He wanted to stay on top, I could see, when I finally got him to get his face out of my twat and replace it with his dick. He was pretty nimble as he scooted between my thighs and gave me a roguish grin, his hand busy down below guiding himself into me.

Syntax.

Meter.

Free verse.

Walt Whitman.

The camera did not shy away from my brillo-pad pubes meeting the smooth skin at his root, zooming in as the kid sped up and rammed me. He was apparently fond of short, fast rabbit-thrusts, the kind which would make his balls swing dramatically, a fact not lost on Grundle; his camera was soon down at a low angle, aiming up at the back of his scrotum.

Capturing the mole, no doubt.

“The audience is offering two hundo if you’ll pull out and spread your cock across her tits. Then lick ’em!”

I watched as if it was happening to another person, Shaved Pubes straddling me and wiping my vag-sauce and his pre-cum in titillating circles around my nipples.

Ballad.

Endstopped line.

Quatrain.

Sonnet.

“Doggy!” The Whang was calling out directions as if he was running a squaredance, and Shaved Pubes obligingly stopped so I could gather my legs beneath me and flip neatly over onto my hands and knees, the couch protesting underneath us. “Oh! Wait,” Elliot went on just as I felt his knees position themselves, “they want the prone-bone now.”

I felt Shaved Pubes pause, one hand pawing my butt, twisting around to look at the Whang. “What’s that?”

“Here.” I slid down onto my belly and arched my hips back, pivoting my slit upward. “Slide in from behind with my legs together.”

“Oh.”

“It’s hot,” I assured him. “Not that deep, though.”

“Oh.” He lay on top of me and went into sort of a pushup motion, then froze when I burst out laughing. “What the fuck?” He sounded pissed.

“No, hon. Put your legs outside mine. Just, like, straddle me.” I gave him a warm smile as I corkscrewed back to look at him, but I could see he hadn’t liked me laughing at him. Not one bit.

Dactylic hexameter.

Spondee.

Metaphor.

This goddamn guy was still at it, thrusting with those unsatisfying little pokes while I screamed out a Tony-award-winning orgasm, selling it hard. He had stamina though, still pushing, now under me because some rube had spent a few hundred to watch me ride once more. Dammit, I thought dimly; we should have announced that this was my last fuck. We’d have made more money.

Missed opportunity.

His strength had not vanished with his hair, and all at once a poem came to me, something on the theme of Samson, with me as Delilah thinking about how to sap his fucking strength, and that’s why I laughed again, in exhilaration this time, as I thrashed atop him, my hips as precisely calibrated as ever, grinding down on him as his hands clamped my boobs.

Yeah, I told myself, I bet he didn’t like that laugh either, but by then he was smacking my hip, pushing me off him with his face contorted in that unmistakeable masculine way that tells a woman when he’s about to spurt, so I hopped off him with my pussy still gaping and hit the floor, my eyes looking up as his lively little balls jiggled with the speed of his hand on his shaft, coaxing his semen out for me.

And? Given all the laughing I’d done? I guess I couldn’t blame him for getting half of it in my hair and the other half in my eyes, the fucking jerk. But I played my part, still hearing dollar signs in the wild staccato pinging from El’s laptop, my tongue flicking up the last of his cum off the tip of his dick while I waited patiently to clear it out of my eyes.

And after he’d gone home and I’d done my best with my hair in the studio’s little bathroom, Elliot gave me a long hug. “Well. You certainly sold it, Bunny.”

* * *

A feast they wanted, a party, celebrating

The power of the man they’d long been seeking.

“A spectacle! A party! A time of cheering!”

As their enemy performed for them.

And so he did.

But then he found his strength abating.

Shorn but hairy, Gaza bloodlust slaking,

He surged. He strained. He glared sightless, peering,

And he never saw the walls collapse.

And so he died.

I opened my eyes at the end of the recitation, glancing over to see Professor Tirado sitting there with her mouth wide open. “Holy shit, Christa,” she said, shaking her head, “where did that come from? It’s raw.”

“It’s okay.” I smiled, uncomfortable in a tanktop and skirt. Vaguely, I wondered how long it would take me to get used to wearing clothes on camera. “It’s personal. It came from a place of really deep emotion, at a moment in my life where I was making a transition.” I thought about Jason and his vanquished pubes. “It’s symbolic. Some people are stronger than you wish they were. They last longer than you want them to.”

“So… they should quit?”

I thought about how much shampoo it had taken to get his sperm out of my hair. “They should think about others. Not just themselves.”

“Topical, too. The Gaza reference…”

“It’s got more to it than meets the eye,” I nodded, making this up as I went along, “just like Samson did.”

Tirado dabbed at her eyes, and it amazed me that the tears looked real. Holy shit. I smiled at her and handed her a Kleenex. “So thanks, Pixboox buddies, for tuning into this inaugural edition of Rime Time With Christa The Modern Mariner, where we discuss all things poetry, friendship, and life in general. I’d especially like to thank Dr Lynne Tirado, an old friend of mine who’s replacing me on Nude Mood With Bubbles And The Whang.” I winked at Grundle, who was only charging me fifty an hour for this. Made sense; he didn’t have to move, and he didn’t have to think about the right camera angle for a cumshot. “Though she’s certainly no Bubbles,” I ad-libbed, leaning over to smack lightly at her tits.

“Oh, I could never be Bubbles.” She went scarlet. “Never.”

“But join Lynne and the Whang on their next exciting Nude Mood webcast, coming to the Bubblewhang Passion Pit along with this Rime Time show. Thanks again!”

“We’re out.” Grundle squinted at his screen. “Shit. Five thousand views in just the second half. Over eleven thousand total.”

“Wow. No shit?”

“No shit.” He gave me a thumbs-up. “And it went out live, so I don’t even need to do post-production. Everybody’s happy.” He was already packing up his shit. “Call me when you want to do another show.”

“Thanks!”

* * *

Home.

At the end of a lane.

At the end of a journey.

At the end of a night.

Home.

* * *

“How’d it go?” Tyler took my hand as I punched in my doorcode. I wasn’t surprised he was waiting in my dorm room. “I wanted to come by, but practice only just ended. I wouldn’t have made it. And I had to stop by Samurai’s.” He gestured at Jenn’s bed, where he’d left a nice carrot-cake muffin. “For you. To celebrate your first show.”

“Fuck. Thank you so much. It, uh, it went fine.” I looked up at his eyes, and that was when I realized how worried I’d been. The idea of starting a fucking poetry webcast, live, without any kind of gimmick, wasn’t something I’d have been able to make myself try without this man. I took a deep breath. “Really fine. It drew over ten thousand views.”

His eyebrows rose. “Live?”

“Live,” I sobbed, but it was a happy sob, a sob of tension sweeping through me and out of me, then falling with me into the ring of Tyler’s warm arms.

“I got you.” I heard it in his chest, his heart, his lungs vibrating right beside my head as I lay it against the broad wall of his chest, his whole body strong with the clean smell of sweat from his hockey practice. One of his hands found the base of my spine, the other the back of my neck, and I melted into him. “Come on. Lie down.”

“I want my muffin,” I said into his shirt.

“No. I want your muffin,” he laughed, hand patting my ass, and then I was looking up and seeing eyes and mouth and tongue, and I craned high to meet his lips. We both moaned. Three months now, and the magic was the same: magnetic. Powerful. Familiar, somehow, as if the two of us had been together for years, or forever. He lifted me easily off the carpet, my feet climbing his legs, thighs clinging to his as our kiss deepened, tongues dueling.

And I stopped thinking about the poetry show. Or poetry in general. Or Elliot and Lynne. Or that carrot-cake muffin. All I thought about was him, the strength in his arms, the way he held me up in mind and body, and the next time my mouth came off his, it was time. I inhaled deeply and moved my lips to his ear. “I think I love you, Tyler Schiff.”

“Oh.” He stiffened against me, his whole body taut. “So… I can’t fuck Elliot again?”

“No,” I purred, “you cannot.”

“Good.” He waited until I came back into sight, then sat carefully on my bed with my legs astride his lap, my face hopeful and intent as he laid his big hands on my cheeks. “Because I don’t want to. I love you too, Christa.”

Well. Fuck. Those choirs of angels just wouldn’t shut up these days, and this time when I kissed him my sob was a little different: still emotional from the show, but now there was more. So much more. I took his tongue into my mouth, feeling complete as I did, wanting all of him as badly as I had that first night.

It dawned on me suddenly that I had him. Fully.

I lifted his shirt over his head, craving his skin, his body, and it didn’t surprise me when I felt his fingers doing the same thing with my tanktop. We didn’t even need to talk anymore about how we longed to be naked together, how that exposure, that closeness, mattered so much. I raised my arms with a sense of freedom, my tanktop sailing away as Tyler whipped his hands down to snap my bra off. And suddenly there we were, close, topless, nipples pressed together as I ran my fingers up and down his massive arms.

The man was perfection.

He clasped me to him, his hands splayed on my back, our kisses growing hungrier and wetter. I knew he’d be hard, knew I should undo his pants and pull it out, but that would mean climbing off him. And I wasn’t ready to do that yet. But I would be soon, my skirt up around my hips, showing him the crotch of my panties if he cared to look down.

He didn’t. He let his fingers do his looking, instead.

I flung my head back off his face as I felt strong, thick fingers steering into my panties, then slipping into the hot juice of my needy pussy. I heaved forward, crushing his hand against me, giving him my tongue again as his thumb started strumming my clit.

Instantaneously, this guy could get me there. All at once. And he did, my body arching off his, tongue spearing straight down past his teeth along with a long, keening breath as I started to shake. “Your pants,” I husked, thinking about how my cunt would be drooling all over them, “I need them off.”

He jabbed his fingers deep once more, feeling me writhe atop him, then nodded with heavy eyelids. “Up,” he grunted, heaving me off him; I scrambled to my feet on shaky legs, just barely on the right side of a smashing orgasm, and shimmied out of my skirt and, along with it, the seventh or eighth pair of underwear this guy had wrecked.

Not that I cared.

It never failed to make me catch my breath, seeing his cock come into view. Knowing I’d made it hard, that it was going to split me open. I marched toward him as his pants slipped down, my finger plucking at my clit, but it was a sorry substitute for his long, certain hand and an even sorrier one for his dick, which stuck up high and thick now as he sat his bare ass down on my bed and stared up at me.

So I planted my knees on either side of his thighs, feeling the heat off his body as it reached out toward mine, and when I slid forward and felt the warm steel of his hard-on touch my clit, I moved that much higher. “Put it in me,” I demanded, whispering, begging, my hips swinging up to lift my slit up to kiss his smooth, trembling head.

And that’s when I came, on the tip of his cock.

I gasped and buried my face in his neck, pussy fluttering all up and down its length as I sank down onto him, the hot bolts hurtling from behind my cunt to every part of my body. I gave everything to him, taking every thick inch, sinking down to his root and then trying to push even farther, desperate to feel him deep. I wrapped my arms and legs tight around him, impaled. As close as I could be to him.

And when at last my eyes eased open, fighting tears, I saw his face staring softly back at mine. “I do, you know. Love you,” he whispered.

“Oh my god,” I quavered, overwhelmed. I’d never felt anything close to this before, mind and body, totally filled in every way. “I love you too. I can’t…” I was gone, flying high and far. But then he smiled, radiant, and he kissed me again, and it didn’t matter that I couldn’t find words. Because he was words, and acts, and deeds, and feelings. So many feelings.

And still I came, my entire body on fire, the two of us collapsing on our sides, onto the narrow bed where we’d done this so many times before. But everything was different now. I kissed him again and then slid my legs down under him, telling him I needed him above, smothering me, nailing into my body with all the force he had in those glorious muscles of his.

“Fuck me,” I gasped out, but he already was, drilling deep and hard with long, easy strokes, riding that amazing dick into me like I was his whore, his sleeve. Like he wanted to fill me, wanted me to be the one who took his cum. Like he needed to show me what I did to him.

Like I was his love. And now I knew that I was.

I was watching wide-eyed as his face changed, hardening, looking almost cruel as he enjoyed what my body was doing to him. We moved unstoppably, flesh crashing together in sweaty slaps in time with our strangled moans and the harsh grate of the bedframe against the side of my desk where it had migrated with the force of his thrusts, and all the while he kissed me feverishly, his eyes open so that he could see mine close.

He braced his knees against the mattress, speeding up, my pussy gripping him as hard as I could tighten my muscles before, with a final arching shove, he planted himself deep inside my cunt and let himself go, flooding me in hard, eager pulses I could feel as long twitches from his dick, flexing hard, flooding me.

He collapsed onto my overheated body, but I wanted him to. I kissed whatever I could reach: lips, jaw, nose, neck, and then when my lips found his ear, I whispered, “Stay inside me. Please.”

He nodded, both of us deflating. “Always,” he breathed.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Be sure to give five stars to all your favorite Nude Day Contest entries.