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The Further Adventures of Muttley - Part 1b
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
The Further Adventures of Muttley Part 1b. (mf, true, mild bondage)
This is part 1b. If you did not read 1a (which was conveniently
labeled 1, so as to add confusion to everything, I can't do things
the easy way.), this will make no sense.
**************************************
Once again, I'm writing from the
perspective of "The Storyteller",
a young man in his early 20s, with
a more than slightly cynical view
of teenage years. (OK, I'm writing
it from my own perspective.) I thought
at first about writing fiction, completely,
but when it came right down to it,
my life is stranger than fiction,
and a hell of a lot funnier. So, when
I started writing, it came out as
a continuation of My Life, and
is, once again, for the most part
true. (Conversations changed,
some bits were omitted (for example,
I leave out the bit where I catch
my friend fucking his dog, mostly
because I can't get the dog to
sign a waiver.), but it remains fairly
true to life. Anything you don't
believe, write to [email protected].
That poor bastard had to put up
with my shit, and didn't even believe
it when he saw it. I've left the
poor fucker scarred for life. ANYWAY
It continues from the time at which My Life
stops, and continues through whenever
I get done having sex for the rest of
my life. Guess it's going to be pretty
long.
And another thing. I got a letter,
(I am not making this up) asking me if I
even remotely respected these girls for
their minds. Let's see. I spent over two years
with one, even though we only saw each other
at best every other month for about
2 days. I'm sorry, if I'm just after sex,
I'll do it with out paying AT&T 3/4 of my
annual gross each month. Barb, well, I
actually thought that I loved her. Tee hee
hee. That one hurt. Please do *not* write
me that kind of crap. I'm more into
solid relationships than most women I know.
Before calling me a sexist pig, read the
fucking story. And think about the forum,
too. This isn't alt.romance. It's alt.SEX.STORIES.
That means, believe it or not, THERE'S GOING TO
BE A LOT OF SEX IN THERE. Wow! What a novel
fucking concept. (Forgive me. I just *really*
thought that letter was moronic.)
And with that out of the way,
we launch into:
***********************************
Legal Bullshit (tm)
This story, as per usual, is not copyrighted, so distribute it freely.
Get my name out there, people. I'd like a publisher to stumble across
it and write to me. That's every author's dream, and I, for one, would
like to have something go right. All I ask is that you leave the story
intact, leave my name on it, and if you do steal it and publish it,
I'll hunt you down and do nasty things to you. (Read "Evil" if you didn't.)
The characters in this story, save for yours truly, are real, but I have
no consent of theirs to use them shamelessly in my story. There
is no intentional reference to any person, living or dead,
other than the poor fuckers who wander into my life, or their actions,
or any of that other happy horseshit, so kindly don't sue me if I somehow
write your life's story. (Something about the reverse of monkeys with
typewriters producing Shakespeare. With 5,000,000,000 people in the world, it
is quite possible that some of this happened to someone, and with my
luck it's some bastard lawyer out for a buck. (Boy, there's a switch, eh?)
Anyway, if there's any similarity between you and my story, please cease
to exist, so that I don't have to worry about you suing me. Thanks in
advance.)
Anyway, the moral of the Legal Bullshit is that I really don't
mean to write about anyone else who exists, anything they did, or anything
else like that, so please please please don't sue me. Got it?
*********************************
And that leads us to........
[I'm putting in the last paragraph of part 1. If you didn't
receive it or read it, E-mail me, I'll get you a copy. Oh!
while I'm thinking about it, someone wanted a copy of Evil.
If anyone out there saved it, I didn't, and I'd like a copy.
Thanks in advance!]
When she (the first phrase that came to mind is "came to." Didn't
seem appropriate.) recovered, (to the point where she could move. Nothing
short of sudden violent death could have removed that shiteating grin
from her face for another couple of days.), she purred something about
owing me five. She also mentioned something about not leaving until
she gave me what she owed me. I think the whole apartment complex hated us
after that night.
____________________________________________________________________
The Further Adventures of Muttley : Part 1b
Ah, Sex. Ain't it Great?
Now, as you know, this girl was just recovering from a nice,
long, multiple orgasm. She was, well, more than happy, and wanted
to repay the favor. Did you think that *I* was about to stop her?
She reached over into the nightstand where I keep my condoms.
(How the hell she knew I kept them there, I don't know. I knew she had
been at the party (after she told me), but I also knew that no one had
gone into my bedroom. (And, damn, I was disappointed about that.))
She quickly unpacked it, placed it in her mouth, and rolled it down my
shaft with her lips. (Who says safe sex has to be boring, right? I
didn't see it killing the moment, and I most *certainly* felt everything.
Ladies, if a man tells you that he's not going to wear his raincoat,
tell him that he's just not allowed to play in the rain, then. Things
can be made interesting enough, none of the spark gets lost. And chances
are, you won't die or become a mother, either. I think just the relaxation
that stems from that should be enough to make up for any feeling he claims
he'll lose.) Anyway, she finally unrolled it to the tip, and then
rolled me over on top of her. Beggars can't be choosers, so I took the
top. (Later I found out that she prefers female dominant, and just
took the bottom because she thought I'd prefer the top. What a sweet
girl.) At this point, she was so sopping wet, I could slide my shaft
clear up to the hilt in one stroke. That sensation alone made her dig her
nails into my back like she was trying to tear out my ribs. (I'll admit.
There are some advantages to being on top. That's the big one.) I felt the
blood trickle down my back, little droplets hitting the sheets. (Want
to get my attention? Shred my back with your nails. I'll be your slave
for life. (And *man* does my SO exploit that. "Mikey, will you cook me
dinner?", scrape scrape scrape...how can I say no?))
My mind went blank. I was entirely focused on the sounds she was
making, and what it was that I did to cause it. When I found one I liked,
such as that lovely, lovely, quick breath, I'd keep doing what I was doing.
When I found one that made her claw and bite, I stayed with that, stroking
in my usual style. (If you've read the other story, you know that somehow,
I don't know how, I make love different from anyone else on the planet.)
I felt her breathing subside to moans, then to screams.
"Oh, yes! I'm cumming!", she bellowed, much to the amusement of
the rest of the apartment complex. (Remember, the walls were, at best,
made of thin paper.) (I do know that my neighbors were more than slightly
ticked the next morning. They were jealous, and *tired*.)
It's the ego thing. You see, that was number six. Just that thought
alone, coupled with the fact that she bit off a chunk of my shoulder,
was enough to send me into orbit. And talk about buildup. Man, I thought
I was going to fill that damn rubber and have to grab a second one just
to finish the orgasm I was on. (That's how it felt, anyway. In reality,
there probably wasn't all that much.) God, that's a great feeling.
When we both could focus on a single thought other than, "Wow!"
for a second or two, she looked me in the eye, and in that oh-so-sexy
voice said, "That's one." As far as I was concerned, we were even already.
I hadn't felt that great in months. But, Oh, goodie, the joys of being young!
Still hard as a rock. {evil grin} We tossed the spent condom in the trash,
(actually, I flung it at the wall. I couldn't find the trashcan. I wanted
to see if it would stick.), grabbed another one, and kept going.
This time, she was on top of me. (Ooo-rah!) Those gorgeous tits
hanging right in my face, great view of her perfect, pale body, contrasted
by that shock of red hair...the only thought that would come to mind is,
"There is a God. God is Good. God likes me. God is most definately male,
or else I wouldn't have these beautiful breasts hanging in my face. I
owe Him *big* time." (Seriously, Ladies. Y'all complain that they get in
your way. Do you think that if God was a woman you'd have them? No. Do
you think cramps would exist? No. Pumps, nylons, girdles? No. Have to
pass an object the size of a watermelon through an opening the size of
a golf ball to continue the species? No. God is, w/o a doubt, male.)
As we worked on finding a rythym that she liked, (my philosophy
on sex is, "Do what *she* likes." That way, you can almost guarantee that
there will be a repeat performance. See, Ladies, most of the time, with
men, you don't have to be good or bad, you just have to be there. Now,
there is the odd exception, i.e., my ex-fiancee. If I could get away
with painting my nails, I would have taken sex with her as the opportunity
to get it done. There are probably necrophiliacs who wouldn't sleep with
her more than once because she was such a dead lay. Like I said, we used
to talk politics during sex so I would be hard pressed to find a reason to
leave. Seriously, how many people do you know who, the more excited they
get, the more still they become. It's like she was practicing for rigor
mortis. (Eileen is not a good subject to get me on. I can rail for
*hours*.) (Oh, YUCK! Whose fucking idea was sour cherry gum? Excuse me,
I gotta spit this shit out. Not that you'll notice the time lapse.) Where
was I? Ah, yes. Do what she likes. Got it.), I let my hands explore every
area of her body, her legs, her back, her sides- (do *not* *EVER* tickle
someone who has your dick in her unless you want any and all circulation
to your poor pecker cut off. Do not induce laughter, coughing, and
whatever you do, don't make her tense. I don't care if she's so loose that
you can drive a semi up into her, turn around and drive back out, when
she laughs, it is like fucking the vice out in the garage. Trust me.)
Everywhere. She had leaned over and started rubbing those huge mounds
of succulent flesh in my face, and so, being the good samaritan that I
am, I was kind enough to lick them clean for her. (Can't seem self-
centered, that would be bad, as my SO likes to read these.) Yes. I
am definately a breast man. If I have to be reincarnated, I want to be
a breast. (I can hear you saying it. "Man, the little fucker's finally
lost his tiny little mind. Poor guy.") So we were, needless to say, both
pretty happy.
Mike, (my roomate) has learned to knock. He walked into my room,
chanting something about leaving the stereo on, and just stopped mid
sentence. (Not that *that*'s anything unusual. Mike's a great guy,
but eloquence is not his primary asset, if you catch my drift. The man
can fix any car, and he's a workhorse, but he's just not much for talking.
(And he's the best roomate anyone can hope for. I like living with quiet
people.)) But it's not too often that his jaw just drops. Mike and I have
the same opinion of redheads, they're proof of a loving God. He was
hypnotized. Lisa, being more on the ball than me (pun not intended, dammit.),
asked him for a favor.
"Could you go next door and tell Jen that I probably won't be
home tonite, and to just go on out without me?", she asked so sweetly that
I thought I was going to go into insulin shock. He managed to get the
apartment door closed, if he didn't quite do the same for my door.
"She's been hot for him since he moved in, and is scared to death
of talking to him. Hee hee hee...this should be good.", she said.
(Mike never made it home that night. More than once, we heard them
moaning through those ever so thin apartment walls. College Towers is
*the* place.)
So, here I was, lodged inside this fantastic woman, and we're
moving along quite well. Both of us just sort of, well, coasting.
(I can't think of a better word. You know, that feeling of just enjoying
the sensations but being nowhere near orgasm? What the hell is that called?
I think it's like plateau or something, (some dusty textbook will tell
me), no clue, tho.) The phone rings. The answering machine picks up.
(I screen my calls. I'm sick of the assholes at Mastercard wrecking my day.)
Guess who is on the phone. Yep, Mom. She knows I'm there because she's in
the lobby and can see my car. She's coming up.
Knowing that CT has the slowest elevators in the state, we leisurely
get dressed, and go sit on the loveseat, both grinning like madmen, and
cuddled together. Mom, true to form, just barges her ass right on in.
To this day, I wonder if we shouldn't have just sat there naked on the
couch. The first thing she bitched about was that nasty hole in the wall,
and why didn't we at least clean up the plaster, and why were there all these
bottles lying around since I'm not 21 and when the hell are Mike and I going
to do some good old-fashioned housekeeping, and when am I going to get
back together with Eileen (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha), and
who the hell is that?
"Lazy, Mike and I are severe drunks, not in this life, ditto,
and Lisa. Lisa, meet the wicked witch of the west. Mom, Lisa.", I said.
"I brought you some new shirts. (Oh, great! Just what I always
wanted. More $7 tee shirts. I wear a suit to work every day, when I'm
not in a suit, I wear rugby shirts. I do not like T-shirts. This woman
thinks that if she buys enough of them, I'll wear them.) I'll just put
them in your drawer.", she said, heading into my room.
I had forgotten about the condom stuck to the wall, the two packages
that were left on the bed, and the one that I had left on the floor after
she had called. Mom may not have much of a clue, but she sure has good eyes.
"WHATTHAFUCKIZTHIS?!?!?!?!", she screamed.
It dawned on me what she was talking about. "Contraceptives.", I
said, a little too nonchalantly. "People use them when they want to fuck
like bunnies and not have a family from it."
"YOUR FATHER WOULD HAVE A FIT!"
(Dad's a catholic, Mom's a Jew. Dad's fine with me using birth
control, in fact, he used to buy it for me on a regular basis. Mom on the
other hand, uses his religion as an excuse to complain that I'm having sex
at all.)
"Actually, Ma, dad bought those. While you're going through
my room, want me to show you my collection of handcuffs, whips and chains?"
Lisa's eyes opened to about the size of mangos. I whispered that
I didn't really have any of that stuff, I was jut fucking with Mom's mind,
and she looked so crestfallen. That gave me more than one idea.
"Hmmmph. Just wait until your father hears about this."
Now, for the first 20 years of my life, the most common phrase
in my house was, "When you live under your own roof, you can do what you
please, but as long as you're in *my* house, you live by *my* rules." I
voiced my sentiment and the fact that I was indeed under my own roof and
she had no jurisdiction over my life for the remainder of it, (little did
I know that I'd be moving home so soon.), and would she kindly fuck off
so I could finish what I was doing. She *stormed* out. (Ever watch your
mom when she gets so pissed she can't talk? She knows that she can't over-
power you anymore, and nothing she says will make a difference. It makes
up for 20+ years of her shit.)
Lisa turned to me. "Mike, I don't know how to tell you this, but
your mom's a fucking psycho."
This was not news to me. To me, it's a wonder I didn't turn out
like Norman Bates. My mother has more than one loose screw. (Ever see
Apocolypse Now? "Kurtz got off the boat. He split from the whole fucking
program." Every time I watch that movie, that line makes me think of
my mother.)
"Now, about those handcuffs, you do or don't have them?", she
asked.
"Don't."
"What have you got?"
A quick mental inventory of my house left me with bungee cord,
some rope and some extension cord. {malicious grin}
(Side note : my friends and I have little creativity contests.
The phrase starts with, "Give me..." and ends with, "...and there is
nothing I can't accomplish." One person names all the objects to give
him, the others try to come up with uses for them. You win if you can
get an object in there that you've found a use for and no one else can.
I consistently win with, "Give me 20 feet of garden hose, 8 pairs of
handcuffs, a swimming pool filled with warm jello, a beach ball, (that's
the one that stumps them every time.), 35 gallons of wesson oil,
a can of spray whipped cream, 2 nuns and a goat, and there's nothing
I can't accomplish." One day, someone's going to call my bluff and
see just what I can accomplish with it, but until then, I still
win. (And, yes, I've thought of a use for each and every item. Have you?)
Anyway, when I started to list the items that I had, the first thing
that came to mind is, "...and there is nothing that I can't accomplish.")
I told her of my possessions, she helped me round them up. Then
she went next door for a few seconds, and came back with a box.
"They're going at it like a couple of minks who got into the
Spanish Fly. I don't think we'll be seeing them. Right there on my couch,
too! If your friend leaves a wet spot, I'm going to cut three inches off
his dick."
I made some mention about her not wanting to dig an inch into his
body to do that, and asked what was in the box. (Of course, the two inch
thing wasn't entirely true. I walked in on him once, he's hung like a
goddamned elephant. It's a wonder to me that any woman would touch the
thing..seeing as he could tickle her tonsils with it while she was
screwing him. I swear, his dick is about the size and shape of most men's
shins. I'd hate to be the poor girl impaled on that....yeesh!)
She informed me that my little comment was wrong, too, he could
put most oxen to shame with his dick, and opened the box. She produced
a pair of handcuffs. "I stole these from Jen, I don't think she'll mind.",
she cooed. I was intrigued, I'd never done any bondage before. Now, a long
time ago, when I first got my waterbed, I noticed that the guy I had bought
it from had installed these massive eye-hooks on the wooden sides. Me,
being a feeb, never quite figured out what they were for. It struck me then.
I mentioned that to her, and her eyes lit up.
She had never done the bondage thing before, and she said that she'd
like to tie me down. (Oh, no. Please do not torture me like that. Evil, evil.
If you tie me down I don't know what I'll do. Also, don't feed me cheesecake
while I'm chained prone like that. And whatever you do, don't find a way to
get under me and claw at my back. Naughty, naughty.) Sarcasm above not
withstanding, she took all my clothes back off, (More cruel torture. How
can I stand it?), laid me on my back, and put one cuff on my left hand.
She threaded the other cuff through the eyehook in the center of my
headboard, and the cuffed my other hand. (And most importantly, don't
send out a squadron of beautiful, large breasted redheads to do a strip
tease for me. That's just too much torture for me.) I was already
sort of enjoying myself. The last time I had been handcuffed, I was cuffed
to a desk at Stow PD, calling my dad to tell him Happy B-day, and, oh,
BTW - could you come by and get me out of jail? (I tried driving a Honda
civic through someone's yard. I didn't know that their yard was a swamp.
It promptly sank.) This time, someone wasn't going to be throwing me in a
cell, I was going to be *tortured*. :)
Then she wrapped the bungee cord around my ankles, threaded that
through the eye hooks in the far corners of the bed, and fastened them.
For good measure she wrapped the extension cord around my elbows.
(Like I was in any danger of getting out of the handcuffs, even if I had
wanted to.)
Then, contrary to what I thought was going to happen, she actually
*did* torture me. Remember what happened last time she tried to give me
a blow job? Well, she started doing all those things again, and then
started deep-throating my cock. {Big evil grin}. Then, when she could tell
that I was about to blow a wad the size of NYC down her throat, she stopped,
and just started licking my legs. This went on for over an hour. My poor dick
was *screaming* for release. Then *I* started begging for release. That's
what she was after.
I've often heard the phrase, "She could suck a quart of oil through
the Alaskan Pipeline." Lisa, without a doubt could do that. I thought she
was going to suck my eyeballs out through my dick. I went off like a 21
gun salute, and let out a whoop of joy to celebrate. With delicate and
ladylike precision, she picked up one of my socks and spat my seed into
it. (Now, had I still lived at home, my goddamned dog would have
snuck into the room at that point and destroyed those socks. He did when
I moved back home anyway, but I at least got to wear them a few more
times before that. Anyone want a dog? Sort of a chow/newfoundland mix?
Real cute, but eats argyle socks. Only argyle socks. No white socks.)
I was in no mood to complain. "That's two." She said. "Three to
go." I was almost thankful that she wasn't going to up her debt to me
every time she came, too, because of what it took out of me when she
made me cum. (Talk about high energy. What's great is, it seems that
the better *I* get at sex, the better my partners get, too. (Except for
Eileen, and I really don't like thinking about how much better my life
would be if she hadn't wasted so much of it.))
She nursed my waning prick back to health, or at least conciousness.
She was downright determined to get all five in before she left. I,
on the other hand, was more than keen to wait on them, because that would
insure she'd come back. I wanted to work on her some more. Then I felt
something that took my mind completely off of that thought.
Gentlemen, until this happens to you, you'll never have *any*
idea what it's like. No amount of imagination, fantasizatition, or
masturbation can prepare you for the experience, particularly if you
have a mild case of breast fixation. (Can you guess what she did? I knew
you could!) There really is no way to put it into words. I'll try tho.
It's like actually being inside her, but it's not as warm, and only
slicked by sweat, causing a little more friction, but the skin is so
soft and supple that even if her skin was bone dry you wouldn't care
that she was taking all the skin off of your dick. Particularly when they're
that large. I actually thought my brain would melt.
Now, I read that if a man drinks lots of OJ, he can have up
to 6 orgasms a day. Naturally, after reading that, Mike and I damn
near bought out Tropicana. (It's the only one that gets all its oranges
from the states. The rest get some from Mexico. I didn't even know that
Mexico had oranges, but I've heard about thier water, and am not
taking chances. (Of course, the fact that it's cheaper than any other
brand on the market didn't have anything to do with it. And I'm George
Bush.)) So, it's pretty safe to say that we drink more than our fair
share of OJ. Who cares if it's usually mixed with Schnapps? (Gotta take
the sting out, man, gotta take the sting out. And I do, without question,
make the world's best Fuzzy Navel. (Being a bartender at Red Lobster
didn't hurt.) I also make the world's second best Long Island Iced Tea,
beaten only by Joann over at Chi-Chi's in Cuyahoga Falls, but that's
a different story.) (Why are you telling us this, Mike? Shaddup and read!)
Anyway, so there is usually plenty of OJ in my system. I'm here to tell
you that I'm not sure about 6, but five is possible.
I think that she kept up what she was doing for about 35 minutes,
non-stop. Although it was the single most unique experience I had ever
had, I didn't want to burn out on it either, but there was nothing I could
do. (Remember, I was chained down.)
Finally, my dick, a little unwillingly, I might add, deposited
yet another payload, and seeing as there was no real buildup, it sort of
dribbled out. She cleaned up my mess, (that poor fucking sock), and
proceeded to release me. (Awwww....I was sort of enjoying myself.)
One of the best signs that you're getting old is what happens
to you after spending over 1 1/2 hours in the same position. For some
reason, you simply cannot move. So, being the sweet person that she is,
she loosened up all those muscles, so I could once again bend my arms,
legs, etc. This girl should be a masseuse. (I know I spelled it
wrong. Soon as I can figure out the i-spell in gemacs, I'll stop
misspelling words. But remember, like all good republicans, I cannot spell.
Potatoe. Just say Noe. Quai- Qual- Quayle.)
We lay in each others arms for a while. (We fell asleep again,
and oh, what a wonderful feeling that is. When we woke up, it was about
two in the morning. Eeep- missed 4 hours!) She was still asleep, so I
decided to make the most of it, gently manipulating her shoulders,
lovingly kneading all the muscles in her back, and I ran my fingers down
the length of her spine. I have *never* seen *anyone* go from deep sleep
to standing beside the bed wide eyed in less than one second.
"What was *THAT*?", she asked.
I told her to lay back down and did it again. I lightly dragged
a fingernail down from nape to buttox. She damn near cleared the bed.
A shiver ran up and down her. Hee hee...I was enjoying this.
"That's neat, but Keerist does it tickle.", she said. She is
the absolute first person other than me who I've *ever* heard use
that word. And just recently, I saw it in a Ren and Stimpy episode.
(Robin Hoek - when Ren's eyes pop out and are laying on top of the water,
one looks at the other and screams, "Kee-rist, man! Let's beat it!"
Smoke about a garbage bag full of hydro, and watch that episode. MAKE
SURE YOU TAKE A PISS BEFORE DOING SO. You'll be laughing so hard that
you will wet yourself if you don't. Speaking of which...hmmm..get that
garbage bag, some tapes of The Simpsons, Ren and Stimpy, and Mystery
Science Theater 3000, take a month leave of absence from work, bring
home the cereal aisle, and don't move till it's gone. You'll get
wonderous insight as to why those shows appeal to me.)
Well, from that point, it degenerated into a tickle fight.
I'll be the first to admit, I'm more ticklish than any human being I know.
You don't even have to actually touch me, just think about it and I'll
cringe. (e.g., I was at Cedar Point (local amusement park) last weekend with
Brian, his SO Marnie, and Julie, the girl who I *will* one day marry, or
die trying. Marnie and Brian decided that they were going to see just how
ticklish I am. They forgot that I'm also very, *very* highly strung.
I was standing behind Julie, when they came up behind me and nailed me
in the ribs. When I landed, I was about three people in front of Julie,
staring back in wide-eyed terror. The people who I had jumped past thought
I had lost my mind. (That thought runs rampant in the minds of people
who observe me. Maybe they're right.)) Finally, we're both in tears of
laughter, neither of us able to breathe, and as things often go, found
ourselves locked in (and I don't care what they say in "The Princess Bride".
I'm right!) *the* most passionate kiss of all time. (Get two scorpios in
bed together. Tell me that there is *any* possibility of more passion.)
It must have lasted, well, at least a good half hour before either of us
came up for air. And when she did, I just started working on her neck. Then
her chest. Then her stomach. Then it growled at me.
It's nice to know that I'm not the only person in the world to
whom sex gives an uncontrollable craving for bagels coated in cream cheese.
As far as my body is concerned, give me some OJ, a few bagels, some
cream cheese, and a beautiful woman, and I can have sex semi-continuously
for about a month. When her stomach growled, I asked her, "Wanna bagel?"
She asked me if I was a mind reader. It's *scary* what we had in common.
So, after toasting the bagels, (there is one way, and one way only to
make bagels right. First, cut them in half. (No shit, sherlock.) Then
put about 1/2 - 3/4 of an inch of Philly on them. Don't use that cheap
crap, Philly is the only good cream cheese. THEN AND ONLY THEN, pop
them in the toaster oven, and bake them until the cheese starts getting
brown spots. (Don't you *dare* say Oh, Gross! I'm half Dago, and half
polish Jew. If there's one thing on this earth I know, it's FOOD.
Bagels in particular. (Mom's influence.))), eating them, and hitting
the Scope (after that little 4 hour nap and some bagels, our breath was
in need of *serious* help.), we got back down to some serious fun.
"I seem to remember being about....here", I said, as I kissed my
way down her body. After tongue-ing the hell out of her bellybutton just
for good measure, I finished my little journey back to her love nest. Ah,
that lovely, lovely red pasture of thick curls, offset by that milky
white skin. (I'm telling you. There is *nothing* more beautiful than
a redhead. (And that includes Strawberry blonde in my book, and it's a
good thing, too, or Julie would kick my ass for that last statement.))
Somehow, I wasn't in the mood to let her get away without being teased.
(I wonder why....) Then a thought dawned on me.
I decided to go one step further than she did. After cuffing her,
bungee cording her ankles, (I didn't bother with the extention cord, all
it did was cut off circulation), I decided that I was going to also
blindfold her. (This kind of one-upmanship ran rampant throughout the
duration of what can safely be said to be the second best relationship
of my life.) The nice thing about always wearing suits is that one usually
has a wide selection of ties. I have this wonderful Tazmanian Devil tie,
so I covered her eyes with that. (Well, she had to have *something*
familiar in there with her...what with it being all dark and scary.)
(I know this is starting to drag on, but it was a hell of a
long night. And the day that I stop remembering the details is the day
I realize that I'm senile. Bear with me.)
I wandered off.
I came back.
I asked her if she was up for a little experiment.
She said yes.
I will never, for the rest of my life, believe what happened.
She was curious about the cracking sound she heard. I told
her to relax, and she did. I took the little object that I had in my hand,
and gently slid it all over her body. She said that it felt great, but was
really cold. What was it? I wouldn't say. Then I got really brave. I placed
it *in* her. I'm not sure what circumstances of physics conspired to allow
this to happen, but it did. (And I'll not forget this to my dying day.)
Apparently, every muscle in her body tensed up. The ice cube shot out,
passed my head, bounced off the wall in the foyer, back off the wall
by the door, hit the stereo, and turned it off. How in the fuck that
happened, I'll never know, but I think it's possible that she could work
as artillery for the army. I did not see the ice cube, I *heard* it whiz
past my ear.
"That was the neatest thing I have *ever* felt. What the hell
was it?", she asked.
"Uh...ice.", I mumbled.
"Wow! That was soooo cool!" (If you know how easy it is to set
me off, you know the kind of Herculean strength it took to keep from
bursting out in peals of maniacal laughter at *that* one.) "Do it again."
"Fuck that! You almost shot me in the head!", I sputtered.
"I promise that I won't do it again. I just didn't expect it, that's
all."
She kept her promise.
After moving ice all over just about every part of her body,
(My poor sheets. Blood, cum, water, sweat, spit, you name it, it was on
them.), until she couldn't stand it any more, she demanded that I
(and I will never forget this phrase), "fuck the shit out of her."
Sometimes, my brain develops this mild case of Turets. My mouth does
not check with my mind before saying what it's thinking. This only serves
to get me in trouble, and this was no exception.
"Wrong hole.", I said, giggling through my nostrils.
For the first time that evening, I was glad she was tied down.
For some reason, my mind hadn't stopped to think that her
body would be just a tad bit chilly due to all the ice that had been used.
Boy, was *that* a shock. (I had removed the blindfold before this).
She looked at the expression on my face and just howled with laughter.
Now, I told you before that when you're inside someone, and you make them
laugh, they can hurt you. The resulting look from *that* which appeared
just made her almost sob with peals of laughter. And this is the girl
who could launch an ice cube at the speed of sound. Anyone who tells
you that the jaw is the most powerful muscle in the body has never made
a woman laugh during sex. If there had been teeth, I would be Bobbittized.
When she managed to control herself to a reasonable degree, (I
figured out what the expression was, and could cause a case of the giggles
by looking at her like that for months afterward,), we managed to continue
onward.
(A thought just struck me. I've not met a single one of you, and
yet, you know more about me and my life than some people who are actually
a part of it. That's frightening. [shudder] Oh, well. I'm not exactly
a private person. For example, at a party once, I arrived naked. Just for
the hell of it. I have *no* secrets. Oh well.)
Over the next two hours, both of us came twice. The first time,
we came at different times.
That's when things started to really heat up.
I undid all of her bindings, and she literally *threw* herself
atop me. (Let me hear it, Gentlemen, "Oooo-RAH!") The force of that
knocked us out of the bed. (My waterbed is strange. If you sit on it,
it thinks that you're trying to hurt it, and defends itself.) Not that
we complained. She raked her nails across my chest, leaving open wounds
that most wolves would be proud of. (I really, *really* like that.)
As she started pumping herself up and down on my shaft, her breathing
became more and more rapid, and she started to whine as she exhaled.
(Music to my ears.) She started clawing like a cornered cat, anything
she could, and for the first time in years, I managed a second orgasm
in under 20 minutes. We both cried out in the sheer force of our
mutual climaxes, both of us being more and more turned on by watching the
other getting hotter.
When the shockwaves of pleasure subsided, she licked my ear, and
wispered in that soft, sultry voice, "That's five."
We spent the night where we lay, waking up to the entrance of
the ox I lived with.
"Jesus, people, it's 2:00 in the afternoon! Are you going to
spend the whole day asleep?", he asked.
Condoms don't only stick to walls. They stick to people, too.
Walls, however, don't throw them back at you.
(Mike is super paranoid. I don't think that he'll even kiss a
girl who he hasn't gone with to get at least five blood tests without
putting something between them. The idea of touching someone else's
condom sends him into a fit of hand-washing, showering, etc.
It was about an hour before we could get into the bathroom. )
As is the way with my life, all the good things come to an
end. After a few months of nights like the one I've been writing about,
she g-g-gr-gra-grad-graduated (I have trouble with that word. Some people
refuse to get married, some people have trouble with committment. I
refuse to graduate. I will be at Kent State until they give me a degree
and tell me to go away. I currently have the record for longest time spent
as a freshman, (also have the record of being the only person ever to
get kicked out of the same school twice in one semester. When you figure
out how that's possible, could you please explain it to me, I'm lost.),
but to beat one of the profs here, I have to drag out my ugrad to 18 years
to hold the record. I don't think I'll make it.
After she graduated, she said she'd keep in touch. We wrote letters,
made phone calls, (she moved back to NYC, where she hailed from), but
over time, the responses to my communiques became less and less frequent,
until nothing at all. {sniff} She was truly a gem, but, like I said, all
good things must come to an end. I've learned in my years, to enjoy
things while they last, because tomorrow might not be such a good day.
But, I still look forward to getting up in the mid-afternoon. (I am
anything but a morning person.) And, if all goes well, maybe I'll
have some more stories about my life for you. Maybe.
***********************************************************
That ends "The Further Adventures of Muttley" part one.
(I've decided that instead of changing titles every time that I write
a sequal to "My Life", I'll keep them under the same subj. header,
make everyone's life easier.)
Critiques, comments, questions, requests for copies,
fan mail, will all be responded to, but please give me some time.
Flames will be roundfiled. (Although, I've not seen one for the
"My Life" series. "Evil" didn't go over all that well, tho! Yeesh!)
Have a good night, y'all, I'm off to bed. (What?!?!?! Can't
be! It's not even 5:00 yet!)
Michael P. Simone
Muttley
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