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The Slut featuring sensational Maxine

Schizophrenic hypersexual Helen makes love with the strangest friends. Is she needy, depressed, lonely – or is she  just insane?

Helen hesitated, opened the lid, breathed, and there they were. Bright, tall, pink, strong, stalks. Her first forced rhubarb of the season. Reaching for it, she slid her hand along the firmest stalk till she felt the tender base, the bit where the stalk met rhizome, then pulled. Her fingers felt a thin wet jus lining the stalk, the same thin mucus that lubricated his straining shaft last night, as she straddled him, squatting on his sweating chest, stretching him to the very limit of her indecency:

‘Reaching for you, baby,’ she’d said…

Helen slid her soft hand along his turgid stalk until she felt his tender base, the taut bit where his stem met his heavy sac, then pulled. Her fingers caressed his rigid shaft eagerly brandishing the root, rubbing his shoot, squeezing the tender fresh growth until thin jus oozed out: his slick mucus coating his stiff gland, soiling him. Dampening the palm of her soft, smooth, deft hand, she continued.

‘Stretching you, stretching that stalk of yours, imagining you’re my blade and I’m your sheath: sheathing you as you spurt your thick, fertile seed inside me, covering me in your seeds. I’m pretending you’re licking my flesh, tickling, teasing me, your teeth tearing out my veinous, pliant, leaves.’

Helen slid forward, squatting on Ben, cute enough not to cover his nose, wanting to nurture not drown him. Sealed he couldn’t speak, groan, moan, whelp, plead or cry inside her only lick and taste her warmth, satisfy her craven lust, Helen’s insatiable pled demands for lambent, forceful, flickering, ticklish tongue.

‘Caress my soft breasts as I come, if you like,’ she said, ‘Stretch me, shunt me, baby, shunt me to my limits.’

Best part, Ben found, was when he lay comfortably on his back being ridden by her: all sweaty, dripping wet, hair all slick with wet, teats erect, her slick slit all splayed, oozing her jus, arching her body upwards. Best part, he found, was when she raised herself, came, and fell in love with him…

Helen continued reaching and pulling till she’d gathered eight healthy sticks. Once the harvest was over, she straightened, stretched, rubbed her hands, replaced the lid… and saved the rest.

There was little more for her to do. The allotment was dug over, weeded, manured, planted out with early shallots, broad beans, compost heap was full. Nascent buds were opening into tender leaves on a few of the raspberry canes. Helen had even managed to reinflate the flat tyre on her wheelbarrow. Other than the village church bells, ringing for matins, the place was devoid of life. A sly, lean, fox crept past her destined for an Italian’s hen coop. Robins pecked around her blackcurrant bushes for redworms.

Helen stood back, admiring her handywork. Only then did she feel the intensity, the bitter cold of winter permeate her thick fleecy woollen sweaters, woven shirt, vest, and bra. She shivered. For Helen, her allotment provided a safe means of escape, a sanctuary, a peaceful haven where she could reflect on her life, hopes, and aspirations, unfulfilled dreams. The novel hadn’t gone as well as expected. She’d crashed into writer’s block. Felt she’d failed. Failure, in her warped mind, led to pervasive mood swings, discontent, seasonally affected disorders, abysmal bouts of maniacal depression, her inevitable, complete and utter, ruptured heartbreak. At least, the fresh rhubarb had given her renewed heart to carry on.

The numb tingling sensation spread out of the crown of her head, burning the sides of her face, her neck, coursing thru her nervous system: till it reached its extremities. Helen’s vision went all blurry then failed. She struggled to breathe. A sharpish pain stabbed her chest. Her tummy bloated. Scared, in a blind panic, she staggered far as her manure compound and fell in a heap on the hard mud.

She didn’t recover her senses or find a way back to her bronze ecoboost car, till nightfall.

She simply had to tell someone, as soon she returned to her little flat, washed and prepared the rhubarb, tuned the central heating, changed into warm clothes, thrown her soiled panties in the wicker creel.

Feeling her old self, she sunk into the soft-down bed, logged onto her tablet and messaged Livia. Heavily pregnant, Livia dwelt in Maine with husband Andy and toyboy Tom. Helen suspected Livia wasn’t her real name, her men didn’t exist, and she didn’t live in Maine. As she wrote to her she pondered. What colour is her real skin? What shape and size is she, really? How sweet is she to taste, feel n touch? How strong does she smell of musk, scent, cigarettes, and – judging by her wild moods: bourbon?

At night, Helen changed. Changing identities, behaviour, mannerisms and appearances opened a world of untold opportunities for loners like her. She’d no real family to speak of: her family died prematurely, victims of a mysterious ague. Writing smut introduced her to intriguing new friends, voyeurs mainly, but writing controversial characters in different genders, lost her the old ones. Those friends who survived the ague expressed little honest sentiment or goodwill towards her in their e-cards at Christmas.

Increasingly her friends were her characters, and Ben, of course, she could always rely on Ben to love her. To enter her fantasy world, she only had to log in to her tablet usually sipping off a faded fishes-in-a-faded creel mug of coffee, oat milk, chewing flame raisins, sucking chocolate.

Unlike her modest, meagre lifestyle, Helen’s fantasies were filled with excitement, thrill, risks: she thrived online as several very different personalities.

There was Helen the round-faced, dark-haired, brunette wearing bright pink lipstick: smiling, smooching men cheek-to-cheek with her eyes closed. Helen’s flushed face in close-up biting a man’s nose: Helen wrestling naked with the fighting girl in her filthy novel.

And, at other times, her as a blushing teenager wearing a short denim shirt in a darkened amusement arcade:…and as the redhead with the straggly hair dressed in a bust-revealing basque. Whenever she appeared in her dream for her creator, she was always called Helen, and the man being smooched and bitten on the nose by her was always Ben. Those, for the sake of an insane grip on her rapidly diminishing perception of reality, were her rules. Though, inside Helen’s outrageous fantasy worlds there were no rules, only her hot, exhilarating, sexual encounters with girls like Daisy, twenty-seven-years old, bisexual, daring, neurotic, shy, girl she met, fell head-over-heels in love with, surfing the net for love.

Daisy, the divine straw-haired blonde with pale skin, firm round breasts, spindly legs and arms, tightly clefted buttocks, who always appeared taking off her lacy black bra, her breasts tantalisingly exposed, her cute little arse just shewing thru, shining out of her scanty, see-thru black lace pants.

Helen’s ague grew inside her mind: emotionally unstable, brain-damaged, risqué, grew harder for her to control, for her to shake her fantasied, demented, fake, self out of her tormented mind. She finished supping her drink, placed her empty mug on a cracked glass coffee table, lay back on the unkempt bed and sank her weary, bleary, dreamy, girlish, foxy, head into the soft pillow.

He’d left her a to-do list on her tablet: Helen, I do want you, too, but I’m busy mounting Sara tonight trying for her baby: Write me a story about your flirtation with Daisy. Find a filthy image of you n Daisy having sex, post it for me, get yourself banned from social media. Record your and Daisy’s soft voices making love for me.

By now, the bedroom felt stifling hot, her skin felt all clammy, wet, sticky with her perspiration. She pulled her tee-shirt off over her head and wriggled out of her tight gym shorts. Underneath, she was wearing her finest sheer black lingerie: her lacy bra, soft panties: perfect attire, for sex.

‘Sure,’ said Helen quietly to herself as she wrote, ‘I can manage that for you. Sweet dreams.’

I came across Daisy, twenty-seven, single, a bisexual, lonely girl living on an adult chat site. I liked her, followed her, wasn’t surprised when she followed me back.

‘Hi, it’s Daisy,’ she said, ‘I was taken by you: thanks so much for following me. Looking forward to getting to know you. Do you enjoy posts on your page?’

‘I do.’

‘I’m going to post you a little happy then…if you don’t like it…plz just delete it okay?’

‘I’m sure I’ll love it.’

‘Sweet dreams my lovely new friend. Yes you will.’

I loved her post. I told her I loved men as well as women.’

‘I don’t mind you loving guys. I have, and still do.’

‘You make love sound so relaxed and casual. I’d love to kiss you, only if you want me to?’

‘Mmmn would really like that right now. I love my mouth being kissed, along with other things. A soft nipple rubbing my lips is almost as nice…would very much like to taste you?’ she giggled, ‘I can’t help myself,’ she giggled again.

‘Love it when you giggle, Daisy, I’d love you to kiss me.’

She kissed me.

‘Daisy, I love you kissing me like that. Oh, you feel heavenly tonight.’

‘My tongue is talented: mmmn, love your sweet nectar! Hope we chat again soon, kissing, you know… maybe doing ‘that’ together, too?’

‘I hope so, as well,’ I said. I left a lovely comment against an image of her kissing me, signed off, went and made myself a glass of stiff gin, ice and tonic. When I came back, she was still there, naked, waiting, for me.

‘Let’s get together, make our dreams come true, she giggled, tell me what to do…’ ‘I’d love to lick you, that’s if you want me to?’

‘Mmmn would really like that right now. I love my body being licked, along with other things…done to it…a soft nipple rubbing me is almost as nice…would very much like to taste you.’

‘Lick me with the tip of your tongue, girl, pretend my jus is cream? Squat on my breasts, feel my teat swell inside your wet slit.’

‘I’d love to rub my wet slit all over your breasts…omg…yes…yes I’ll maybe even lick them, too,’ she giggled.

‘Go on then, squat over my stiff teats, saturate them in your jus, come all over my breasts.’

‘Hope we can… maybe, make love?’

‘Mmmn my fingers inside you, stroking, caressing you: I hope so, too.’

‘I want to share my pleasure mound with you.’

I left a lovely comment under another image of her taking off her bra then posted my erotic bit: two girls exploring each other’s sexual fantasies imagining it was us, hoping she’d like me.

‘I love you, Helen,’ she said.

I felt sad. I said, ‘Daisy, I love you, licking me, making me swell. Lie on top of me. I’ll stick my tongue inside you, lick all that sticky off your flesh. Don’t get my hairs on your sweet tongue, girl. Oh, you feel heavenly tonight.’

‘My tongue is talented… hairs don’t bother me at all… mmmn love your sweet nectar.’

‘You make me want to come. Your tongue is talented. You feel sensual.’

‘Love to have your juices soaking me…I’m sure you taste wonderful… you’re just going to have to let me wax you.’

‘Want you to wax all my hair off of me, leave me bald as a plucked hen… want to squat on you, let you lick me. I’m told I taste of syrupy vinegary figs scented with caramel cream.’

‘I’d love to lick you…pour our pleasure mounds dry onto each other mmmn…yes…I’m dripping into my panties as we speak.’

‘Going to knead your breasts, squeeze your teats, sit on you, make you lick me, red hot lover.’

‘Then your b/f can use both of us… coming deep in our pussies?’

‘Didn’t know you’d like him to fuck you, Daisy. Do you mind being filled with his warm semen?’

‘My body’s on fire for you…been tasting myself thinking about us together… would love for him to fill me with his warm seed…need both of you so much…his shaft buried deep inside me…you feeding me that yummy pussy…omg…plz…g/f…I’m so horny right now.’

‘Lie back and dream of him deep inside you, Daisy, you coming all over his erect shaft as he ejaculates his balls-full of seed inside you, me squatting on you. You can knead my breasts if you like. Think you’re close to coming in your panties, girl. I’m dripping wet, coming… are you getting wet, soiling, your panties?’

‘They’re wringing wet with my joy juices…I’m going to lick them clean when I orgasm in them!’

‘I can tell you’re about to come, Daisy, thought you were a shy girl.’

‘My, I’m, I… want you to come in your panties, too!’

‘My panties are saturated… peeling them off…I’m coming…coming for you, love you Daisy!’

‘Mmmn…omg…I’m coming, too…coming for you, my sweet girl… oh, sweet, wet, dreams!’

Livia’s reply came thru with a nude image of her heavily pregnant, her skin a delicious anaemic pale, mousy brown hair dripping over shoulders, stray wisps of hair kissing her cheeks, naughty grin, thin smile, fully swollen breasts, bulging belly, fat bum, at 04:06GMT rousing tired Helen.

‘Sweet lover, Sounds like you suffered a stroke, heart failure maybe? Were you cold, Helen? Did you dress up well? Now, this is nurse speaking. Go see doctor, today. Your life depends on it, sweetest. Stay safe for me, baby. I’m well, off to the beach as usual, top up my palest tan for you before I dilate to ten centimetres! My cervix dilated to seven already? Imagine how I’ll look nude on the beach today! I’ll get Tom to take another happy of me, send it ya! Love ya, girl,’ Livia xoxox

Helen got off the bed, put the kettle on, made a mug of tea, ate six chocolate hobnobs, then felt better. The notion that Livia, a stunning American model, needed her to live for her at all lifted her spirits. She stared at her euphoric face beaming back at her thru the dark window. Washed the mug, turned up the heating, climbed onto the bed, fell asleep, and dreamed of Livia lying naked ten centimetres dilated as Tom fucked her on all fours on a sandy beach in sunny Florida.

Helen left her dibber inside the soil. Easily done on cold, wet, drab days. He was always leaving his tools, forgetting to take them home after hammering frames for mother-in-law. Nearly done this morning: three timber frames built, three more to build tomorrow.

Ben got up, stowed the claw hammer in its bright metallic blue tool box and strolled over to the adjacent allotment. Helen’s dibber had a thin coating of what felt like thinnish glue on it. He nearly missed it: the liquor was so thin to his feel, transparent, odourless. He took the dibber, put it on show on top of Helen’s manure compound where she could easily see it, and thought aloud.

‘Not a bad sort really, Helen, but acid, glum, gloomy, grumpy, never a kind word to say. Cute tho’, demure, petite and very, very, sexy, far more sexually imaginative than Sara,’

He checked his watch: noon, ‘Sara’ll have lunch ready for me on the table when I get home: fresh lentil soup, dark sour dough, fat spread, chicken salad, satsuma, yogurt, raisins, mint tea then it’s off to bed to fuck her and make her baby. Can’t wait!’

Aroused, he pictured Sara lying on the bed in her finest sheer black lingerie, lacy bra, soft panties: perfect attire, for sex, slowly peeling it off. The incredible notion of her writhing naked on all fours while he fucked her without a condom on their new king-sized bed gave him heart.

Finished for the day, he strolled as far as his bronze ecoboost waiting in the covered tarmac car park, climbed inside, sank into the driver’s seat, shut his eyes and dreamed of last night. Helen: squatting on his face, muffling him as he reached for her, tugging at her fluffy, flouncy, cayenne hair, smudging her cherry flesh lipstick with his thumb, smearing it over her puffy nipples, her teatlets, the soft, doughy squash of her pert breasts. She’d teased him, stretching out on the bed, slowly peeling down her lilac cotton pants for him, stretching him to their limit, her limit.

Hard, fit to burst, unable to get the vanilla smell, her intimate odour, the pungent aroma of her, out of his moist nostrils, he briskly pulled his jeans and soiled pants as far as his knees, just in time.

His fear was her worrying he was late. She always worried: soup would go cold, she’d go cold.

‘She’s such a lovely young woman, the writer, Helen, I think her name is, the woman who lives in the flat around the corner. I often follow her home, never dare stand outside or go inside her little flat to find her out. If truth be told, I admire her, worship the ground she walks on. Helen inspires me.

One day, when she called into my shop to buy The Mail and my Balti mix, I shook her hand and told her so to her face. Her hand had wet on it. Not that I was worried. I soon managed to wash it all off, well, nearly all: she left me with a horrible smear. I pray, I see her again soon. I’ve taken to her. Next time, I’ll climb the stairs, enter her funny little flat, find out who she really is, and see if she’d like sex with me: her willing, sultry, shagged-out, sex slave from Mumbai.

It was quiet in the corner shop after lunch before the lovely screaming children descended: flies to rotting meat after school. Indira busied herself arranging papers, magazines, stocking shelves with snacks, tins, topping up chilled displays with cans: minerals, litres of milk, cow’s, mainly. Indira loved this job, the friendly clientele, Helen. She brushed all the fresh black facial hairs sprouting profusely out of her cheeks, nostrils, ears, chin, with a slight of her hand and waited.

‘You back yet?’ Sara got tired. The doctor told her she suffered chronic fatigue. Didn’t use to be like that. Sara used to be fit, really fit, before she married. Used to gym and swim, aquafit with the girls, play tennis, jog, do yoga sprawled over her rubbery mat. Now, she spent her day in bed: crouching, straddling, squatting and writhing for him, having her beauty kip afterwards.

That morning she’d ventured downstairs, made herself instant porage, kissed him, said, ‘fuck you later, babe,’ went to bed and slept until it was time for her to cook his soup, make his salad, set his table. The heating was on full: Sara set it to high continuously: fuck the gas, the electric, fuck the strikes, fuck the war. She kept herself safe from all that crap, fucking him after lunch, missed him when he wasn’t there tho’.

‘Wonder where he is? Not like him to be late, for me.’

Sara climbed out of bed, stood still, closed her eyes, stretched her limbs, opened her eyes, the curtains, stared out the window. It was snowing hard enough to settle: the lawn was covered in dandruff. Snow made her shivery inside. She went to her toilet, peed, washed her mitts, brushed her teeth, ran herself a sudsy bath, lowered herself into it, shut her eyes and dreamed of making baby with him, dreamed of making her bloody, dreary, boring, half-life, existence worth living.

Helen, who’d broken into a full sweat and streamed with aguish fever, climbed out of bed and drew her curtain. There was a fine dusting of snow on the window-ledge, thick enough to settle, warm enough to thaw. She blinked her eyes in the stark sunlight, staring across the street.

The slut with the breast length, flowing black hair and huge breasts was there, propped hard against a grey pebbledash wall dressed to kill in her fake fur bolero, wide-mesh fishnet tights, six-inch stilettoes, little else, smoking a fag.

Since the steepest rise in fuel, heating, food, drink, and lifestyle costs, flocks of women: bored housewives, single mother émigrés from occupied war zones, gathered on the council estate, street corners, ravishing ravens in soiled plumages pestering passing men and women for meaty morsels to feed their starving broods. An elderly tenant soon complained to the council who promised to get round to cleaning up the streets, ridding the paths of vagrant sluts as soon as they’d dealt with the potholes. That’s what sluts were in the eyes of local political elites: little more than human potholes waiting for fools to fill them.

Helen often sidled past the tall slut with endless, long legs on her way to the corner shop to buy her men’s magazines declining the slut’s lewd offer for her to get her leg over her. Until today. Today, she felt sorrier for her, ridiculously exposed to the chills like that, her bared knees and bare crotch sore, red, inflamed, chaffed by the cutting cold.

They were two of a kind: sluts, filth, detritus, one and the same, androgynous lifeforms, faking it, struggling to keep a grip on their warped, depraved personalities, distended characters. Helen: seeking a purpose in her life, the slut selling her ample body to pay the bills.

She wondered if she’d like some of her hot tomato soup, toasted deli focaccia, thickly spread with fatty margarine, cheap yeast extract, to warm her up. The slut’s breasts had chilled blue; her nipples were stiff: she looked as if she could do with it!

Forgetting, she wasn’t wearing her clean bra and panties, not having shaved, showered or shone her teeth, Helen threw on her soft pink tracksuit and trainers, and raced outside to ask her in. Only when she locked the front door did she realize that she’d left her tablet lying on the bed, revealing dangerous liaisons: Livia’s, Daisy’s nude lipstick kisses adorning her crumpled sheet.

Seconds later, she was stood in the street, legs apart, hands on hips, consoling the colossal slut.

‘You must be cold, standing in the snow, don’t you have a home to go to?’ she said, genuinely.

The slut shrugged her shoulders drawing off her bolero to reveal her heavy breasts, breasts that flopped and sagged with the sheer density of them, breasts riven, strewn, riddled with enticing clusters: varicose veins spreading, ominously, out of her puffy, dusky, delicately-teated nipples onto her pale chest. Helen’s jaw dropped at the slut’s natural beauty, her perfect, unspoilt, pallid face, her slash of pink lipstick, not even a hint of make-up, the most beautiful, wholesome slut she’d ever met. Her mouth watered at the prospect.

The slut closed her eyes, slanted her head to one side, slid her hand, her ivy-tattooed wrist, over her breast, her belly, her cute navel, far as her underbelly, gripped her wide-mesh fishnet tights, exaggerating her long, creased, fawn, lip-sealed, folds of cleft, and spoke, in her foreign accent.

‘I have no home. I fled my country, entered this country without my husband. He’s dead, killed fighting to save my country. I am homeless. I live from hand to mouth. I fuck to pay for food.’

Helen noticed the slut’s grazed ring fingers bore no wedding ring, just a dull grey nail varnish instead of the beige gloss on her other nails: homage to her dead soldier. She thought of Livia: luxuriating on her sun lounger, about to give birth to her first baby. Daisy: making love to her lonesome, broken, craving girls at midnight on their adult chat sites. How lucky were they? Compared to this filthy, vagrant, widowed, shattered, heartbroken, unwilling, immigrant, slut?

The slut asked Helen if she would like to get her leg over to help buy her something to eat, pay for a warm jumper, tracksuit bottoms, cheap gloves, some socks from the charity shop. Helen said she might, on condition, the slut came to her warm flat and had some hot tomato soup and toasted focaccia first, followed by fresh, healthy fruit, oat yogurt, instant coffee, and chocolate. Helen had plenty of food to share.

Minutes later Helen was sitting at her kitchen table watching the slut sup soup and chew bread while she asked her probing intellectual questions.

‘How long have you worked as a prostitute?’

The slut spoke with her mouth full, drooling warm soup, half-masticated focaccia bits, on her chin. Some soup dribbled past her throat, over her pale chest, her heaving breasts. Helen leaned forwards and wiped the slut’s mouth, neck, chest and breasts with a wet wipe. The slut offered her no resistance.

Keen to finish lunch and get the English girl to get her leg over, maybe even make love to her, the slut replied: ‘I’ve fucked men and women on the streets since the war.’

Helen was intrigued, ‘On average, how many clients do you have sex with in a typical day?’

The slut seemed confused, ‘Clients? Typical?’

‘Mmmn, how many men and women do you fuck every day?’

‘Oh forty, fifty,’ the slut said, brightly proud of her athletic prowess, her endless staying power.

Helen recalled Daisy’s giggly girl plea to her as they indulged in cybersex: I can’t help myself!

Final question then, well, almost final, ‘Where do you prefer to have sex?’

The slut mopped her soup bowl clean with her bread, peeled a ripe banana, and thrust it in her mouth sucking between mouthfuls of black cherry yogurt, ‘Behind garden walls, in alleyways.’

‘Don’t you get scared?’

‘Why should I be scared? I lost my husband, my home, my family, all of my belongings. I have nothing left in my life to be scared of,’ her voice paled, weaker, distraught, clearly upset, ‘No-one left to love, no-one left to live for.’

The slut rose and reached for Helen’s hand, ‘Thank you for being so kind to me. I should go.’

‘No, don’t. I want you to stay.’

Helen cleared the kitchen table, stripped off her tracksuit, bra and lilac pants, and lured the sad young slut with her all-over tanned body, her cute, petite breasts, disarmingly cherry flesh lips, gently swaying hips.

‘Please, I’ve no-one to live for either, well, no-one who really cares about me and loves me for who I really am. Will you love me? Please.’

The slut’s face lit with a genuine loving, caring smile: she slipped off her bolero, pulled off her stilettoes, peeled down her fishnet tights, revealing her sensational body in all of its splendour.

Helen watched avidly as she climbed up on the kitchen table for her, full, naked, craving her sex, and pled to her, ‘Love me, slut.’

‘How would you like me to love you?’

‘Lie on your back with your head hanging over the edge, open your mouth, stare at my pussy.’

The slut reclined and lay on the table, her head pushed over the edge, ‘Like this you mean?’

‘Yes, like that.’

‘I can see your cunt’, the slut remarked, crudely, ‘You’re all wet.’

‘I’m all wet coz I want you to lick me. Close your eyes.’

‘Okay, so I’ve closed my eyes, now what?’

‘Arch your body upwards so I can knead those fat breasts of yours.’

‘Like this?’

‘Mmmn, like that. You look beautiful. Stick your tongue out for me far as you can, let me squat on you. Oh, that feels lovely, stick your tongue inside me, slut, love me with your tongue, lick me, eat me, oh, god, I’m coming, coming!’

Helen wrote about what happened to her slut – and to her – in her own, immortal, naughty way:

My Slut

Her eyes grew wide when she saw me smouldering on the beach. I bent my strong legs, peeled the soaking wet bikini off my sweaty body. My breasts and belly were dripping with sweat. I’d acquired a healthy tan on our holiday. She stashed away her sunglasses, stripped off her bra and panties and joined me on the beach mat. I smiled approvingly at her incredible physique: her colossal pale breasts, her tanned rounded tummy: finding her underbelly appetising. Her pink lips demanded closer inspection by my discerning tongue, as did her dusky, puffy, round, delicately-teated nipples.

A lust-lump formed in my throat as I spread my slender legs wide apart for her and said, ‘Rub some oil into me, would you?’

She placed the bottle of virgin oil near my crotch. The squeezy bottle was half-full. She’d need to apply its contents sparingly to make the fluid last. Calmly, she squeezed a blob of oil on her palm.

‘Lie on your front then,’ she said.

I tied back my hair with a pink elastic band and rolled on my front, my chin resting comfortably on the backs of my hands. Excited, I gripped the edge of the mat! One of my knees slid off! Although her tender touch would caress my full body she lightly covered my fleshy buttocks with a soft towel to protect them from the sun. She’d soon strip it off me when she loved me.

‘Like this, you mean?’

She nodded. Delicately, she glided her hands over my body, up, down my thighs, kneading warm oil into my raw flesh. Gently she rubbed my skin using deep strokes, pressing her puffy breasts against mine. I felt her fiery hot breath on my cheeks, fleeting kisses on my ear, jaw, neck, spine. Slowly, softly, her tongue licked my lower back. I quivered as she stripped away the towel and spread my buttocks. She massaged my soft inner flesh. Her fingers probed me.

‘How does that feel?’ she asked.

‘Mmmn. Feels good.’ I purred as she pulled her fingers out of me. Rolled on my back. Once I’d settled, she lubricated me, pouring warm oil on my tanned breasts: ruddy brown, puffy, from the sea’s kiss.

‘Be gentle with them, they’re sensitive,’ I said.

I moaned. She massaged me sensuously using balm to lightly skim my breasts with the palms of her hands, pausing to tease out my stiff teats, circling my bronze nipples, sending blissful sensations tingling through my body. Breathing heavily, taking deep gasps, I splayed myself for her, gripping folds of flesh in my fingertips. Her jaw fell at the sight of me, displayed like this, totally uninhibited. My beauty intoxicated her.

I licked my wet lips salaciously, eyes half-shut. I held her, tightly, enjoying her flesh rubbing against my soft belly, pressing her mouth open with my dewy lips. Our membranes adhered – bound in an infinitesimal moment of intimacy. We paused to catch our breaths and I cried: tears of joy moistened my fiery cheeks.

My smile illuminated my face. My soft lips brushed her ear. I delved my hand inside her. She strained, rearing for me. Her pussy was all speckled with slick jus. I rubbed her hard, briskly, with my thumb, then I lay back, and I arranged myself for her.

‘Love me, Nadiya!’ I pled.

She licked my tummy, tasting sea salt in my navel. With my leg hiked over her shoulder, she kissed my inner thigh, massaging my soft outer lips. By now, I was all dreamy, dripping wet, smothered in oil. My hairy tuft was dusted with sand. She brushed it off me, knelt between my legs, gazing lovingly into my shiny eyes. I felt like the luckiest woman in the world. My face flushed. My breasts swelled. My heart raced. I gritted my teeth. I flexed my hips. I arched my body upwards.

‘What’re you waiting for?’ I slurred impatiently, ‘Want you.’

She grasped my fleshy buttocks with both hands, sank her head between my thighs and loved me with her lambent tongue, teasing me with her deft tip, biting me, sucking on my veinous folds, pressing the full thrust of her langue deep inside me. Till I screamed out my love for her. Till I pushed her out of me. Till I exploded like a love-bomb deep inside and came, all over her!

Nadiya’s my dream come true, my best friend ever! I just want us to go on, and on, and on!

Nadiya, in Ukraine, means hope.

Let’s all hope she finds it.


What do you think?


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