The Firemen

Dear Diary, for the last two days I have pondered on the pleasures of double penetration. Yes, one in the ass and on in my lovely quim. As you know, I have never had the honor of feeling two down there...I know what pleasure one brings me but two? Oh! How intimate a feeling it should be, and how vulnerable one must allow oneself to become, to allow such degradation to occur! And not just for I, but what of the two men privy to such debauchery? Being in such close promixty to each other must force one to examine one's sexuality further!

But for now, I shall leave such speculation aside, and close my eyes and pretend that I am at an event. A lovely event that finds me wearing a beautiful and richly coloured satin gown, perhaps a colour as wanton as ruby. It is winter and somewhere in the distance some sort of festive and celebratory music is playing. Yes, it's December, and drops of snow are falling to the ground and a fireplace is roaring and there are tables draped in white and dripping with holiday treats and sweets, springerlie, cavier and oysters and even an anise laced torte, and a variety of finger foods to satisfy the palate and delicately whet the appetite until something grander, much grander, comes along.

I am considering my next nibble when I feel a hand gently touch the small of my back. My head swings around to meet a boyish grin. In the winter soaked dreamscape I had virtually forgotten the existence of others which is quite a lapse indeed as I am always on the hunt for the next conquest.

May I? asks the very attractive gentleman as he gestures toward my empty flute.

Yes, absolutely. And who do I owe this pleasure to? I ask a bit coquettishly.

It is not a "who", it is a "what." And there are two of us, he replies.

I giggle. Two? Really? Boy and girl? Boy and boy? I look around. Father and son? I whisper.

There is a twinkle in his eye. My friend and I, he elaborates. We noticed you from afar as we were eyeing the - dessert - table. We thought it befitting that you were standing in front of it.

Ah, flattery! I tease. It will get you everywhere!

Will it? he asks, now intensely interested. Why don't you take my arm and come with me?

Locking elbows, he glides me across the floor to the other side of the room where a blond version of himself is standing by the Christmas tree.

The Holy Man

Dear Diary, shall I burn in hell with the preacher who came to me and asked that I fornicate with him? He paid me for two hours and we played naughty little games together. Oh yes, quite the active mind he has, almost as good as my other lover, PP. Who knew such naughty thoughts existed in the minds of men we look upon to guide us and give us comfort and sustain us in our darkest and most trying moments? Do you think that, if I had met him on holy ground, that he would harbor similar sentiments? Would he be eyeing the stiffed peaks of my bosom, or the subtle valley of my womanhood, would he allow his loins to quiver with delight at the thought of laying with one of his flock?

You would think that such a charitable soul and an ambassador of goodwill would think twice before he tango'd with the devil but those on the other side of the spectrum do not need much prompt before they wittingly hand me their souls. He fervently follows the calling of a higher power, now he was going to devolve and dance with me.

And what was it that his lustful heart desired? He wanted to play a funny game, he wanted his close up for the day. He wanted to play the role of the male protagonist in The DaVinci Code. Actually, dual roles which is quite suiting, if you think about it. First, he was to catch me breaking into his office, and as the "bad guy" he would shoot me and then leave my body.

Next, as my lover and the good guy, he would find me a bloody mess and near dead and carry me to the bedroom, where he would sweetly make love to me and that sacred act in itself would be enough to provide sustenance and nourish me and make me complete and whole and breathe life into my very existence again! To quote Julianne Moore from The Big Lebowski, "The plot...is ludicrious!"

But dear scriptwriter, he ate my pussy so well, I orgasmed all over his face. Ludicrous plot withstanding, I daresay the ending was quite explosive.

The Humiliated Hobbyist

Dear Diary, this story was relayed to me via backchannel and has been verified by sources who shall remain unnamed but are reliable nonetheless. Even if the story is false, no one specifically is implicated in this drama.

An escort and her client, the subject of this story, was caught with their pants down. The girl was working out of her home, shared with her housemate and fiance, when she heard the front door open and the pitter patter of footsteps signified the arrival of her beloved! Frantic, she threw the client's clothes at him and instructed him to get dressed and hide in a small room adjacent to the bedroom. He hurriedly ran to the room and shut the door as she herself must have frantically tried to re-dress and re-group and consider the possibility that her racing heart, flushed cheeks, and the smell of sex wafting through the room was a dead giveaway to her recent illicit activity. Up the stairs comes the fiance and startled by her frazzled appearance, he inquires into her health and tries to determine the cause of the distraught look on her face. Noting that the door adjacent to the bedroom is closed, he walks over and opens it. Standing in the room is the half dressed client with a condom perched precariously on his dick. What a spectacle he must have made. The escort, in her crazed state of mind, had forgotten to hand the client his pants.

Needless to say, the ending was far from happy, and the client was finally able to get dressed, his manhood and ego further diminished and ripped into by the future husband of the bride, with comments regarding his ripe old age and level of attraction. How could you fuck this old man? he wants to know. Are you getting paid or something? The escort, in tears, denies a monetary exchange, leaving the fiance perplexed and confused.

The Pediatrician

Dear Diary, sometimes I get clients so hot that I feel I should be more generous and cut them a deal. But in my own way I do, I spend an outrageous amout of time with them off-the-clock and I do hope they appreciate it. Not just with my better looking clients but the average ones who command my respect and affection are given the same courtesy.

I am blessed in the regard that most men are respectful of me in general, inside and outside the business. I've come a long way from allowing myself to be treated like dirt and cultivating myself to command the respect of my peers and lovers. I am justly rewarded when a man like "Dr. Ross" comes along to make my night.

This pediatrician from Colorado was referred to me by a girlfriend in the business, a very sweet and dear acquaintance whom I have met at a few socials (which we shall get into much later). She was unable to take the appointment due to a medical crisis, was I able to take the appointment? Of course, particularly since she described him as a "handsome and young-ish doctor with one of the largest dicks she'd ever seen," with a "pleasant demeanor and laid back energy that runs rampant among our west coast counterparts." I was no fool and she implored me to charge higher than my usual fee as she was not charging peanuts. I took her upon her advice and a one hour meeting was set for a night during the middle of the week.

Dr Ross was much to my liking and, Diary, I knew there was something special in those pants. As we were having quite a pleasant fifteen minute chat, I could not resist thinking about what his cock looked like. I was anxious to get him out of his clothes and into bed. Did I have extra large condoms? Yes, I most certainly did and I most certainly needed them. When I finally had him exactly where I wanted him, I gingerly pulled down his boxers and nearly had a heart attack. He was beyond the standard size of large, he was obscene, he was Dirk Diggler incarnated.

How would it fit into my tight and lovely vagina? We proceeded to neck and pet and being the impatient creature I am, I grabbed the bottle of lubricant and shinied up his cock with it and slowly lowered myself onto his gargantuan manhood. His cock was befitting of a size queen! But tonight I was having trouble touching the bottom. Or would that be top? He was killing me and I felt as though I were going to split at the seam. We changed positions and missionary wasn't any better. We returned back to me on top and for some reason my vagina gave way and I slid down his cock like a fireman going down a pole. It was pure delight, sheer delight, heavenly delight, non-stop delight, it was fire, it was ice, it was everything in between and nice, it was sweet, it was spicy, it was racy and a bit dicey. Ode to his joyously huge cock!

Dr Ross and I finally wrapped up after spending a total of three hours together. Three hours! How many of his patients, the mothers of sick children, linger in his office well beyond necessary? Do they know what I know, that his cock is a specimen that should be taken to a lab and carefully studied, tested, and perhaps even patented?

The Birthday Boy & Co

Dear Diary, this confession is a bit of a nasty one.....but I shall confess, I shall divulge my innermost secrets as promised!

As revealed earlier, my curiosity about this line of work led me to a procuress who shall remain unnamed but has come to her demise in the business. She is currently under very serious charges ranging from money laundering to tax evasion. On to the story. We were having a slow night and I was driving home in my car when she called and told me to turn around and drive to another location. There was a boy celebrating his 2o something birthday with his friend and they wanted some action. Why not do them both? she suggested. Since it is a slow night?

I cannot recall if I readily accepted her suggestion, or was I repulsed and did I recoil at the thought? Regardless, there was very little traffic and I maneuvered through the onslaught of local traffic and promptly make my expected time of arrival. The hotel I pulled in front of was average, at best, but what do you expect from two young boys on a budget? I knock on the door and a black guy answers. He's slightly oafish but friendly looking and he invites me in. I nibble on some cake and booze and I notice that he has some white patches on his skin.

I'm dying, he says. He has a degenerative disease and he's going to die very soon. He's accepted it as his destiny and he's not afraid to go. My heart tugged at his words and his face became friendlier and sweeter and each minute on the clock brought him closer to his maker. We have sex and it was quick and easy and then, time to go into the adjoining room to meet his friend.

Another black guy and he, too, is a very sweet natured kid. He pulls out his cock and I gasp. He is built like a piece of driftwood. I climb aboard for the ride and before I sink completely down my cell rings. It's the Madame and it's time for me to go because I am actually booked on a third appointment. I look at the guy, shrugged and say, somewhat unapologetically, Sorry, but times up, and I don't want to get into trouble. His jaw drops and I run out of the room and leave him hanging.

I look back at my actions without a pittance of remorse because the onus was on them to book more time. 'Tis was life back then.

Kosher

Dear Diary, why are Asian men uncircumcised? They are very likable and easy and don't demand much because they are shy. Very low maintenance, to be precise, but most are not cut and I am repulsed at the mere thought of placing my freshly rouged lips and brushed teeth atop the tip of a penis with as much skin as a bulldog's neck. It is wrinkly and unsightly and I think I'd much rather bury my face in a pair of hairy ones.

I almost certainly place a condom on a penis with extra skin. These poor boys have to rinse all the time, even when they've just rinsed not too long ago. The skin traps an aroma that's quick to turn sour and unsavory. What were their mothers thinking? This is one thing I love about the Jewish culture, such attention to cleanliness and circumcision seems to be an absolute must!

Here is my little trick to giving unbridled head to an uncut shlong. I grab it (and with some derision as I'm angry that I am even expected to entertain this ugly thing without a condom, if requested) and pour some lubricant around the shaft. Then I work my hand up and down it and cover some of the foreskin with the lubricant to mask any odour - a pre-emptive strike, sort of - and then I gently place my mouth on it and suck slowly as I don't want any of the nasty odour to travel up the passageway of my nostrils. I know, dear Diary, there was Un-Savory, but those were dire circumstances.

The TV Guy

Dear Diary, this story is too juicy a tale to tell. I am friends with this man and out of respect for him, I cannot say anything. But do you think it shall anger him if I were to allude to some items of relevancy to this journal?

"TV Guy" is well known for his wonderful sense of humor, bright smile and magnetic personality. He makes an appearance on a local affiliate station once a week and a simple google search yields his name and picture along with the name of a book he's written and a dozen or so interviews.

His resemblance to a famous movie star earns him the nickname "Woodsy." Getting down to the juicy tidbits, Woodsy is a tit man and loves to come all over my breasts. He's satisfied with one shot at the range (I feel guilty even charging my full fees), has a nice penis, and is a nasty talker. Quite the lover of very young girls [of legal age] and likes me to dress up as a student/intern/cheerleader type on occasion. Sometimes I feel too old for him.

Woodsy is a high roller and spends a terrific amount of money on the ladies such as I. He is not stingy and looks for quality over quantity and has excellent, and I do mean excellent, taste in women. Big tits, small waist, and gorgeous faces are his thing. I am honoured to have Woodsy as a comrade, both in and out, of our sordid world, such an overbearing and bullish world it is at times.

The General

Dear Diary, did I ever mention the high ranking officer I once met? "Tso" was a general who worked at a building that temporarily lost one of its sides. He came to me on a cold winter's night, bringing me a ton of water because I was ill from dehydration and drained of energy from too much work. I tried to cancel our date but he insisted on meeting so I got dressed and hopped in his car which was parked across the street from my apartment. We exchanged a courtesy handshake and he showed me his credentials. There was something sexy about this slightly rotund man. Perhaps it was rank or perhaps it was the promise of a good fucking not too far down the road. He was mad sexy and mad confident and mad insane for letting me sit with him in his car at risk of being spotted by passerbys.

Shortly thereafter, we ended up in bed. This little man had the energy of half the men his age and non-stop endurance. He fucked me every which he could. He was also a bit of a nasty talker. It takes a certain kind of man to be a general and if this is what it takes to cut the mustard, then so be it. All in the name of helping our country prosper under the guiding hands of a sexually satisfied leader. You can thank me later. Because there are only so many generals, I cannot reveal any more detail. I wish I could fuck him again but he moved from the area.

PP & I

Dear Diary, I once had Pulitzer Prize cock. It's not any different from cocks belonging to less creatively inspired creatures. For a fat guy, his cock didn't deviate from the norm in shape, size or smell. Fat guys and out of shape men always have naturally smelly cocks, rule of thumb. Their stomachs hang over their belts and I think that they occasionally forget they have a dick because they aren't used to seeing the outline or bulge in their pants. In the shower, they are distracted with washing the more visible parts of their body that they forget to really tidy up down there. A lousy rinse is all they think they need. I'm going to assume that the average person soaps one time, a person such as I soaps three to four times, and a fat person, who is usually a bit slovenly by nature (why else would you eat yourself to death?) probably rinses and goes. It sound quite disparaging and mean but it has been my experience, and quite a rude awakening, that heavy people have awful hygiene!

Now, I have never smelled a fat woman's vagina, nor do I desire to sniff vaginas in general unless I am having that once in a blue moon call to lesbian, but I gather from my friends that, if the thin girls they have been with have odorous smelling nether regions, then wouldn't it be safe to assume that their well beyond zaftig sisters naturally suffer the same?

Mr Pulitzer Prize winner, winner of a category a bit dubious and somewhat laughable, Mystery Science Theater would be proud. A book of his is on my shelf, personally autographed to my nom de plume which is very similar to the name that regular folks call me by on a day to day basis. His handwriting is such a pathetic scribble that no one could possible tell the difference. I have yet to read the book, my dearest Diary, because on a drug filled night, full of reefer madness, I found myself estranged from his style of writing. Maximum verbosity is what you would call it. Now a movie is being made from another of his books and wherabouts shall remain unnamed.

Pulitzer Prize, PP, was a member of theeroticreview.net, .com. and whatever other dot.suffix they felt fit to fill in. He gave me a rave review and he is an outstanding client and for that I shall always hold him dear to my heart. Once upon a time, before I offered incall, we met at the Key Bridge Marriott in Rosslyn, Virginia. He was quite impressed and taken with my beauty, wit and style. He said that, for a blonde, I was quite the thinker. Quite the compliment indeed! We hit it off quite well. He always wanted me to blow him with a condom because of safety concerns and he was well within his right to have these sort of doubts since he does have a significant other.

We saw each other a few more times, this time my place, and things got more complicated but in a good way. Mr PP was into role playing, as those with fertile imaginations usually are, and he asked that I pretend to be a famous actress to whom he would conducting an interview and submitting the story to a very famous newspaper. I went above and beyond the call of duty, impersonating "Ms Sophie Marceau", down to the sexy French accent & style of clothes that I imagine a woman of prestige such as her would find suitable. PP wanted a glimpse of stocking as Ms Marceau crosses her legs to get more comfortable or reposition herself on the couch. Ms Marceau also had the audacity to carry a dildo in her purse, which, to both their dismay (and secretly, his delight) fell out during the "accidental" knocking over of the pocketbook. Since she has been on the road for so long without sun, fun, and dick, Ms Marceau can no longer hide her lust for PP and seduces him right there on the couch. Once they are off to the bedroom, she performs some visual titillation such as masturbation with foreign objects (dildo) and forcing him to perform oral whilst much dirty talk ensues and then, both are so overwhelmed with their desire for each other they consummate in several positions before the grand finale.

A performance worthy of an encore. PP is so thrilled with my Oscar worthy act, his next request is that we stage a teacher/student scenario to which I am teaching him how to train his voice to be loud, clear, and effective, and for whatever reason is now lost on me. More seduction followed by more masturbation followed by a second Academy Award beneath my belt and a standing ovation in my quim signified a wrap.

And what would Ms Marceau think of it? I think she would be honored that I didn't pick her rivals, Ms Isabelle Adjani and Ms Monica Belluci, over her.

Ode to the Man in Blue

Dear Diary, my body is constantly aching for sex. Today's fantasy is not extraordinary or far-fetched, I simply want a gorgeous man with a well chiseled body to penetrate me for a long period of time. I want him to attack my body with the ferocity of a tiger and the finesse of a violinist fingering a Stradivarius. I want him to unleash his fury inside of me and hold me down and fuck me good. I want him to demand I take in every inch of his manhood, the more endowed the better, and I must taste the culmination of his efforts all over my tongue, not because he insists but because he mercilessly sprays it all over my face.

Round 2 and he takes me again and turns me over and pins me with his elbows and his breath his hot against my flesh and the rhythmic thrust of his pelvis is interspersed with vulgarities whispered in my ear and intermingled with my own cries of pleasure and pain. My face is pressed against the bed and he is pounding away and I beg him to bite my neck and to my delight he grabs my flesh between his teeth and gently pulls, showing no respect for my body except as an instrument in his own pleasure.

We must back track to the very beginning of the plight I find myself in. The man is wearing a standard issue police uniform and he is the friendly neighborhood officer on his usual beat. One day he spies me outside of my house, mowing the lawn while my "boyfriend" is in the garage tinkering with his car. He knows I am taken but he cannot resist stopping by for a casual chat in the hopes that it will lead to something more. We converse over the course of the summer until the harsh winter limits my activities to the indoors and he is disappointed, almost angry that he can no longer satisfy his desire for me through deceptively innocent means.

Finally, on the brink of insanity, he acquiesces to his urge to have me for his own, to taste me, to hold me, to make love and fuck and pillage my body and sample its promise of earthly delights, to find salvage in my bosom and loins but most of all, he had to have a kiss, one kiss, before he called it a night.

He knocks on the door and after some hesistation, I answer. I am in the middle of cleaning the house and his unexpected arrival catches me off guard. I answer the door in denim shorts and a halter top, my hair in a pony tail and my face with nary a hint of rouge. The only adornment on my body is a necklace which drops precisely above my bosom. The officer's eyes catch the tail end of it and his heavy lids lazily roll up to meet my gaze.

How audaciously rude, I think! I inquire into the nature of his visit and boldy return his insolence with a sweeping glance at my watch. His face turns a subtle shade of crimson and he asks to step inside to discuss some "matters of the utmost importance but of a highly embarrassing nature, things best discussed in the privacy of my domain." Surprised and a bit concerned, I step aside to let the officer in and quietly close the door. He turns around and we are face to face, both of us full of speculation, my heart racing with the same electric intensity as the hunter who has cornered his prey. One step closer and his mouth brushes against mine. He attempts to kiss me but I push him away and make a run for it. But it is too late, he has my hair in his hand and a swift kick puts me to the ground where he is on top of me with my head yanked back.

Do you like that, bitch? Do you?

Please, I beg, what do you want?

Silence and fear permeate the air. After a long pause, he allows me to turn over and resumes his position. My hands are clutched in his and pinned above me. There is a sorrowful look in his eyes and a moment of clarity ensues. He wants to fuck my brains out, I think.

Is that what you want? I ask. To fuck me? Make love to me? Huh? Is it?

You little slut, he snaps. He puts a squeeze on my fingers. You've been teasing me all summer with your clothes and sexy skirts and dresses and shoes and low cut tops. You've been asking for it, and then you disappear, and I can't stand it. I've wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you. I have to have you, he adds, lowering his voice, I have to taste you and know what it is like to have you beneath me. I've got to know, don't you know that?

This isn't right! I protest. I belong to another!

His eyes turn malevolent and he pulls a knife from his belt and presses it against my throat. Without warning, he deftly slices my top in two and throws his mouth on my nipple. As much as I am repulsed by this brutish manuever my body cannot help but respond. Seeing that I am turned on, he unbuttons his shirt and swings it over his head and across the room. Now in a white tee, I can see the outline of his finely chiseled chest straining against his shirt. I am wet with desire, I am filled to the brim with shame, I am remorseful that I didn't let him fuck me over the summer.

Please, we must stop! I beg and he scoffs at my half hearted protests. Lifting me off the ground, he carries me to the bedroom and strips of his clothes. At a strapping 6'3, his body is a finely honed tool made for fucking. I am sitting on the edge of the bed and my protests have yet to come to a halt.

We must stop, I implore you, only trouble can come out of this! Are you listening?

And then, a slap! I get up to slap him back but he shoves me on my back and buries his face in my neck, sucking hard at the flesh as though he were going to tear it open at any minute. My body goes limp and I surrender to his touch, I am a victim of my own lust and I desire to be debauched and for every ounce for being to be touched by this man and the wicked deeds he would inflict upon me. Each time he was drained, he was able to muster energy for more, and who was I to deny him of his needs? I needed it as much as he and I relented to every act in the book. The day yieled to night and he finally called it quits and left me on the bed, hair tousled, cum drizzled, and sheets saturated with sweat. For the next several weeks it's the same song and dance. He is back to satisfy his hunger and in my own quest to sate my sexual appetite, I cannot deny him any part of me.