Archive for the ‘cum drink’ Category

Archive-name Miscellpure-500400

Sunday, January 17th, 2010

Archive-author:
Archive-title: Purity Test – 500 Question

THE UNISEX, OMNISEXUAL
P U R I T Y T E S T
_______________________________________________________________________________
Version 4.0 (500)
Final Release
23-Apr-1988
_______________________________________________________________________________
Public domain; no copyright. All rights wronged, all wrongs reversed. Up with
going down. The risen flesh commands: let there be love. Murphy’s law on
sex: Love is a matter of chemistry; sex is a matter of physics. Chaste makes
waste. Virginity can be cured.

This document was not sponsored by the Department of Defense Advanced Research
Projects Agency, and was not monitored by the Air Force Avionics Laboratory.
The views and conclusions contained in this document should not be interpreted
as representing the official policies, either expressed or implied, of the
Defense Advanced Projects Agency or the US Government. Neither should it be
interpreted nor inferred that the authors/contributors have actually performed
any of the actions contained herein.
_______________________________________________________________________________

Disclaimer of Liability

The user of this test acknowledges that sex is a hazardous sport; that a person
must copulate in control, and use good judgement at all times; that partners’
conditions vary constantly and are greatly affected by weather changes and
previous use; and that dirty sheets, variations in terrain and bed surfaces,
spouses/pimps/managers, forest growth, rocks and debris, clothed obstacles, and
many other natural and man-made obstacles and hazards, including other users
and customers, exist throughout the bedroom area. Personal managers
(pimps/spouses) and sado-masochistic operations and equipment are constantly in
use and may be hazardous to those not copulating in control. Impotence,
collisions, and social diseases resulting in injury can happen at any time,
even to those copulating in control with proper sexual equipment. Inherent
risks are part of the sport and may exist within your partner. As a condition
of being permitted to use the facilities of your partner, the user of this test
agrees to copulate in control and within the limits of his/her ability, and
further acknowledges and accepts these hazards, dangers, and risks and assumes
the risk of injury or loss to person or damage to property which might result
from use of the partner’s facilities.

As a further condition of being permitted to use the facilities of your
partner, the customer understands and agrees that: (1) in the event of a
transfer of use by another or anything else in the management’s opinion is
misconduct, misuse, kinky, impotence, or nuisance, this service may be revoked
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellgigolotxt

Thursday, August 13th, 2009

Archive-author: Adam Starchild
Archive-title: How to Become a Gigolo

There’s no other line of “work” as pleasurable and as
overflowing with opportunities to enjoy luxury, travel
and riches as that of the gigolo. And believe it or
not, today it is easier than ever for a man to enjoy
life as a gigolo!
To become a successful gigolo and enjoy the benefits of
this kind of life, you must develop and project the
proper way of thinking. There’s a great difference
between a “male prostitute” and a gigolo.
The male prostitute makes himself available to all
women of all ages, generally concentrating on bored,
frustrated and “exploring” housewives looking for extra
loving as well as variety to satisfy their sex needs. This
type of woman is very easy to spot, and even easier to take
to bed. It makes of a lot of, and a variety of beautiful
sex, but it’s all for free. You have to know precisely how
to cultivate these women to start, and then get them to
continue paying you for each time you “service” them — not
just the loan of a few dollars — which you never intend to
pay back — but $50 or $100 plus expenses for each tryst
you arrange with them.
The gigolo concentrates his efforts on making himself
available to widows and wives of busy businessmen who
really don’t care what their wives do, so long as they
don’t become emroiled in a public scandal. These women
range in age from about 45, on into their 80s.
So the first thing you’re going to have to do is stop
looking for ladies at or about your own age. Dress
yourself more neatly, more stylishly, and begin
“hanging around” the places these women frequent.
You’ll find very few in church! Those that you do find
in church will want to possess you, and somehow or
other steer you to the altar. You’ll find most of them
in night classes at your local college; in
self-improvement, self-awareness, and new life-style
classes; and of course, in all the better class supper
clubs and hotel type lounges.
Relative to evening college courses and
self-improvement discussion groups — these are your
easiest and most fertile “hunting grounds,” because
psychologists long ago proved that the basic reason for
adult enrollment in self-improvement programs is
directly related to a person’s need to be loved. All
you have to do is understand this basic fact, and make
yourself available to fulfill the needs of the women
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellflampasstxt

Saturday, August 8th, 2009

Archive-author: Standby
Archive-title: Flames of Passion, The

WARNING
This article contains sexual situations between consenting
adults. If this pisses you off, don’t look. It also mocks the
selected groups of idiots who don’t bother to fully read posts
and send boring and insulting email (as befits their miniscule
minds). If this bothers you, you should probably not read this.
If you are one of the pea-brains who are being mocked, I
fervently hope this bugs the shit out of you.

DISCLAIMER
This story is false. If you feel insulted by it, I was probably
aiming at you.

I was sitting at my terminal with Julie. Julie’s my
cohort in crime, often putting in long hours with me on those
terminally late projects. She’s a real looker, too, IMHO –
slim, long brown hair, dark eyes, very pretty, and a body that
is to die for.

We were working late one night on a paper that
absitively, posilutely had to be done by the next day. By 9PM,
everyone else had gone home. By 10, we were feeling silly. But
by 11, it was going well, so we felt little guilt in opening up a
window and scanning though the net, seeing what was new and news.
We scanned the usual comp.* groups and moved onto the alt.sex
hierarchy. As usual when we were doing this, Julie was horny as
hell, and would do her best to distract me. In this case, she
started out by nibbling on my ear and running her hands up and
down the inside of my thigh.

“Shit, willya look at that!”

“What’s the problem, Standby?” Her hand was perilously
close to the rising bulge in my jeans.

“Some twits are bitching about a message I put onto the
net!”

“Oh?” she breathed into my ear as her hand started
working the zipper. “What did you post?”

“I was just complaining about the signal-to-noise ratio
of alt.sex.stories and how most of the posted stories are about
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellerosia07txt

Monday, July 20th, 2009

Archive-author: David P. Thomas
Archive-title: Erosian Theory and Practice

Erosian Theory Developed

My theory came into being from a multitude of experiences
and also from inner feelings which differed tremendously
from standard practice ideas concerning sex. I’ll take
this time to break down a few of these myths concerning
sex in general, and in relation to how Erosian Theory
deals with the same situation.

I. Sex is for people in love, primarily married people.
Men get away with sex because it is condoned for them but
women shouldn’t or they’ll be cheap.

Sex is for every one old enough to deal with and handle
the responsibility of sex. Sex is for married and
unmarried people. Sex is for women as well as men. Sex is
for everyone. It is GOOD, RIGHT, NORMAL, HEALTHY, for
everyone, at anytime or place when consenting adults are
involved. I think the keyword here is consenting adults.
As long as both (or more ) parties are in agreement as to
the nature of their act, there is nothing morally, legally
or ethically wrong with any sexual act.

II. Sex should be between one man and one woman only.

Once again, the keyword here is consenting adults.
Personal tastes, and the backward thinking of certain
cultures have forced us into the molds that we live in
today. Between two consenting women, or two consenting
men, any relationship desired is correct. It is their own
PERSONAL TASTES which defines their sexuality, and not
that of a televangelist or county commissioner. As long as
both parties enjoy and consent to an act, and it doesn’t
infringe upon another’s rights, who is to criticize. Also
who is to say that the act of sex should be limited to two
people. Many times there are parties of three, four, five
or more consenting adults who desire to share each others
sexuality. Where is the harm in this, if the above
guidelines are applied?

III. The act of sex should consist of vaginal/penile
intercourse, with foreplay consisting of hand to genital
or in some circles mouth to genital contact. Anything
other than this is really unusual or sick.

…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellcarpentrtxt

Tuesday, June 16th, 2009

Archive-author: Neil Bernstein
Archive-title: John the Carpenter’s Tale

(c) Neil Bernstein 1993

One Sunday, driving Dolores’ truck back from a provisioning
trip, Pete stopped along the riverbank to watch a crew of panting
scullers labor their way against the current. Their slender craft
slipped around chunks of floating ice smoothly as a ballbearing
sliding down a greased track. Got all the time they need to do
that, he thought bitterly. Men who could go home to adoring wives
and get up the next morning to go to work.
In Lombard’s General Store he met old John buying feed for his
three geldings. The man’s belly nearly split his overalls as he
carried the sacks out to his car. Pete hid a chuckle.
“You come back for coffee now,” John bellowed.
Pete could see no reason to refuse him. He followed John’s
rusty truck up a series of gravel paths, shook hands with his
pretty wife. John eased himself into a great armchair. He bade
her serve them their coffee and an endless succession of snacks:
toast, honey, ham sandwiches, spiced drumsticks, maple candies,
pear cobbler…
When she was done serving she settled back on a kitchen stool
and nursed her baby. Pete watched her play with the suckling,
bouncing him gently on her knee. He knew, feeling the certainty
only the superstitious know, that it could not be John’s child.
John had been a carpenter for twenty years. One morning he
found the work too exerting and gave it up violently, pitching his
toolbox through the window of the house he was building. He tried
a variety of jobs after that, settling on delivering the Weekly
Argus. He sat long hours alone at the head of his kitchen table,
playing solitaire late into the night, gaining ten pounds a year.
He always left a half-finished puzzle set up in the living room.
Pete remembered the last time he’d been out to John’s house.
A selectman was giving Grandpa Goosehair some problems, badmouthing
him in town meeting. The old man wanted Pete to see if John could
dig up any incriminating tax information. John looked over
everyone’s tax forms, considered it his neighborly duty. He got so
he could do the arithmetic so quickly that everyone brought him
their crumpled forms: farmers who could only read with a certain
pair of spectacles they’d lost years and years ago, folks who could
read Latin but couldn’t be bothered with figures.
Pete’d got himself lost on nameless gravel tracks and had
arrived very late. The ex-carpenter’s wife had just finished
showering and now stood before a full-length mirror. Her hips were
swathed in fine linen, her arms left half-bare by a silk-finished
nightgown. She braided her hair and rubbed fine powder and oil
into her tremulous neck. John knelt on the parlor floor, his
…End of the part1. To be continued..

The Commute

Friday, May 22nd, 2009

Port Authority Bus Terminal was nearly empty at this hour of the
evening. Ben waited on line for his bus home to Jersey, exhausted after
another day of bullshit at his public relations firm. It was bad enough
to pull these late nights on occasion, but to top it off this was the
start of the July 4th weekend. Just about everyone else had deserted
the city for cooler climates, making the station seem more desolate than
usual.

There were two other business types waiting on the “33″ line. Ben
looked at the clock: 11:45, five more minutes. He glanced across the
corridor, to an old bum lying in front of a bank of payphones, to the
contents of a trashcan overturned by someone looking for cans to
recycle. He was jostled from his reverie by a soft voice.

“Excuse me, is this the line for Montclair?” Ben turned to behold
a very pretty blonde. He momentarily forgot the question as he stared
at her. “The 33, does it stop here?”

The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties. She was clad in a
short, loose black skirt with a sleeveless gold top that accented her
hair, which looked freshly washed. Maybe she just came from the gym,
Ben thought. Her attire and hair complemented a deep golden tan. Ben
remembered that it had been some time since he’d been laid and he felt
some familiar twitchings in his pants.

“Oh, sorry,” he finally responded. “Yeah, this is the line.” The
blonde thanked him and pulled out a paperback.

The bus pulled up to the door and the riders boarded. They were
greeted by an announcement that there was an accident in the Lincoln
Tunnel that could delay the trip. If there was one thing Ben hated, it
was getting stuck in the tunnel.

The two passengers ahead of him sat up front. Ben opted for
something in the middle of the bus. The blonde sat in the row in front
of him, across the aisle.

When the bus pulled away from the gate, the driver turned off the
main lights. Ben switched on his overhead lamp and returned to his
crossword puzzle. The blonde switched her light but it didn’t work.
Neither did the one for the seat next to her. “Shit,” she muttered, as
she gathered he bag and moved to the seat directly across from Ben. At
least he would have something to look at.

The blonde crossed her sexy legs, and tugged at her skirt. Ben
kept glancing at her, hoping she wouldn’t catch him. But she was intent
on her book.
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Anal Sex Circus

Thursday, March 26th, 2009

Unlike so many of the bawdy houses of Amsterdam, the building bore no
signs. In fact, as I stood in front of the chipped, black door marked
#12, I almost thought it was all a practical joke. What did I know
about the strange Hazraj, the turk who, in drunken friendliness at the
hotel bar, had insisted, “A whore’s a whore all over the world. You
don’t need to visit Amsterdam for that. But…the Anal Sex Circus!
There is not another anywhere.”

I rang the bell. Was this really the place — or was he having a
joke at the expense of a white British tourist? When the door slowly
opened, I realized that he was indeed a friend! Stepping into the
interior of the townhouse, it was a though I had stepped through tent
flaps and into the most opulent carnival ever.

There was actual sawdust on the floor. The air smelled of beer and
popcorn. The big main room had concession stands where they were
selling popcorn — delicately laced with hashish – and white cotton
candy, also drugged. Beer and liquor were being sold by men in straw
hats, red vests, and white striped shirts.

Garish rotary lights whirled a dizzy array of greens and reds into the
air. Semi-nude women — black, Asian, and white — escorted the
various men as they ate, drank, and laughed uproariously. In
different languages, a barker in a derby hat shouted at the back of
the room, “Hurry, hurry. Step right up! Come, Come, Come to the Anal
Sex Circus!”

If the mad Turk Hazraj had not been so explicit in his description of
the place, I don’t know what my reaction to this bizarre spectacle
might have been. A beautiful Eurasian girl glided up to me. I
ordered a cafe pousse at the bar. In American money, it cost me about
$20. I was going to order one more for my “hostess” but reconsidered:
“You wouldn’t drink, would you? Just water one of these plants with
it.” I slipped here $20 cash instead. “Let’s call it a contribution
to the continuing survival of horticulture.”

She dutifully explained the “play” at the Anal Sex Circus. After I
finished the drink, I walked back to the back of the room where a man,
dressed in imitation of an American carnival barker, guarded the
entrance to the upstairs rooms. I bought two tickets ($100 each)
which entitled me to see three “shows” of my choice. The tickets were
actually more like plastic credit cards.

With insane calliope music blaring down the corridors of this two-
story townhouse turned madhouse, I made my way upstairs. In the old
carnival midways, you’d walk along seeing the posters for the midgets
and fire eaters and freaks. You’d pay to go into the tent to actually
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellsex-lifetxt

Wednesday, October 29th, 2008

Archive-author: Don Sharp
Archive-title: Animal Sex Life

From _Easyriders Magazine_

Cross-country bikers who travel cuntless usually discover that to
leave one nagging problem behind simply leaves a throbbing one in front.
Fortunately, America’s farmlands provide an abundance of domestic live-
stock that can be exploited to reduce the swelling. The biker who uses such
means may know that he is practicing a tradition sufficiently ancient to
have been denounced by Moses.

Unfortunately, sex manuals neglect this dimension of sexual prac-
tice. They tell how it’s done in a dozen countries, of acrobatic positions,
of how to use cunt juice as a sauce for roast squab, but tell nothing of
shagging animals. The following treatise may well be the first of its kind.
Hopefully, this pioneer work will stimulate public discussion of animal-
fucking. Perhaps someone will initiate a monthly journal devoted thereto,
complete with centerfolds, advertisements for helpful apparatus, and a
question-answer column (which the author hereof, being the only one quali-
fied, volunteers to write). Further, the author hereof swears on a greasy
chop manual that the lore presented herein has been gathered from years of
attendance to the discourse of plowboys, mule-skinners, swineherds, chick-
en thieves, and others of like ilk, well qualified to instruct. Henceforth,
no biker should begin a cross-country run without taking this copy of Easy-
riders along for guidance.

Given the brevity of this guide, only the rudimentary procedures
appropriate to common domestic livestock can be outlined. Exotic foreign
species such as the yak or alpaca and wildlife such as bears and moose are
excluded, as are dogs, these topics deserving treatises to themselves.

To consider cows first. Cows are basically nervous. They’re like
the prick-teasers of the 50’s who would bat their eyelashes, lean over to show
their boobs, flounce their skirts to show a beaver, and then shriek like
hell if some bothered dude tweaked a tit. Cows can be attracted by a handful
of cottonseed meal, a piece of bread (preferably whole wheat), even a bunch
of grass. They will hang around, switching their tails to show off their
cunts, then get jumpy and run off as soon as the cow-screwer gets serious.

Therefore, to fuck a cow requires that it be immobilized, a fact long
recognized in rural architecture. As long as milkmaids did the milking, it
was done in the open, the cow being kept in place by a bucket of eating
goodies. With the development of large dairies, men took over and the barns
built to shelter milking were cleverly contrived to assist cow-screwing.

The cow was headed into a stall, its head locked in a stanchion, and
hobbles added according to the disposition of the cow and the agility of the
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Archive-name Miscellpure-500400

Sunday, June 15th, 2008

Archive-author:
Archive-title: Purity Test – 500 Question

THE UNISEX, OMNISEXUAL
P U R I T Y T E S T
_______________________________________________________________________________
Version 4.0 (500)
Final Release
23-Apr-1988
_______________________________________________________________________________
Public domain; no copyright. All rights wronged, all wrongs reversed. Up with
going down. The risen flesh commands: let there be love. Murphy’s law on
sex: Love is a matter of chemistry; sex is a matter of physics. Chaste makes
waste. Virginity can be cured.

This document was not sponsored by the Department of Defense Advanced Research
Projects Agency, and was not monitored by the Air Force Avionics Laboratory.
The views and conclusions contained in this document should not be interpreted
as representing the official policies, either expressed or implied, of the
Defense Advanced Projects Agency or the US Government. Neither should it be
interpreted nor inferred that the authors/contributors have actually performed
any of the actions contained herein.
_______________________________________________________________________________

Disclaimer of Liability

The user of this test acknowledges that sex is a hazardous sport; that a person
must copulate in control, and use good judgement at all times; that partners’
conditions vary constantly and are greatly affected by weather changes and
previous use; and that dirty sheets, variations in terrain and bed surfaces,
spouses/pimps/managers, forest growth, rocks and debris, clothed obstacles, and
many other natural and man-made obstacles and hazards, including other users
and customers, exist throughout the bedroom area. Personal managers
(pimps/spouses) and sado-masochistic operations and equipment are constantly in
use and may be hazardous to those not copulating in control. Impotence,
collisions, and social diseases resulting in injury can happen at any time,
even to those copulating in control with proper sexual equipment. Inherent
risks are part of the sport and may exist within your partner. As a condition
of being permitted to use the facilities of your partner, the user of this test
agrees to copulate in control and within the limits of his/her ability, and
further acknowledges and accepts these hazards, dangers, and risks and assumes
the risk of injury or loss to person or damage to property which might result
from use of the partner’s facilities.

As a further condition of being permitted to use the facilities of your
partner, the customer understands and agrees that: (1) in the event of a
transfer of use by another or anything else in the management’s opinion is
misconduct, misuse, kinky, impotence, or nuisance, this service may be revoked
…End of the part1. To be continued..

The Commute

Friday, February 15th, 2008

Port Authority Bus Terminal was nearly empty at this hour of the
evening. Ben waited on line for his bus home to Jersey, exhausted after
another day of bullshit at his public relations firm. It was bad enough
to pull these late nights on occasion, but to top it off this was the
start of the July 4th weekend. Just about everyone else had deserted
the city for cooler climates, making the station seem more desolate than
usual.

There were two other business types waiting on the “33″ line. Ben
looked at the clock: 11:45, five more minutes. He glanced across the
corridor, to an old bum lying in front of a bank of payphones, to the
contents of a trashcan overturned by someone looking for cans to
recycle. He was jostled from his reverie by a soft voice.

“Excuse me, is this the line for Montclair?” Ben turned to behold
a very pretty blonde. He momentarily forgot the question as he stared
at her. “The 33, does it stop here?”

The woman appeared to be in her mid-twenties. She was clad in a
short, loose black skirt with a sleeveless gold top that accented her
hair, which looked freshly washed. Maybe she just came from the gym,
Ben thought. Her attire and hair complemented a deep golden tan. Ben
remembered that it had been some time since he’d been laid and he felt
some familiar twitchings in his pants.

“Oh, sorry,” he finally responded. “Yeah, this is the line.” The
blonde thanked him and pulled out a paperback.

The bus pulled up to the door and the riders boarded. They were
greeted by an announcement that there was an accident in the Lincoln
Tunnel that could delay the trip. If there was one thing Ben hated, it
was getting stuck in the tunnel.

The two passengers ahead of him sat up front. Ben opted for
something in the middle of the bus. The blonde sat in the row in front
of him, across the aisle.

When the bus pulled away from the gate, the driver turned off the
main lights. Ben switched on his overhead lamp and returned to his
crossword puzzle. The blonde switched her light but it didn’t work.
Neither did the one for the seat next to her. “Shit,” she muttered, as
she gathered he bag and moved to the seat directly across from Ben. At
least he would have something to look at.

The blonde crossed her sexy legs, and tugged at her skirt. Ben
kept glancing at her, hoping she wouldn’t catch him. But she was intent
on her book.
…End of the part1. To be continued..

Beach House

Wednesday, January 23rd, 2008

It was the last song of the night. Thank GOD. I never thought I’d get
off that stage. It must have been 150 degrees under those lights. I saw
her in the audience again tonight. She’s been at every show. I can’t
seem to stop thinking about her.

As I enter the dressing room once again it’s packed like a sardine can.
I’m sick of partying. I just want to relax for a while.

I tell bobby to pull the car around back. I need to get out of here for
awhile. I exit to the alley in time to see Bobby turning the corner
with the limo followed by the usual bunch of groupies. A new herd in
every town. I’m lucky enough to get in before they catch up. I tell
Bobby to wait. Maybe she’ll be in the crowd. As I scan through the crowd
of salacious women, I notice she is not among them.

I have Bobby take me to the beach house.

I haven’t had much of a chance to spend any time at the new house. I
hardly could remember what it looked like. I can hear the sounds of the
waves crashing on the beach. The sound is very soothing. I tell Bobby to
go, I won’t be needing the limo anymore tonight. I give him the rest of
the night off.

Once again the sound of the waves begins to lure me to the beach. I walk
out upon the deck, then down the stairs to sand below. I slowly walk
along the beach. I’m captivated by the sight of the moon reflectinng off
the water. The is cool and brisk. My thoughts are of her now. How I wish
I new her name. Another fantasy I know will never materialize.

After a time I hear a sound from behind. Startled I turn, and it is her.
The soft light of the moon creates the impression of a dream. She looks
at me from behind her eyes of liquid blue. She reaches out to me and her
touch lets me know she is real. No words pass between us. Nothing needs
to be said. She runs her fingers through my hair and pulls my lips to
hers. The scent of her hair is soft and light. The taste of her lips is
sweet. We kiss long and hard. The feel of her breasts press against my
chest as I nibble upon the soft flesh of her neck causes my penis to
engourge itself with my hot adrenalin saturated blood. She feels my
penis pressing against her stomach as our passions increase. She slowly
lowers to her knees and unbuckles my belt. I hear the sound of my zipper
as she slowly undoes it. The cool ocean air flows around my loins. Then
just as suddenly the warmth of her moist lips slides down upon my shaft.
She places her hands on my hips and begins to move me further into her
mouth. Her tounge moves around the head of my cock as she slowly pulls
it out of her mouth. She teases me with her tounge as she licks my balls
and then sucks them. Again she takes my shaft into her mouth and begins
a thrusting rythm by pulling and pushing my hips. As I watch her my
arousal increases ten-fold. She looks up at me as she continues to suck.
She takes my cock from her mouth and lies back on the sand.

As I kneel down beside her she takes of her shirt reveal her firm,
round, glistening breasts. I take them in my hands as my lips meet hers.
She whispers in my ear “Please make love to me.” I think to myself that
even if I wanted to there would be no way I could resist. I take her
nipple into my mouth and nibble on it. She sighs with delight as her
nipples grow tense. My lips make their way to the vulnerable flesh of
her stomach. Her breathing becomes rapid as I remove her shorts
revealing the jet black panties beneath. I stroke her clitoris through
her soft silky panties and feel that she is wet and inviting. I tear her
panties off in haste as her moans become deeper. I taste her delicate
juices as my tounge ventures within. The muscles in her legs begin to
tremble as I bite her clitoris. She places her hands on my head and
pulls it tighter against her vagina. Her hips begin to move about as I
fuck her with my tounge. She screams with passion “TAKE ME NOW”.

I rise to my knees as she rolls onto her stomach. She also rises to her
knees and I take her from behind. I grab her hips and slowly place my
shaft inside her. As I fuck her from behind she screams for me to thrust
faster and harder. I hold onto her breasts as I THrust in as deep as I
can go. I thrust harder and harder. I feel her juices flowing down my
shaft. I am consumed by the flames of her passions. She cums again and
again, until finally my cock explodes within her. Exhausted I fall to
the beach next to her. She rolls into my arms and together we fall
asleep on the beach.

As my eyes open I find her still with me and the beach deserted. It is
morning now and she looks at me longingly. We make love again, It’s even
better this time.

Alma

Thursday, January 3rd, 2008

I was in the window seat of a Piedmont 737, taxiing out at
Washington National that morning. My destination was New Orleans
with a change of planes in Atlanta. As we passed the transient
ramp in front of Butler Aviation, I saw my old airplane. It had
been repainted, but bore the same numbers along each side of the
fuselage. The sight of it brought back a memory from the 1960’s
that marked the highlight of my brief career in commercial
aviation.

Officially, the airplane’s registration number — and radio call
sign — was N-5558B. But to my two partners and me — and to
the tower crew at her home airport in Opa Locka, Florida —
Beech Travelair N-5558B was “Triple Nickel 8-Ball.” She was a
outside business venture of three lawyers — my two partners and
me — who shared a criminal-law practice in Miami, and a love of
flying. Sherlock — the name my father, an Arthur Conan Doyle
fan, gave me — earned the law firm some early publicity, and we
were doing well enough to afford to buy Triple Nickel 8-Ball. Our
aviation business involved flying bags of bank checks from Miami
International Airport to Atlanta Hartsfield Airport where they
were taken by van to the Federal Reserve Depository for
processing. The income was predictable; but the flying wasn’t –
particularly in the summer when the Florida thunderstorms topped
out at about 40,000 feet.

What we admitted, to everyone but the I.R.S., was that our money-
losing business was just an excuse to fly and hang around the
airport’s Fixed Base Operation trading lies with the other pilots
and would-be pilots that inhabited the pilots’ lounge.

There was a flying school there — a collection of Cessna 150’s,
young instructors with their eyes set on the airlines, and
students from the local area. Late afternoon usually found a
fair sprinkling of women in the pilots’ lounge; some of them
students, but mostly the girl-friends of the students and
instructors. They all knew about our operation, and with
suitable hints, could wrangle a ride in Triple-Nickel-8-Ball on
our Miami-Atlanta-Miami trip when we wanted the company.

A few weeks before, the female “regulars” in the lounge had
jokingly announced formation of a local chapter of the “mile-
high” club — and that subject had replaced discussion of
instrument-approaches and engine overhaul prices. As I
understood it, the rules were simple: sex above 5280 feet,
unaided by co- (or auto) pilot. The novelty of the topic wore off
after a while; but one day a female student showed up with a
small pendant hanging from her neck on a gold chain: a set of
…End of the part1. To be continued..