The Story of a Man in Suburbia SeXStoRY

Women crave me. I’m not boasting—it’s a known, proven fact. You don’t need to know my name. In fact, I prefer that you not know it. I might be your neighbor or golf partner or a visitor in your office. If I am—and you have wives, girlfriends, daughters or secretaries about—something will happen that may upset you. So, you see—it’s better this way. It’s not surprising that I’m the answer to every woman’s dreams. I am, after all, six foot two with an outstanding physique. Although I’m pushing forty, I still maintain my washboard abs (or was that six-pack abs?). Anyway, they’re pretty good. My hair is thick and sandy colored; eyes blue. The rest of me is equally good looking. It gives me an air of confidence and women eat it up with a spoon. If that’s not enough, a glimpse of my nine-inch cock can be pretty convincing. So, it’s not a big surprise that women crave me. And I am very good at scratching all their itches. I like all kinds of women—tall or short, thin or curvy, old, young (well, not—you know—too young), happy or sad. I don’t care about the last part, because after getting acquainted with “The Big Niner” (that’s what I call it), they’re all happy. I do have standards. For one thing, they can’t be smelly or fat. Also, I only consider swallowers; no spitters, please. (I hate messy broads.) I may sound demanding, but I have earned that right. Ask any woman who’s had the pleasure; she’ll tell you. ***************** It was late one sunny Saturday morning. A few hours earlier I’d arrived home, having just spent the night with the secretary at a company where I was consulting. It was “Suzy-something” (or maybe Sally). I’ll have to figure that out before I go back there. I think she carved her name into the skin on my back with her fingernails as she was having one of her many orgasms. One reason that I am so successful is that I am thorough. I had a few hours to kill, so I thought I’d polish my classic ‘vette. I stripped off my shirt and ventured out into the driveway in gym shorts and sandals. I like to show off my six pack abs (or is that washboard abs?). The Big Niner was pushing a nice-looking bulge out of the front of my shorts. It was sunny, but not too warm. Life was good. Across the street my new neighbor was loading his golf clubs in his trunk. His name was Tom-something. All I knew is that he and his wife had recently moved in right after their honeymoon. He was a junior-executive type, probably hurrying off to lose a round to his boss. He looked like kind of a wuss to me, but I didn’t really care. I heard that he and his new wife were big in the local Evangelical Church that made so much noise on Sunday mornings. He gave me a wave and a stupid grin and I waved back. Seeing him going off to play golf reminded me of my own neglected golf game. Of course, I’m a scratch golfer, but I wanted it to stay that way. It’s just that it’s hard to get out on the course when so many of one’s nights (and early mornings) are full. Some choices are tough; I came to realize that golf is just my hobby. Screwing is my life. I could have afforded to buy a Lamborghini with the seven-figure income from my computer consulting business. I went with the classic ‘vette, instead. I just hate it when people get pretentious, don’t you? So, I was out there minding my own business buffing up the hood of the ‘vette, watching Tom-something pull away when the newly-married Mrs.-something (I think her name was Darlene) appeared in her front yard and started weeding her garden. From long-range, I could see that she was barefoot, wearing a red halter and cutoff blue jean shorts. We had only met once when they first moved in a few weeks before. I remember that she was pretty, like a newly-wed. I also thought she was kind of giggly, like she was a little self-conscious to have recently had her cherry popped by Tom-something. Maybe she was embarrassed because she liked it, and at the good-old Evangelical Church liking it too much was a big no-no—married or not. It didn’t matter to me; different strokes, and all that. I was wearing my shades, so I could check her out properly without drawing attention. I hadn’t noticed before, but she had a nice little body to go with that pretty face. I saw her sneaking a glance my way from time-to time. I decided to let her see the profile, just in case she was interested and probably wondering about—you guessed it—The Big Niner. About a minute after her husband pulled away she stood up and started walking across the street. As she got closer, I could see that what I had mistaken for a halter top was more like a glorified bandanna. She had giant tits—I would say 37 DD’s—which were to die for. So were her long, lean legs. In my mind’s eye, I could see a picture of her sculpted ass. “Remember me?” she asked as she came up my driveway. “I’m Darlene.” “Hi, Darlene,” I replied. “What can I do for you?” I really knew the answer already, but it was polite to ask—and I’m always polite. “I was just hoping you would show me your…car,” she replied. I saw her eyes glance down to where my turgid cock was threatening to burst out of my shorts. “That’s funny,” I thought, “I’ve never heard it called a ‘car’ before.” I kept that thought to myself. “Do cars excite you?” I asked. “Oh, yes; especially long, strong ones.” “Well, I’ve got just the thing to excite you,” I told her. “My car, I mean.” “What else could you mean?” she asked, and then licked her lips. “Want to buff it?” I offered. I took off my shades, so she could see the sincerity in my eyes. (I’m good at that.) Darlene took the cloth from me and leaned over the car, showing her voluptuous profile (did I mention that it was to die for?) and looked at me with her wide eyes. She started moving her arms in a circular motion, which made her fantastic tits sway in a rhythm. “You’re doing a great job, Darlene,” I lied. “Do you think you can keep it up?” She just looked at me and giggled that giggle that made her look like she had just remembered that she wasn’t a virgin anymore. She circled a little faster and I bobbed my head up and down to the rhythm to show her that I approved. “I have a confession to make,” she tittered. “I’m supposed to be writing Tom’s sermon for Sunday church tomorrow.” “I’m not stopping you. Maybe you should do that and we can buff later.” “I just can’t bring myself to write it right now. It’s about sin. It’s always about sin.” “So you thought you’d stop writing about it and come over and get some first-hand experience?” I asked. I’ve learned that the direct approach works best in these types of situations. She cupped her hand to her mouth and tittered that recently-non-virgin titter, which I knew meant ‘yes’. It must have been the faster pace of the buffing that made her halter fall away from her body. I got a quick look at her glorious boobs before she could clutch the tiny fragment of cloth to her chest. It was too late: I already had an eyeful. It confirmed my hunch that they were to die for. “I’m sorry, it must have gotten untied somehow,” Darlene said as she grinned at me. I didn’t say anything, but The Big Niner was shouting out by throbbing painfully against my shorts. “Can I just go in your house and fix it?” she asked. “Sure,” I said. “The best mirror is upstairs in my bedroom.” Darlene bounded into the house. I stayed behind, finishing the job on the hood of my ‘vette. I didn’t plan to stay out long. I just wanted to give the dough a chance to rise. I waited a few minutes and Darlene didn’t come out of the house. Somehow, I knew where to find her. As I walked into the bedroom, I saw her sitting in my bed. She was nude, of course. She did have the sheets covering her lower half, but I saw her shorts and panties sitting on the floor where she had strewn them. “Did you have difficulty getting your halter-top retied?” I asked as I approached the bed. “I want to be your slut,” she said. I got to the edge of the bed and pulled my gym shorts down with one motion. I wasn’t wearing any underwear. As my engorged Big Niner sprang free Darlene gasped. “Oh, I hope that monster will fit inside me!” she exclaimed. I took her hand in mine and placed it on the shaft. I guided it around my balls and the purple, mushroom-shaped head. A drop of precum had formed. I took Darlene’s finger and scooped it up. She buried the digit in her mouth by herself. “There’s only one way to find out,” I replied. “First, let’s have some preliminaries.” I looked down and gazed at her fantastic, DD boobs. They were to die for. (Did I mention that already?) Her nipples were like hardened pink pebbles. She saw me looking at them and lifted them with her hands. “They need attention,” she said.” “Would you like me to suck them?” I asked. “Oh, please do. I can’t wait any longer.” I locked my lips on the left one and she immediately had a mind-blowing orgasm. It was a good start. “That was the first climax I’ve ever had,” she exultantly proclaimed. I’ll never get one from my wimp husband. “You haven’t seen anything yet,” I told her. I ripped the sheet off her and she lay there with her pussy exposed. She instinctively splayed open her smooth legs as I climbed between them. “What are you going to do,” she asked with a trace of alarm in her voice. “I’m going to eat your hairy snatch!” “Oh, no,” she cried. “No one ever does that. My husband told me so.” “Just trust me,” I insisted. She might have said something in reply, but I wasn’t listening. I was intent on getting my ears covered by the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Before diving on her I stuck two fingers into her hot, wet divide. Of course, she orgasmed immediately. I knew she was ready. I went in head first. I found her engorged clit right away. It was about the diameter of the top of a golf tee and about as long as a tee sticks out of the ground when I set the ball on it to hit to a par three. I suddenly felt guilty, because it made me remember that I had promised the pro at the club that I would come over at lunchtime to work on my putting. It was too bad to miss the lesson, but I couldn’t stop now. I locked my lips on her engorged clit. She came immediately with an earth-shattering orgasm. I looked up from between her legs and I saw that she was panting for breath. I rose up on my knees. “That was wonderful,” she gasped. “It was more than I could have possibly hoped for. Thank you so much.” “Don’t relax yet, bitch,” I warned her. “We’ve hardly started.” “What are you going to do?” she asked. Her voice was still weak. “I’m gonna stuff all nine inches into your tender pussy,” I cried. “And you’re going to love every inch.” “I was hoping you’d say that,” she gasped. Without delay I positioned the head of my rock-hard, fully engorged, nine-inch monster at her entrance. “Drill me!” she screamed. I did just that and she immediately had a mind-blowing, earth-shattering, gut wrenching, toe-curling orgasm. It was to be the first of many as I pistonned in and out of her for the next ninety minutes. “O my god…o my god…I’m commmiiinnnggg,” she screamed over and over. “Oh, fu**; fu**, fu** meeeee!!!” It was too late to worry about the open windows and neighbors working in their yards. It started getting late so I decided to cut the session short. As she came again with her most mind-shattering orgasm yet, I blew my boiling seed deep into her hot, willing womb as ropes of cum issued forth from my Big Niner. I dismounted and lay beside her. She didn’t say much, which suited me fine. She just made contented mewing sounds. After a few minutes I issued my next command. “Wrap your pretty lips around that nine-inch cock and suck it until it’s hard.” “I don’t know how to do that,” she pleaded. “Just do your best; you’ll get the hang of it.” She did as I told her and soon my nine-inch-monster re-inflated. I was considering letting her get on top, when she unexpectedly pulled her mouth off my cock. “Please do me in the ass,” she pleaded. “I want you to take my anal cherry.” She got on her hands and knees, ready for me to get into position. I remained lying on my back under her. I was thinking what a cute little ass it was and how nice it would feel pressed against my thighs as I plunged through her sphincter. I quickly gathered my thoughts. “You’ve got to earn that,” I said, shaking my head. “You can’t just waltz into my bedroom unannounced and expect me to do your bidding.” I saw the disappointment etched across her face and the tears welling in her eyes. I was having none of it. “Now, get back down on my cock,” I ordered her, “and stay there until I shoot my wad down your virgin throat.” Without hesitating she did as I told her. After a little while I could feel her beginning to tire out, so I decided to give her a break. “I’m going to come in a few seconds,” I warned her. “Don’t you dare spill a drop.” At that moment I unloaded for the second time. I have to give her credit. She gagged a little, but every drop ended up where it was supposed to go. She let my softening cock slip from her mouth. “I didn’t know that I would like the taste of cum so much,” she said. “Do you think you could pop my anal cherry next time?” “I suppose so,” I said, “if there is a next time. There are a lot of things you have to get better at—and get that pussy shaved, if you don’t mind.” We got dressed and went downstairs. As she was leaving we were in the kitchen. I went into the refrigerator and took out a zucchini. “Here,” I said as I handed it to her, “practice on this. When you can suck the seeds out of it without bruising the flesh around it, you’ll be ready to give me head again.” You’ve got to set your standards high, I always say. ************** The author waited patiently as his editor sat in an overstuffed chair across the room. He finished reading the story and tossed the manuscript on the coffee table. “What gives?” the editor queried. “You don’t write garbage like this.” “That’s past tense. I do now,” the author retorted. “This story is what will get my Q- scores1 where they should be.” The author gasped for breath, hyperventilating over the thought of higher Q-scores. The editor shook his head. “You don’t have to resort to this. Trust your readers. They’re smart enough to know the difference.” The author didn’t hear him. “Tens, tens, tens!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. He was jumping on the couch as if it was a trampoline. “I’m going to win a Golden Clitoride1!” The editor stood and went to a special drawer in a filing cabinet at the end of the study. He produced a bottle of whiskey and poured generous amounts into two glasses. He handed one to the author. “I think we both need a drink,” he declared.