Every so often, without any apparent reason, men get an erection so persistent it seems as if a log had found it's way into their underwear.
It's as if every vein was stuck, or as if their sex were a part of the skeleton rather than a limb of flesh and blood. And it's not from arousal. No lust is present, and the only reason for wanting to have sex, is to get rid of the awkwardly rigid protuberance.
It is exactly that kind of a hard-on Harry's waking up with, late this hung-over morning, alert after a dream about dogs and with a feeling of warmth, strength and life flowing through his body. The booze from yesterday night gives him a certain peace of mind, nothing else. He farts with delight, and feels his bowels, buttocks and anus, too, being ready for action.
After breakfast - hot porridge with a generous lump of salted butter - Harry's feeling even better. His cock is still as thick, but slightly softer than before. It seems now to be made of heavy rubber, rather than wood.
Harry's body is muscular, but not artificially built. He looks like a giant troll, with a great many soft, rounded muscles all over his body. And hair. Profuse bushes grow from his armpits and around his crotch. A butt cleavage slightly hirsute but with the hair diminishing quickly up along the connecting spinal column. No hair on his shoulders, though, but with an abundant rug covering his chest and abdomen.
Under the morning gown, Harry is naked. He takes hold of his cock, steering left and right and feeling lust thickening under his fingers. He jerks it a couple of times, in and out, and he feels his hip undeliberatily move forwards, and his butt cheeks tighten. There is a lump in his throat. He is getting horny.
He rises from the breakfast table, leaving the greasy plate. He loosens the belt of his gown and masturbated slowly, confidently watching his reflection in the mirror. His cock protrudes like a thick lever from the curtains of the morning gown, and his loins rub gently, rhytmically against the navy-blue cloth.
The clock-radio is still on. Tired of listening to the hit list music, he rattles an old Nice Price rockabilly into the CD player and turns up the volume. Yeah! He takes a few dance steps in front of the mirror, holding his dick, swollen as never before. Seeing his reflection in the glass, and feeling the scent from his groin, makes him even hornier. Now he wants to fuck, no doubt about that. And best of all, he knew exactly with whom. Of course, there is Britt, the neighbour.
BRITT IS 25, taking jazz ballet classes, and modelling for underwear. She never says no. The sheer thought of Britt's generous perfection - her vigorous flesh and the copious secretion of her soft, rose foldings - made him take a long, deep breath.
And her pussy. The one that always seizes his dick, drools for having it inside, greedily sucks and massages it, squeezing every bit of lust, and torrents of cascading sperm from his body. The one he'd use to quench his thirst for sex, the one he'd inhale to reach that fuckadelic sexual intoxicaton beyond any reason; the one abysmal sea fruit he'd unfold and lick deep into every cavity, arousing every inch of its innermost secrecies, around its most delicate corner and prepucified antenna.
Britt, he thinks, tightens his morning gown belt, and walks out in the stairwell. "Britt Eklind" says the first door to the left of his. "No handouts, please" reads a sign, hand-written in pink, curvy letters. Oh, Brittalina, Harry thinks and rings the bell.
After a short while there are steps and the muffled clatter of bolts and other tackle. The door opens and an astoundingly beautiful woman appears. Her flaming curls flow all around her face like an armful of roses defying every law of gravity or other. Her one hand holds her morning gown together. The garment was made of a shimmering green fabric, once sheik and new, now worn and frayed and apparently lacking a belt. She lifts the other hand to her hair. The colour of the long and bright red nails clashes exquisitely with her more brownish locks. She passed a quantity of hair to the side and raises her right eyebrow:
-So it's you, Harry. Do come in. I've just made some coffee.
Harry doesn't say anything. He bites his lower lip, nods, and comes inside. Britt walks before him, emitting a heavy scent of female body and perfume.
When they reach the kitchen, she closes the gown again, before sitting down at the table.
-There is coffee in the machine, and cups in the cupboard. Why don't you bring some here to the table, sweetheart?
Harry looks at her, feels the state of his genitals, swallows, and does as she says. They sit for a while, both of them absent-mindedly guzzling their coffee. Harry is at the same time both horny and annoyed.
-What did you do last night?, he asks to break the silence.
She'd seen friends, been to a bar, had expensive drinks, gone to a party, danced, and been given a lot of attention. There were two new business cards in her handbag, both of them printed in relief on thick, cream-coloured paper. All her money was still in her wallet. Someone had paid for her each time she ordered anything.
-I was partying, she says.
-Me too, says Harry, wondering how he should go about to continue.
-Hung-over?, he asks.
She laughs at him for a long time. Then she passes her gown to the side and takes out a full, rounded breast, exposing a dark areola and a short, thick teat. She puts her index finger at the bottom of the breast and moved it in an S up to the nipple where she lets her thumb join in, massaging herself for a few seconds. The grows long and hard, just like Harry's erection.
-Do you like visiting me?, she asks in a neutral voice.
Harry wouldn't have been able to answer even if he'd known what to say. He is inconceivably horny and manages barely to breathe. Instead, he rises, and feels again, as the cock stretched out under the gown, his hip inadvertently jerking forward. He looks into her eyes, he sees lust, and he approaches her. She doesn't say anything.
Harry collects her hair in his hand, winds it round his wrist, and puts his hand behind her neck. Her head rest in the bowl of his big hand. She relaxes and lets her hand fall from her breast, watching him, smiling. With his other hand he takes hold of one of the front legs of the chair and he tilts the chair and the woman backwards. He lowers his hairy head to hers and starts kissing her chest above her breasts, up towards the throat, to the side, up under the ear and back the nape of her neck where he extends a long tongue moving in circles from the line of her hair and downwards, back to her collar-bone, out on the shoulder, and down by the armpit to the outer side of her breast. When he turns around and in under the breast, she pants for breath; when he stiffens his tongue and licks straight up over her nipple, she blows hard through her open mouth; when he rapidly, almost violently, sucks the entire areola into his mouth, he hears her call out loud.
HE CAN HEAR her whine, her heavy breath, and he can see her hips undulating. Her gown has fallen apart. Between her legs is a rounded bush, tangled, so well-groomed far down, that her swollen lips are completely exposed. It looks like marzipan, he thinks to himself, like an organic, pink piece of princess gāteau, complete with its slick glossy interior of jam and cream.|
As if to hypnotize her pastry cunt, Harry's staring at it as he sucks her nipples. At the same time he puts his cock up against her hand. Immediately, she grabs it firmly and jerks it back and forth, irregularly, but with a substantial emphasis in each pull.
After a while Harry lowers the chair, loosens his grip from her hair and lifts her up. He's holding one hand under her ass. Her legs are embracing his hips, her genitals touching his. His cock is squeezed sideways against her slit, as if to hush it. His left hand is holding her legs behind his back. The right hand's still supporting her backside, but with one finger slid between her buttocks. She's holding her hands around his neck. Bent backwards, he enters a swaying dance, rubbing her sex against his, pushing his cock against her labia lips and sometimes precisely over her clitoris.
They're dancing all around her kitchen. In Harry's mind groove the earlier rockabilly rhythms, resounding beautifully like the smoothest Viennese waltz. In her mind no music appears, only subconscios mementi from past-time trotting on the thick thighs of an adult man - as well as those from yesterday's unsuccessful ride on the adolescent, chalk-striped hot dog of the less than lukewarm yuppie-cub.
Grown tired of this position, Harry sits down on a chair, arranging the woman, without her ever touching the floor, so that her stomach rests on his thighs and again with one hand entwined in her hair. He starts kissing, biting, and licking her at the end of her spine and down between her buttocks. With his chin, he's massaging the soft surrounding flesh, at the same time cupping his hand between her legs, kneading her throbbing mound, occasionally letting a finger fall down between her lips, in different places, now in her runny vagina, now up towards her clitoris. Before long her entire sex glistens, lubricated, fragrant.
She curves her back upwards and inwards, pressing her cunt towards his hand. Fascinated, Harry surveys her arched limbs and he imagines her lustrous vulva being a third buttock, raising slit and hairy between the usual two.
In the midst of his licking, Harry's rocking her slowly. Rhytmical, regularly, his tongue sweeps deep into her and over her clitoris, rotating her body as if it were a training machine. From her point of view the world is chaos, her head is pointing down, tilted towards the floo, helplessly stuck, eyes at the level of thin, rounded wooden legs of the chair; her elongated body inverted up with her swollen cunt on top, she has lost all control, her only master now being her overwhelmingly horny mind. With every lick she can feel her cunt expand and expand until it seems to encompass her entire abdomen, beaming warm, humid stimuli up along her convulsively twitching legs. The wave is rolling up her chest, out along her arms and then up to her head, delivering her initial orgasm, quaking her body so violently Harry nearly looses grip, but later soothingly taking her to the land of sweet, colourless daylight, where existance smiles or really does not even appear.
They rest for a couple of seconds. Then Harry releases his legs from her head, lifting her higher up so that her mouth is on a level with his cock. He lifts her above it. Her mouth is still open from the orgasm. Then he threads her over his erection, lifting her up och down, jerking himself off into between her lips. Now he's really working those muscles in his arms and shoulders. She sucks and swallows the cock, feeling her lips stumble over the hard and thick border of the head as it passes by, back and forth. Her saliva is flowing down his cock, accumulating to a garland of sparkle around the base of his cock. From the excitement and the physical effort, Harry's breath is getting more and more strained. He was sweating before all this and now the gleamy film on his forehead and chest disintegrates into droplets, running across his skin, dripping all over her like falling drops of dew, like pearls of gratitude in return for the pleasure her bounty provides him.
BUT IT'S TIME to fuck. But it's time to fuck. Harry turns her around and they kiss hard for a while, as Harry's steering them into the living room, to Britt's fluffy corner sofa. Falling into the cushions, she giggles. Harry's the more serious of the two. Or maybe he's just a bit aloof, focused on the situation? At any rate, as he's throwing himself over her, grabbing her arms and upper body by one hand, and aiming his cock, his sweaty face shows nothing but absolute determination. To her, he's nothing but a enormous bear, ruthlessly charging her, his gargantuan dick in his hand, a creature weilding a capital F for fuck. It's perfect. Harry shoves his cock into her. She inhales sharply and closes her eyes.
They fuck the sofa jumping back and forth over the wooden floor.
The cushions are thrown to the floor. Harry grabs hold of the arm-rest, and burrows himself further into her, fucking her harder. Her legs embraces his hips, his waist. They fuck for a long time.
Then she suddenly calms down, her mouth wide open. Holding her breath, she arches her body in a stiff parabola, lifting him up. Harry continues pumping. She gasps loudly for breath. Then her body relaxes and she begins to call out her stentorious climax in a crescendo that grows in force with every breath, with her every plunge onto his cock. When he feels the semen gather in his testicles and the seed of orgasm quickly sprouting from his loins, her body is already shaking so vigorously the sofa's lifting off from the floor. Faster and faster he's thumping and slapping into her as the orgasm's gushing in on him. Her body continues its shaking and his its insane pumping and minutes pass by, it seems, before he really gets off, roaring like a snakebit wildebeest, spurting his semen far up her body in long, spouting loads of fluid and it's at the exact same time that she, ridden by the guffawing empress hag of copulation, surfs out on her enormous, seventh wave. They collapse onto each other.
AFTERWARDS, HARRYIS laying on the sofa like an empty, sweaty bag and he feels once again hang-over syrups trickling through his brain, penetrating his pleasurable relaxation like puffs of thick smoke. After only a minute or two, Britt frees herself from him, gets up from the sofa, and walks into the bathroom. The sound of pouring water awakes Harry from his lethargic state. Now he wants to get back to his appartment. When Britt comes out of the bathroom, he's stood up and, just like her, closed the gown around him. Her hair is wet and she appears pleased.
-Well bye then, he says, peering at some imagined spot on the floor.
He strides towards the front door, without turning his head.
-See you 'round, she says, smiling, and waves her hand to his back.
Harry bites his lip and nods. He opens the door and steps out onto the cold marble in the hallway. Already before the door has shut, he hears her pick up the telephone and dial a number.
Oh, Brittalina, Harry thinks, enters his appartment and turns on the TV.
|This is the story about lone ranger Harry waking up one morning with a slight hang-over wildly surpassed by an annoying hard-on living down his crotch like a piece of wood. Lacking no salvage for his pain, he knocks on the door of smashing bomb-shell neighbour Britt, who welcomes a little company. Before long they are engaged in advanced sexual exercise after which Harry goes back to his apartment to watch TV.|
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