Someone should swallow my ejaculate well that’s my Real Life Sex Story anyway. Nearly a week of waiting for Agnes in her own bedroom, after more than a year without seeing her, had made me horny. And with my testicles swollen with semen, I looked for an outlet that didn’t exist.
Something that could happen. Preferably someone I could swallow. But the idea of that something or that someone didn’t quite click in my mind.
Agnes’s pet kept licking me. I got up and walked to the fridge. There was some milk left, some salmon. I offered some pieces to the animal, which didn’t even wag its tail.
The accumulated semen, the certainty that I had to find an urgent evacuation, kept bothering me. My balls literally ached. The easiest thing to do was to masturbate but, paradoxically, a strange feeling of boredom prevented me from doing so.
Nevertheless, I go to my favorite porn website. I search by the usual names. Ava, the one with the big buttocks. Remy, the luscious dancer. I soon drift to Youtube, in search of the gorgeous Periscope Live girls. They offer a much more realistic alternative even though they don’t even bare a nipple. The expressive faces of the Ukrainian girls have become popular. Always on the verge of blowjob, or so they seem.
I masturbate alternately remembering the first night I sodomized Agnes and her crazed artificial eye fell under the bed. Agnes used to string together shuddering monologues, of an inconceivable wildness. And I would end up losing control. Like the time I lost her eye. We could never find him. It was a small and rather uninhabited hotel room. I never understood what had happened to the eye.
The Periscope girls bring me back to reality. I click the tablet screen feverishly. The image of Agnes sodomized gives way to the image of her bedroom window, on which a tree shaken by the wind casts uneven shadows. Naked, I approach and pull one of the blinds.
Down there, in the courtyard of Agnes’s house, Agnes’s mother sweeps the floor with a certain languor. Her tight shorts define her still-pretty buttocks. In her 40s according to Agnes, and of course according to her, she still looks fit. In her 45s or 50s for sure.
I go back to bed and the image of Agnes’ mother reminds me, I don’t know why, of Agnes’ lesbianism. That time when Agnes, her friend and I were in Miami.
Real Life Sex Story
Her friend and I cross the length of the bed in a V-shape of which Agnes is the base point. I take her by the arm and deposit her next to the woman, who plunges with a jerk between Agnes’ legs. She works solo, sucks on Agnes’ vulva. Over Agnes’ face my penis oscillates with a series of touches, as if over a microphone mouth: then Agnes’ mouth nibbles my testicles.
Surely, Agnes’s asshole is more than Agnes’s asshole, the orifice dilating, the hairiness over the pink rim: Agnes split by her own scorching half. Now she moans, exhausts words that mean nothing, that don’t change the fact that her anus is reddening. Now she pushes, pleads, bites the edges of the sheet, collapses amidst a delirium of disjointed obscenities. No one takes the trouble to help her. Neither me nor her friend.
I’m wearing panties, bra, a green wig. I begin to masturbate and the ridiculousness of the outfit causes Agnes and her friend to first laugh and then kiss with dedication. I remain stiff, effeminate. I grab her friend’s flip-flop. Her friend slaps her ass with increasing hardness.
For some reason, the image brings me back to reality. To the present. And I wonder what Agnes is doing with my money. Her pet pretext has been unobjectionable. Dogs often get sick. The world is full of diseases. The Red Cross had just discovered another terrible epidemic in Africa, which ravages the child population and can reach New Jersey by land, sea and air. That is, too many places at the same time.
Agnes. I remember her slipping into the dress before she left, promising me she would be back in just two days. Her languor as she slipped into the dress. Her slenderness. But I also remember her asleep.
Her hair vaguely reddened at the pubic level, and darker on the labia majora of the vulva. The brief panties, sucked through the slit that divides the buttocks. The panties burning. Roasting on the stove of her heavenly buttocks. In that anal heaven smells of doom. The flora of that heaven still stinks on my cock. The ashes of that hell, clinging to my flesh, still dance to the beat of the last fire.
Agnes’s pet comes back to lick me, and from the window I again see Agnes’s mother crossing the courtyard.
For a moment she slyly watches the attic. She looks as if she will never finish crossing the courtyard.
Someone has to milk me. Someone or something and not exactly from Periscope Live. I don’t know why I associate Agnes’ Womanizer Liberty, her favorite sex toy, with Agnes’ mother.
On the second day of my stay at her house I discovered the abandoned toy and immediately imagined Agnes’ mother using it.
But the story of Agnes’ mother is another story. A real life sex story and I will tell it another day.