Drawn-Out Sex

His lovely wife Blondie warm beside him, Dagwood Bumstead sleeps peacefully, and the letters "S-K-N-X" in big black capitals issue from his open mouth. The twittering of birds outside their bedroom window pulls him from slumber, and his ovoid black eyes open enough to see her youthful, dimpled face, framed by a lush array of canary-yellow curls. Amazing how she has retained the beauty of her youth for as long as they've been married. Her eyes are closed, her cupid's-bow lips slightly parted. A strap of her frilly pink nightgown has fallen off one shoulder.

Suddenly he sits bolt upright, eyes wide, hair standing straight up on either side of his head. The alarm clock didn't go off, he thinks, or maybe he slept through it. He gets dressed in no time and dashes down the stairs. Blondie, awakened by his mad dashing, calmly arises to put on her robe and slippers and get him his breakfast. Absorbed by thoughts of how Mr. Dithers will rake him over the coals again for being late, Dagwood is no sooner out the door than he slams headlong, as usual, into Mr. Beasley the postman coming up the walk.

Blondie comes outside and reminds Dagwood that it's Saturday. The two of them then carry the unconscious Beasley into the living room and lay him on Dagwood's napping couch. Blondie then goes into the kitchen for a damp towel to apply to the goose-egg swelling on the hapless postman's forehead. When she comes out again Dagwood notes that her robe has fallen open. She stands at the end of the couch where Beasley's head is and leans over to apply the damp towel. Dagwood stands by, looking ineffectual.

Their dog Daisy has wandered in and sits to observe. Dagwood absently scratches Daisy between the ears, distracted by the spectacular view of Blondie's ample cleavage afforded by her nightie's gaping neckline as she bends over. She is of course brassiere-less, and wears only a pair of low-rise panties beneath that filmy negligee. A bulge begins to appear in his black slacks.

"I think he's going to be out for a while," she says. "There's no apparent damage other than the bump on his head. He always recovers whenever this happens. It's just a matter of time." Daisy trots over to Beasley, sniffs at him, licks his face once and settles down for a nap.

"So... it's Saturday," says Dagwood. "Where are Cookie and Alexander?"

"They went camping 'til Monday with some friends, remember? It's just us."

"Great," says Dagwood.

"Why don't you change into some weekend clothes while I make breakfast, dear?" says Blondie. "And then I have a list of chores I hope you can get done today."

"Fuck the list," says Dagwood. "Fuck breakfast, too. Come over here, you sexy thing."

"Dagwood!" says Blondie. Her eyes widen, and her fingers rise to her collarbone, but then she sees the look in his eye, and her glance flicks down to his crotch. "Oh my," she thinks. Then she giggles and takes a few steps toward him, and the feathery pom-poms on her slippers dance. "It's not like you to pass up breakfast, darling."

"Don't worry, baby," says Dagwood. "I'll find something to eat." He covers the distance between them and takes her in his arms. He kisses her and feels all her soft curves press full against him.

Fumbling a bit, he unties the sash of her silk robe, then slides his hands inside of it and around her impossibly slender waist. He slips his tongue into her mouth, and she inhales deeply through her button nose and wraps her smooth, pink arms around his neck.

His hands slide down to squeeze her pert bottom—-how did she stay so firm all this time?—-and she grinds her groin against his. He slides his hands up her body, caressing her full breasts along the way, to lift the robe off her shoulders, down her arms, to the floor. She sighs sweetly and cups her three fingers around his balls.

A low groan comes from Dagwood's chest, and his fingers begin bunching the fabric of her nightgown up along her firm thighs. As her hemline rises she continues her attentions to his hardened member, stroking it through his black slacks. He has her nightie up over her waist, now her ribs, and she lifts her arms. He swiftly pulls it up over her head and off.

The motion causes her breasts to bobble and sway gently. He buries his face between them. (Up this close, her perfect skin can be seen to be a grid of colored dots--red, yellow, flecks of blue--but Dagwood seems unperturbed.) Her lips form an O as he pops a hard pink nipple in his mouth and circles it with his pink tongue. He slides his hands back down the curve of her smooth, naked back and slips his fingers under the elastic of her powder-blue panties.

Blondie pushes herself away from him and stares into his eyes. Her long, thick eyelashes flutter, and she backs him up against the wall and slowly unties his red bow tie and unbuttons his shirt, which doesn't take long, since the shirt only has one large button. She pulls the shirt off of him and, her hands on his shoulders, she begins to slide the length of her body down his, pressing herself against him as she goes. He can feel the hardness of her naked nipples against his chest; his stomach; and then she's on her dimpled knees in front of him.

She unfastens his belt and trousers and opens his zipper. The pants slide down below his sock garters, revealing his red-and-white-striped boxer shorts, and she pulls those down as well, whereupon his already-rigid cock springs up from the waistband with an audible "boing."

The sound wakes Daisy from her nap, and she looks up to see Blondie take his engorged member into her mouth. His sharp intake of breath causes a pair of exclamation marks to appear over Daisy's head, but these fade away as she loses interest and goes back to sleep.

Blondie's yellow curls bob to and fro as she sucks on his cock, making loud wet noises that materialize in the air around her head: sklish, pop, smek, slurp. She takes him in and down her throat farther than humanly possible and Dagwood's eyes turn into a pair of X's.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the downtown offices of JC Dithers & Co., Julius Dithers storms around in a towering rage. He has come into the office on a Saturday to find the Metzfogel file, and he can't, and the proposed revision of their contract is due Monday. He needs to get this taken care of before his luncheon appointment with his wife Cora. Obviously, the only thing to do is to get Bumstead down here. He seizes the phone and dials.

* * *

Blondie's tongue is snaking around Dagwood's balls as the phone begins to ring. Despite the telephone and its handset leaping off the end table and clattering about in mid-air, the amorous Bumsteads ignore its clamor. Dagwood's head is tilted back, his eyes shut and his tongue lolling out of his open mouth. A single teardrop-shaped bead of sweat runs down his temple. His fingers are buried in the yellow ringlets that encircle Blondie's face.

She looks up at him, slowly jacking his cock, and as their eyes lock she gives it a final lick and murmurs, "Fuck me Dagwood. Fuck me good."

He pulls her to her feet and sweeps her up in his arms. His mind flashes to the day when, against the wishes of his wealthy family, he had married Blondie Boopadoop and, just like this, had first carried her across the threshold. So long ago—it was February 17, 1933, in fact—and he had boned the bejeezus out of her then, too, at Niagara Falls. One of the keys to a long, happy marriage, that's for damn sure. And Blondie surely loves to fuck—-LOVES it. Hell, that's why he has to take so many naps, and to keep his strength up with weird and gigantic sandwiches. Bitch is insatiable. It made being disowned and disinherited worthwhile.

He carries her over to his easy chair and sets her down, then flings himself upon her. He doesn't notice that he has knocked the handset off the phone.

"Fuck you?" he rasps. "Oh, yeah, I'm gonna fuck you! I'm gonna do you Dag-style!"

* * *

On the other end of the line, Mr. Dithers has been carrying on a one-sided conversation ever since he heard the phone apparently being picked up at Dagwood's end.

"Bumstead!" he rants. "Bumstead, you've gotta get down to the office right now! Bumstead? Bumstead!!"

He stops to listen for a moment, but the only thing he can make out is Dagwood saying "...fuck you!" His cigar drops from his mouth and he slams down the phone. Blood in his eye, he clamps his hat on his head and takes the elevator down to the parking garage.

Too angry to be surprised by such extraordinary behavior from the ordinarily subservient Bumstead, he fumes to himself: "Dag my boy, I'm gonna drag you down to the office by one foot, you're going to straighten out this Metzfogel business, and then I'm going to kill you, and then fire your ass. Fuck me, Bumstead? Oh no. Fuck you. Fu-u-u-u-u-ccck YOU!!"

* * *

Across town, Mr. Dithers's wife Cora is still tingling from her session at the spa. She has just had an exhilarating massage from big Sven, who has the best hands in the business. He's quite gay, of course, but it's nonetheless a delight to see such a very, very muscular young man in his tight-fitting white t-shirt and trousers, and to feel his oiled hands running all over her body; at the same time so relaxing and so stimulating. And today, adding to her titillation, Tootsie Woodley had been in the hot tub.

She had previously met Tootsie through her husband when they had been invited to an anniversary party by one of Julius's employees, Dagwood . . . Something. There were quite a number of very odd people at that anniversary party. Tootsie was apparently the couple's next-door neighbor. Whatever.

What had absorbed Cora's thoughts was how lovely little Tootsie was; a petite brunette with a pert little behind and proud, high breasts. She had come in while Cora was soaking in the hot tub and had asked if she might share. Cora had readily agreed, and had nearly licked her lips as Tootsie shed her towel and daintily slipped into the steaming tub. With hot water glistening on her skin and wet tendrils of curly black hair snaking out from the towel around her head, she had been absolutely enchanting, and they had renewed their acquaintance.

Cora barely managed to keep up her end of the conversation while imagining soaping up Tootsie in the shower and sponging her all over before taking her to bed--Julius had his own room--and showing her how to don the strap-on. Cora Dithers was a woman of strong and diverse sexual appetites.

* * *

Dagwood sits on the hassock between Blondie's long legs and, slowly, gently, pulls her slippers off her tiny feet, kissing her toes. He slowly slides his hands up the full length of her legs to her panties. Lovingly he peels them down her hips as she raises her buttocks off the seat. Then, settling back down, she brings her knees up so he can slide the panties off over her ankles. He brings them to his face and inhales their scent deeply. Aahhh, pussy juices and ink. She splays her legs out over the chair's arms and plays with the yellow tuft of down that she keeps trimmed for him. It exactly matches the hair on her head.

Dagwood drapes her calves over each of his shoulders and kisses the inside of each knee, then begins to work his way up her trembling thighs, kissing, caressing, licking, nibbling and stroking the velvet skin. Her breathing becomes more rapid and her bosom heaves. She clutches at her breasts and pinches her nipples. Soft little plaintive coos escape her lips, and she is eager for his tongue to reach her moist sex. At last it does, and she pushes herself against his probing tongue and moans.

Dagwood, through many years of cramming gigantic sandwiches into his maw, can open his mouth very wide. He is virtually able to fit Blondie's entire crotch in his mouth, and he does so now, licking her from perineum to pubis and thrusting his tongue deep, deep inside her to probe every inch of her quivering quim. Her screams of pleasure can be heard by Alice and Henry Mitchell, the couple across the street, who look at each other and send their bratty son Dennis out to play.

* * *

As she had chatted with Tootsie in the hot tub, occasionally stealing glances at her beautiful breasts bobbing gently on the water, Cora had learned that she had opened a catering business with this Dagwood person's wife, Blondie. Cora remembered her from the party too; very attractive as well, in a voluptuous sort of way. She remembered that Julius had been a bit too attentive to the blond minx.

Cora broached the subject of perhaps catering an upcoming soiree, and Tootsie invited her to drop by Blondie's home that morning and they could all discuss it. Cora had readily agreed, and then it was time for her massage and they parted company. She had watched Tootsie's deliciously swaying derriere as she went on her way toward the locker room.

Now, all aglow from Sven's hands and the wonder of Tootsie's firm little tush, Cora was listening to the endlessly ringing phone at Julius's office. Where is that man? Oh, he will hear about this. Not that she particularly cares about their brunch date, but she does enjoy having something to berate him about.

* * *

Mr. Beasley the postman is running through a grey void, a pack of Dobermans at his heels. If only he weren't weighed down by all the mail in his bag. Oh no, it isn't mail; it's MEAT. The dogs are barking and growling and snapping and . . . moaning? And what's that? Running straight at him--it's Bumstead, and he can't possibly stop in time! He's yelling, but with Blondie's voice: "I'm coming! I'm coming!" Well, I can see that, you imbecile. The collision is inevitable! The greyness thickens, spins, darkens to black.

* * *

Steam blowing out of his ears, Julius Dithers pounds his fist on the car horn. It is of course futile; he is hemmed in on all sides by heavy morning traffic. Fuming, he grips the steering wheel and glares at the truck that blocks his forward view. He twists his head on his neck and hears the vertebrae snap and pop.

His mind drifts, and a scalloped-edged, cloudy white balloon forms, a memory emerging within. In it, he is on all fours and dressed in red vinyl shorts, motorcycle boots, and a yellow feather boa. Through the eyeslits of the black leather hood zipped tightly to his head he can see Mistress Ursula looming above him. She wears his favorite leather ensemble tonight, with stiletto-heeled, thigh-high boots over fishnet tights. She has the Cat-Woman cowl on tonight, and is brandishing the cat-o-nine-tails. She glares at him over the rampart of her more-than-ample bosom, which trembles with barely-contained rage, threatening to spill out of her spike-studded bustier.

"Julius, you worm," she snarls. "Kiss my foot like you mean it!"

"Yes, Mistress," he whimpers, his words muffled by the mask. His nipple-clips scrape the floor as he grovels low and presses his lips to the sole of her boot.

"Lick it," she growls, and he obliges her whim, savoring the grit his tongue laps up. She rips her foot away and plants the heel's tip in Julius' back.

"You disgust me, Julius," she informs him, and he gazes up at her with puppy-dog eyes. "Do you want the lash again, insect?"

"Yes, please, Mistress," he murmurs, pressing his face to the floor as he knows he must.

"Well? Then cuff yourself to the hoist, you filthy monkey-boy, and await my pleasure."

Eagerly, he rushes to the dangling handcuffs-—not an easy feat in ankle chains-—and claps them on his wrists. He can hear the measured click of heels on the dungeon floor as Cora—-oops, Mistress Ursula-—like a dreadnought under full sail, takes her sweet time getting to the wheel. She pauses a moment longer, making him sweat, then gives the wheel a squealing turn. He is hoisted up on tiptoe, his arms stretched high over his head. The pain in his back and shoulders is quite delectable.

Now he can hear the iron-tipped strands of the cat clatter and whistle through the air as she flicks it about. Please, oh please, he prays inwardly, let it be on my dirty buttocks. Oh, please.

"This is better than you deserve, you mongrel," she rasps, and tugs his shorts partway down his flaccid ass.

"Yes!" he acknowledges, to himself. "Thank you Mistress," he whispers, and prepares for the sharp bite of the lash. He hears the whipcords howl through the air—

—and a Hyundai blats its horn behind him. The balloon pops. The road has cleared, and he steps on the gas.

Bumstead will pay for this.

* * *

His easy chair squeaks each time Dagwood drives himself up into Blondie as she rides his prick. His hands caress her everywhere, her thighs, her breasts, her hips, and he watches greedily as her big breasts bounce and bobble up and down with each thrust of his manhood. Clenching his hands on her buttocks and driving her down onto his cock makes her come yet again. Blondie, head back, nails in Dagwood's back, her pussy spasmodically pumping away on his stiff hard-on, cries out from the ecstasy of her orgasm. She falls forward, gasping, breathless, against his chest, and lays her head on his shoulder, shuddering again and again in post-coital aftershocks.

But she is far from finished with him.

Dripping, she dis-impales herself from his turgid member and, a trifle unsteadily, gets to her feet. She is so moist the ink has started to run down her inner thighs. She pulls him out of the chair and, giving him a wicked glance, she climbs headfirst into it, resting her head on the padded chair-back. Straddling the seat, with a knee on each arm, she presents her lush ass to him, gives it a little twitch, and reaches back to spread her cheeks in invitation. The question mark over Dagwood's head vanishes as her meaning becomes clear.

* * *

Tootsie Woodley comes home from the spa as her husband Herb is putting the last touches on trimming the hedge. Giddily, she tells him about how the catering service might very well be hired for a dinner party thrown by Cora Dithers. Herb can tell Tootsie is excited because whenever she's happy, about anything, her nipples stand out rigid. They're certainly up now, pushing through her tight sweater. Herb puts his arm around her waist, walks her into the house and shuts the door.

As Tootsie walks through to the kitchen she's still going on enthusiastically about the opportunity to cater such a high-class affair when Herb comes up behind her and says, "That's wonderful, darling. What a businesswoman you are," and puts his arms around her and kisses her neck. His hands slide down her ribs to her taut belly.

Tootsie is secretly pleased, and has always been turned on by the scent of a man who's been hard at work. Herb smells like sweat and new-mown grass, and she loves that she can make him so amorous. She can feel something hard against her bottom. Nasty boy...

But when his hands stray under her sweater she turns to him and pushes him gently away. "Not now, Herbie," she whispers, and pats him on the cheek. "I have a meeting with Mrs. Dithers and Blondie soon. Oh my look at the time! I have to get over there right now."

Herb is a little disappointed, but knows he may well get lucky later on. "Okay," he says. "I have to return Dag's hedge trimmers anyway. I'll go with you."

Tootsie's face dimples up in an impish smile and she says, "Okay. But later, Herbie. Later..." She plants a quick peck on his lips and her fingertips brush one of his nipples through his Hawaiian shirt. "My old bear..." she murmurs, and turns and sashays toward the door with a little extra wiggle in her walk. Languorously, she poses for a moment in the doorway and says, "Coming?"

Herb is not far behind.

* * *

Mr. Beasley, the scent of dog breath in his nostrils, swims back to consciousness. Daisy has licked his face, and he stares up at a plaster ceiling. Dazed, he has difficulty in separating the panting of the dog from the grunting he also hears. He recalls the collision with Bumstead. I really ought to see about changing my route, he thinks to himself; and then wonders who's grunting like that.