ED

"Shayla, I'll be hard and long when I get there. I haven't touched a woman in three months. You'd better be ready."

Cryptically, she giggled, and said, "we are," and hung up.

We?

The house she shared was on the border between Cherry Hill and Voorhees, New Jersey. I parked my rental car outside, on the street, gathered up my two bags, and went to the front door. Everything seem so quiet. I rang the bell.

I heard Shayla's distant voice, saying, "come in."

Opening the front storm door and then the more massive front door, I stepped into the small vestibule, and then struggled my two bags into the foyer.

Then I looked up into a dark-skinned African-American vision. A sex goddess descended the three stairs leading to the 2nd floor, and slowly glided toward me on 4-inch Lucite strappy heel slippers, tied and re-tied around her calves. I saw a white silk blouse, daringly worn in a French-cut fashion (held together with one button, about at her navel), and a dark leather mini-skirt wrap around. Her dark breasts, capped by fantastically stiff nipples swayed from side to side, alternately exposing and revealing themselves. Her hair was up in braids again. She had open mesh fish-net stockings, ending just under the skirt.

Her mouth was open in that loose-lipped, pre-kiss droop that only girls—only very turned-on, about-to-have-sex girls—could do.

I knew, without knowing how I knew, that she was shaved glass-smooth; that she had no panties; and there was no trace of any breast support as she swayed up to me.

I was hard as a man can be, with my trousers poked out from my groin.

= = = = =

Gasping for air, I lay there on the living room sofa, naked as a jaybird, with my exhausted black girlfriend slumped bonelessly on top. She was still moaning and jerking in little after-shock orgasms, I managed to wiggle out from underneath her, and then get her turned over, to sprawl on the couch, too, legs agape, eyes rolled up and arms drooping over her head.

Her dark black pussy opening was oozing several turgid drops of my gray-white injected sperm. I thought she looked like the most beautiful, sexy, fucked-out woman in the world.

As my breathing got more under control, I looked up at our audience, my bi-mix injected penis still rigid and pointed at the ceiling.

"Uh, hi," I said, entirely inadequately, yes, but what do you say to a couple of women who've just watched you assault their roommate and fuck her into a near coma.

There was a brief silence, as my hard cock jumped and jerked from my heartbeat.

To my left was a tall blonde, with a very large 'rack', sitting with one leg crossed over the other. She had one arm holding up her chin, and other arm loosely across her thigh. The reason I could be sure about the 'rack' was that she was bare to the waist, and from there down was a set of well-worn jeans and a pair of high-heel sandals. Her breasts slowly swayed back and forth, and displayed very large brown nipples, which were fully distended.

To my right was a girl. I couldn't tell her age. She was just a girl, nothing special, brown hair, a little plump—what they call 'a few extra pounds'—wearing absolutely nothing, not even a hairpin. Well, maybe I could count the glasses sitting on her nose, but that was all.

So I lay on the couch, in the home of three naked women, with a huge erection still, amid the very obvious evidence of recent liquid fucking.

Maybe you could figure some snappy thing to say, but all I could figure was, "Hi."

The tall blonde spoke, in a broad Texan drawl, saying, "You must be David. Shayla's been talking about nothing but you and your hard penis and how good it was and how nice you were, on and on." She added, "I'm Melanie. I'm one of Shayla's roommates."

She looked over at the other girl, who was sitting to my right. Utterly self-composed, she said in a strong British accent and a little-girl-whispery voice, "I'm Chickie. My real name is Roxalanda Matilda Simms, but you'd better call me Chickie. I'm so pleased to meet you, David. You have a beautiful cock. As soon as you get over your after-fuck sensitivity and numbness, I want to suck it and then get it inside me. I wanna get laid, too."

Eyes bulging at bit, I looked to my left.

Melanie said, giggling, "Chickie does sex like you and I do breathing. It's 100% on, 24/7. Isn't that right, Chickie?"

"Damn straight it is, luv," Chickie replied, eyes fixed hungrily on my still erect, swaying manhood.

Beside me on the couch, Shayla groaned and opened her eyes. Then she stretched, and finally wrapped her arms around my waist, saying, "That was really a good 'hello' fuck. Don't ever go away again."

Shayla looked up at her two roomies, and asked, "So, can he stay? Please?"

Melanie threw back her head and laughed, which made her generous breasts jerk and jiggle. "Shayla, your man just had you on the front-room couch, and we watched the show. Sure, he can stay."

To me, she said, more seriously, "It'll be the rooms up on the third floor. Each of us pays for our share of the mortgage, and our share of the food and unilities. It comes out to be about eight hundred a month. Can you do that?"

"Let's try doubling that," I said, "since I take up more space and have a bathroom, too."

Melanie smiled, saying, "If you can do that, then we can get the mortgage paid off faster, and maybe make some repairs around here that we've been putting off."

Shayla chimed in, though. "Yeah," she said, "but what he pays is just for the house and expenses. That's what we've agreed. The SEX is always gonna be free. Every stroke and feel; every kiss and suck; every one of these lovely hard-ons we can start. Every cum and squirt. That's always gonna be free. Right, you two?"

Melqanie and Chickie looked at each other, shared a warm look, and agreed, "Right!"

Melanie and Chickie pulled me off the couch, to stand up. Remember, I was naked, and, due to the bi-mix injection, completely erect, sticking way out. Shayla groaned to her feet, too, and started flicking my erect member so that it swung from side to side.

"Isn't it beautiful," she said.

We climbed the stairs to the 3rd floor, with my hard penis jumping and swaying. I was the center of giggling attention, and I kind of liked it. Surprise, surprise. Since I'd last seen the room, it'd been painted and cleaned. There wasn't any furniture, though.

"I'll get on the phone, and order some tomorrow. Maybe I can sleep on the couch tonight?" I asked.

Shayla said, "Hell you will."

Then—no shit—with me standing completely naked and erect, surrounded by these three nymphets, they did 'rock-paper-sissors,' to see who'd get to use me next, and who'd have me in bed overnight.

Melanie won the contest for overnight sleeping, but Chicke had 'paper-wraps-rock' for my very willing body.

It was about all we could do to get her off me, and us down to her bed on the second floor, before her mouth engulfed my drug-enhanced male organ, sucking and kissing as if it were the most natural thing in the world. In a few minutes, astride her spread-open body, I fucked into such a pool of wetness and lubrication that I thought my cock was floating, unable to touch a solid surface.

As I thrust slowly, I could hear the displaced liquid putter up around my hard cock, and then heard the slight but distinct sound of sucking as the tublar shaft withdraw. In my entire life, I've never met another woman who was as wet—and slippery—as Chickie,

Thrusting slowly, I looked to my left, and my eyes met Shayla's. She winked, as she stared intently at my penis, as it disappeared into and withdrew from her friend, "Ah, you fuck so well. I love having you in me, and now I love watching you use it. Come on, Chickie, give it all to him. He can take it."

I glanced to my right, and saw Melanie, who just said, "you're mine, all night. Don't plan on using the pillow much, 'cause you'be using these a lot more." She grasped her big breasts at the base and jiggled them at me.

I was engulfed, as a set of pale-skinned arms and legs totally enclosed my thrusting body, using her arms and legs in a rhythm to drive me deeper into the liquid depths.

Chickie was a talker, and I heard a delightful, gutter-laced set of instructions and comments, complete with unselfconscious grunting, but without using a single obscene word. Somehow, Chickie managed to cum about every minute. A complete cum, with her face red, gasping for air, body bent back in an arch, her cuntal muscles grasping and squeezing at my penetrating male probe.

After a time, I couldn't wait any longer, and I shot another stream of semen deeply into her body. When I had stopped groaning and shooting, Chickie opened her eyes, smiled up at me and said, "That was good times, luv. Shayla was right. You have a wonderful penis. You can use me harder, you can't hurt me with your cock."

"that's what Shayla told me, the night we met," I said.

While I was resting, Shayla cleaned me off, with a warm washcloth from the sink in the bathroom.

Later that evening, with a finally limp and floppy dick, I settled in bed behind Melanie, and cupped her breasts, playing with the distended nipples. That's when I discovered her secret. Well, to be truthful, when she led me to her secret.

Her breasts and nipples were orgasmic. This only happens about once in every 100,000 women. A couple of minutes of caressing, squeezing and fingering her breasts and nipples and she stiffened, growled low in her throat and had a body-shaking orgasm. She had too many to count, after I induced the first one in her. It was so easy and fun to play with her boobs, and they were so responsive. I alternated with stimulating her protrusive clit with a small Pocket Rocket vibrator.

I fell asleep with her nipple in my mouth.

It was gone, when I woke up in the morning. Instead, there was a whole body of slowly-moving African American female flesh, kind of giggling and writhing over my naked body. I was still in Melanie's bed, but Shayla was there.

I staggered a bit, but I did fix us a nice breakfast.

The next morning, I ordered a king-sized bed, a dresser, an amoire, and a couple of over-stuffed chairs, plus lap pillows, throw rugs, etc., paying a premium to have them delivered ASAP. The girls all collectively helped me buy linens, pillows, and similar stuff.

Having had my residence at the house decided by the three roommates I'd just made love to, I spent the next night in Shayla's room.

By the 3rd night, I was moved in.

I paid for two people into the mortgage/rent fund and into the food budget. Melanie, Chickie and Shayla were floored when it turned out I cooked pretty well, knew one end of a vacuum, mop and broom from the other and could do laundry (I just hated ironing).

That set the pattern to my/our life. I didn't make love to any or all of these sexy women, every day, but I made love—or fucked their brains out—very frequently. I never lacked for someone to sleep with, but I could sleep alone (I seldom did). If one of their doors was closed, that meant privacy-no-entrance. Slightly ajar meant 'knock and ask before enering.' Open more than a foot meant 'come in, kiss me and touch whatever's exposed.'

During the 2nd week, going into the basement to check on the disposal of the packages of plastic jars I'd sent several months ago, I quickly found that the water heater was on its last legs. I ordered a new one, at triple the capacity, again paying indecent bucks for rapid delivery and installation. Shortly after, I had the electrical panel upgraded to 220 amps, too, I started in patching the dings and holes in the walls of the 3-storey house, and working on the property. Nothing strenuous, but gradually things started looking neat and trim.

Shayla was utterly hopeless in the kitchen, so I took over her share of the cooking. Chickie was imaginative, and we had curries and exotic foods. With Melanie, it was, "COOK – FIRE – MEAT," which meant hamburger to steak, depending on the budget. I used a little more of my money to get a freezer, so we could buy quantities of stuff ahead.

They all hated washing and drying, so I did that, for all of them and me. In a couple of months, I got rid of the old, creaky washer and dryer, and had a basic-but-new large-capacity washer and dryer installed ... in a space on the second floor. They were shocked, until I pointed out, "that's where all the dirty clothes come from, so why should we go up and down stairs, just to be clean?"

I hated ironing, but, somehow, all my trousers and shirts were ironed, hung up and my underwear placed neatly in drawers on the third floor.

Each of us vacuumed and cleaned, pretty much when we felt like it. The house was none too clean, at times, but never really filthy.

One man, living with three women, meets some unexpected challenges. Like most other sets of very close female friends, all their periods had been synchronized with each other, so for about three to four days, once a month, I kept a low profile and these were the time I sometimes slept alone.

Sometimes, I mediated fights and disagreements between two or all three of my girls. Other times, when tempers would flare, I quickly faded from the scene, not wanting to be caught between a two- or three-way cat fight. When they were blue, I cuddled and comforted: sex might happen, later, or it might not.

Life was not dull!

I made a rule, early on, that if it wasn't sexual, whatever each girl-lover might tell me, I'd keep to myself. I didn't play favorites, beyond the dating games that Shayla and I would play. Sometimes I dated two or all three, out in public, or to a restaurant.

Each woman's emotional life was individual, and I found it not very difficult to figure when each one was having a hard day at work. Or just having a 'bad hair day,' for no apparent reason, just because they were women.

- - - - -

It's the same dream, as always. The details differ. I come in the side door by the garage. The power's off, and the scene is lit by many candles. There are nine guys there plus my wife. Everybody's naked and sweaty. She's on the pool table, and all nine guys are around her, on the floor. Totally nude, she's handcuffed to a rope running through both corner pockets. She's blindfolded. Her legs are free. She's slowly and sexily twisting her hips and thrusting her crotch. She crosses and un-crosses her legs, thrusting her chest so her boobs bounce, and grinds, as they shout obscene taunts at her. One guy jumps on the table, and starts to jack off on her body. In a few moments, his jism spurts out and splashes on her crotch. A second man is now in her mouth and two are on the table, too sucking on her breasts and swollen nipples. She's screaming in continuous orgasm, "yes, yes, YES, fuck ME, RAPE me, you bastards, FUCK ME." Despite the grunting and groaning, and having her mouth full of cock, I hear her laughing and talking with the other naked men surrounding the table. Somehow, nobody sees me. I look at the guys gang-banging my once-beautiful slut-wife. She has jism on her face and on her boobs. There is a pool of jism under her pussy, now. The guys scream and thrust and cum. I can see it drip down, as the guy in her unloads a huge load. The men have cum on her and in her, before I arrived. The guys standing around, waiting their turn, begin to yawn and slump down. Then the men on the table start to fall asleep, drooping over her now comatose body. A new guy in her mouth jerks once, shoots his load on her face, and falls across her body. The guy in her pussy droops over, and falls to one side, his cock spurting a fountain of white goo onto her cum-crusted hair. Now nobody is moving. There's no more groaning. She isn't cuming, any more. She and the guys are suffocated and dead. I walk around the side of the pool table, stepping over the naked bodies, and look at the softly glowing wood stove. Her bathrobe is hanging from the handle of the outside vent, holding it closed. The candles are guttering and their flames turn blue. Some go out. I hear a noise off to my left, and slowly turn. Somehow, my formerly beautiful wife has managed to get the blindfold off, and twist around to face me. She's still handcuffed to the table, and the effort raises her arms and chest, so her boobs bounce as they point at me. I can see the ropes of adulterous sperm on her face and in her hair, and her mouth drools with yet more spent liquid manhood. She's managed to twist herself free of dying men, lying so I could see her swollen vaginal lips, one leg cocked aside, letting me see the stuff oozing from her over-filled pussy. Jutting and thrusting her ravaged, cum-encrusted cunt in the air, thighs open, she gurgles softly, "It should have been you in these cuffs, screaming and taking my white-hot poker up your impotent, wimpy, smoking, blackened ass, but somehow you killed me anyway."

Then I snapped awake.

- - - - -

It was early in 2007. I was home, working on some exotic metals spot prices, on my laptop PC. I heard the door slam, hard, and a stream of British-accented swearing echoed up the stairs. Chickie had a way with words, far in excess of the usual American repetitive stream of 'fuck-shit-piss-damn-motherfucker.' Surprisingly, though, she didn't immediately slam into her room, but instead, she headed directly for the stairs to my third-floor rooms.

Still dressed in her waitress pink and blue uniform, she verbally castrated all her bosses at the restaurant, in great and imaginative detail, as she strode into the room and threw herself on my bed, where I was relaxing. Her hair, usually neatly done, was a mess. She was soaking wet from the light rain falling outside, so I knew she'd left her coat behind, at work.

Wordlessly, I got her up, undressed, and into my shower bath, with plenty of hot water and the best soap. While she was bathing the rage off, I laid out the big fluffy towels I kept for this purpose (it wasn't the first time) and set out the hair dryer. I filled the electric tea kettle, turned it on, and lined up a cup for tea, plus two shot glasses of brandy and two aspirin, out in my room. When a quieter Chickie emerged from the shower, wearing one towel—around her waist—I was able to hand her the stiff shots of brandy, the pain reliever and a large cup of hot, strong tea.

She settled onto the bed, in front of me, downed the two shots of liquor, gulped the two pills, and started sipping the tea, her two small breasts bouncing and moving delightfully. Chickie, being Chickie, knew exactly what she was doing, and I expected the towel to be lost very soon.

I opened my right arm, extended it and said, "come and cuddle, and tell me about it."

Chickee slithered over to me—leaving the towel behind—and settled nudely into the crook of my arm.

"I was fired today. No job, again," she growled, pulling my arm down and across her breast, and inserting the stiff nipple between my two fingers.

"Tell me about it," I said again.

"My boss at the restaurant. He wants to fuck me. That's OK, but I know he has an STD, and he demanded that we do it bareback, and in the back kitchen, where everybody can see him humping on me. And he wants to start selling me out to his clients in the back banquet room, with him as my pimp."

Very deliberately, she wiggled against me. This was Chickie, being Chickee, and so was simply normal behavior with her trusted lover. She went on, holding her breast up for me to grasp and squeeze, and drawing up her legs, "I wouldn't go for it, so he kicked me out of the restaurant, and the bastard kept my coat, my paycheck, tips and my purse. Damn, and I'd almost saved enough for a first semester, too. Now I gotta get another job, and work out transportation, all that shit."

I said, "Chickie, I've got an acquaintance who moonlights as a security guard. How about I call him, and then he and you pay a visit to mister bully, and get your stuff, your tips and pay?"