Pussy-Licker: See Emily Play

Memories of Emily. 'Why is it that a man who chases pussy is called a ladykiller' she muses, daubing wet slimy kisses on the mauve helmet of my cock, 'when a girl who loves to fuck is called a slut-whore? It's not fair. Do you think it's possible for a girl to overdose on spunk? 'Cos if it is that's how I want to go...' my juices on her cum-splashed lips and chin, some of it even on her nose.

Then my eyes slam open -- Emily's there, unfastening my belt, sliding my zip down, extracting me hot and pulsing in her cool intimate fingers, and she's lying back, dress raised up around her open thighs, looking up at me, and her eyes are pleading. I don't need a second invitation. As I ram into her, Derek's smiling his approval, he's masturbating furiously, behind him on the video the screen's a twisting flexing formless mass of limbs and genitals, tongues lips and testicles, clits and cocks intertwined near-seamlessly.

Sneak's breathing in hard sharp gasps. But all I care about is Em thrusting her hips up to meet me, using the movement to lever me deeper in a darting jabbing penetration of the only cunt I ever really want to fill. Then the Iranian oil-rigs start gushing ecstasy-thick eruptions of liquid-oil skywards, in unison...

'I'm sorry. Took me a l-o-n-g time to come around. I was trying to hang onto something that died a long time ago. I was wrong.' A catch in her voice, something lost and something gained and I can't decide if the trade's a good one or not. Like she's finally lost an innocence, a virginity.

The white lines of the motorway feed beneath the Daihatsu's bonnet, taking us away from Sheffield at faster-miles-an-hour. Em's curled into the curve of my arm. 'It's alright, love, I understand. It's all over now.'

'Derek's only into voyeurism. Set that whole little number up just so's he could watch. Jacking off watching other people doing it. He's pathetic. Sneak's just as bad, can't get it up more'n once now. You're STILL the best fuck, always were. You're the ONLY one now. I'm cured of dreams and fantasy.' A sadness I can nearly touch.

'But you still got the foxiest, prettiest and most edible cunt in the whole of Rock 'n' Roll. No doubt. I could kiss every hair on it.'

'You wanna put your mouth where your words is?'

'You bet, I can taste it from here!'

Her head on my shoulder, her long dark hair warm on the nape of my neck. 'And yet... I can't help thinking,' her voice wistfully low, as though she's thinking aloud, 'that vocalist with Howl, the one in the sapphire-silk blouse, I can't help wondering what HE'S like in the back of a Transit van...!'