SQUIRT: Tales of Deep Penetration and Female Ejaculation
By Alastair Anders
Copyright 2012 Alastair Anders
Smashwords edition
For adults only.
Table of Contents
The Perfect Gangbang
“There should be seven, maybe eight of them,” Irina said.
The receptionist nodded and took it down. Irina shifted nervously in her chair. She reached for one of the business cards and turned it over. On the back read “Your Wildest Dreams Come True.”
“What should they look like?” the receptionist asked. “Any preferences for age, body type, ethnicity?”
Irina swallowed, crossed her legs, and clutched her Gucci purse on her lap. She felt like she was carving out a bloody piece of her subconscious and spreading it out on top of the desk, for the receptionist to poke with her pencil. The receptionist was a young woman with librarian glasses and a calm demeanor, which Irina knew was probably cultivated for the job, but which made her feel even sillier right now.
“It doesn’t really matter what they look like,” she said. “Just big dicks. And lots of cum.”
The receptionist nodded and scribbled something down on a piece of paper that Irina couldn’t see.
“In fact, it’s probably better if they’re kind of ugly,” Irina added. “And they should swear a lot. But not spit on me, I don’t like that.”
“Okay.” The receptionist chewed on the end of her pencil. “Do you have some kind of staging area in mind? Like a penthouse or something?”
“Not really.” Irina thought about it for a moment, sifting through old mental frames of the fantasy that she’d been using for deep and hard orgasms since she was sixteen. “A warehouse, or an abandoned building would work.”
“Perfect.” The receptionist added it to her notes.
Over the next hour and a half, the receptionist took down hundreds of notes, ranging from Irina’s relationship with her parents, to her opinions on bruises, to how much girth she liked, to the fact that she’d broken her tailbone as a teenager. She gave Irina a waiver to sign about contact with bodily fluids, reminding her that all of the agency’s performers were tested for STIs every two weeks.
“What’s your schedule like this week?” the receptionist asked.
“I fly back to Moscow on Monday,” Irina said. “Early. I have a Saturday morning shoot at 10, but I’m free after that.” She gave the receptionist the addresses of the nightclubs and boutiques and theaters she planned to visit on Saturday and Sunday, as well as the card from the hotel where she was staying.
“Great.” The receptionist stood up and shook Irina’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Irina, and I hope you have lots of fun in New York.”
Her voice held so much obvious lust and pleasure that Irina giggled and blushed.
Irina wrote a check to the agency, and stumbled out of the office and into the bustling New York City street. Upstairs, she knew, the receptionist would be making her calls, probably making especially sure that Irina got the men with the fattest dicks, the heaviest loads. Soon, very soon, this city would contain seven or eight strange men on a mission to track her down, gag her and handcuff her, and pull her into a van. They would drive her to an abandoned building where they would gather around her in a circle, rubbing their dicks until thick ropes of cum shot all over her tits and face and stomach and pussy. Everything was in motion now. Giddy, she turned on her high heels and clicked back to Broadway.
*
Irina woke up on Saturday around seven in the morning, too excited to sleep. Her clit was as hard as a kidnapper’s cock and her pussy had already filled out a wet spot underneath her ass. In the shower, she ran the shower-head attachment over her breasts, tickling her nipples until they tightened and puckered and stood up to their full height, then pressed the jet of warm water between her legs and rocked it back and forth against her clit. She thought about testicles dangling over her face, full of cum and heavy as ripe avocados, and her pussy clenched as she came so hard that she gasped for breath and had to catch herself against the shower wall.
She completely phoned it in at her shoot, even though she’d been nervous all month about it. All she could think about was the feel of cold clammy air on her bare skin and the gentle shlick-shlick sound of men jacking off in the dark. As the cameras flashed all around her, Irina lay back on the sofa, her eyes closed, her lips parting slightly.
All afternoon she wandered around through a sexually animated world. Every man who passed her might be carrying a chloroformed rag in his pocket, her ticket to the realization of her fantasy. She bought a pair of boots on Fifth Avenue, green snakeskin with gold plating, because she couldn’t stop imagining those killer spike heels flailing helplessly in the air as cum rained down on her from every angle.
She watched the bartender at the nightclub who fixed her vodka martini, noticing his muscular arms and trying to guess whether his cock would be sliding inside her helpless pussy by the end of the night. Or would it be the bouncer at the door, who regarded her behind mysterious mirrored sunglasses? Irina nearly fainted, and her pussy creamed so intensely that her panties soaked through and a trail of sweet wetness began to run down the inside of her thigh.