Enter The Goyter

After that first night, when she pleaded like some kind of debased, fallen angel-slut—some weeks later, mind you—when we reached and navigated a few emotional turning points in our accelerated sexual courtship, she was interestingly pop-culty on this particular subject.

“I’m going to say it this way,” she cringed. “Ugh. How do I say this to you, Goyter?”

Yeah, by this time, she was calling me that. And she liked, at times, to match me, question for question.

“I know that I can at times come across as a Charlotte,” she continued. “But listen: I want you to know that, really, I’m a Samantha.”

I had no idea what the hell she was talking about. Not a fucking clue.

But that night, in the full bedroom light, I was staring there at her bear-claw cunt from behind, gazing at what was, in all honesty, every teenager’s first sight of a pussy from Penthouse or Hustler (because Playboy didn’t go for a rearview of a woman’s asshole and the pink rarities around it) with an open mouth. It was heaven.

And here I was, being asked, after jamming into her softly hidden soft moan like an oil derrick for a raw-rubbing half-hour, feeling her shiver, ooze upon me, and then grab my arm to steady me into a stop three times so she could hold herself in the shimmery, quivery climaxes…now she wanted me now to fuck her in her ass, and blitz out a string of hot blessing on her plush, red ass?

Yes, I thought. Yes.

Maybe I could be her savior.

Maybe.

Maybe she was exaggerating when she’d confided that she hadn’t been laid the way we’d been fucking in a good long while. Or it might just have been that she, like all of us, needed to get railed long and hard.

Maybe.

With her, I consistently, after coming, had a cock that was just a solid blood-branch. Thing just stayed erect, stoned, I guess. It was unresponsive to all intelligent inquiry. And hey, I’m the Grand Inquisitor of such things. It stayed stiff once for 20 minutes after I splashed off. And I felt, with her, often, as if all my internal organs had been emptied, like things had, momentarily, been shorn and ripped due to the outward push.

And when I heard tell me she wanted me inside there, I wanted to know if I would I feel that delightful pulled muscle running, again, from the shaft to the base of my asshole.

Maybe.

Thus I wondered. And just then, expatiated further upon whether she’d lick my own asshole when, and if, I asked—if that was, er…well, if that was kosher or not? Would she cleanse a taboo temple exit with her own hot licker? Jesus, even my fantasies ran ahead stupidly with bad puns.

In my time, I finally spilled buttery pearl-seed all over her ass, a messy cop’s delight, scattering it all within and beyond the crease that led south toward her delicately downed cheeks. As the burping liquid rose hot from me, she moaned and ooh’ed and aaah’ed, and then, when I was all done, reached back and rubbed it into her pale skin, clumsily, with a petite hand.

But her hair, the dark, humidity-frizzed-as-fuck locks that trailed in ringlets across her neck, splitting and spilling across her back—that’s what I looked at, focused on, like some goal. Knowing it was of the same essence as the little Eschatol on her mons, aroused everything in my lower body, down to my feet, when I came.

And then, I made mental footnotes, annotations, scholia, my own Rashi, of the way she traced her index finger, on the opposite hand, purposefully and intently, and then sucked on a dripping string of my spill as if it were a candy stick melting in summer sun, and she a greedy brat hungry for a sweet. I hadn’t seen anyone—anyone, at least, in the three-dimensional world—do that in front of me that hungrily.

“You ate me, ass-fucked me, oh, like a gold medalist, you fucking honey.”

I loved it.

“That’s what made me come, you goddamned cannibal, you know that?”

I did, and told her so. She laughed.

“You fucked my ass. You ate me. You’re all fucking cannibals, every one of you. You eat human flesh. You drink human blood.”

Just then, I felt it.

And it was enormously gratifying to sense the pull begin in my perineum, and start to stretch up to my still-sticky blowhole. Always a sign of the best pearl-throwing: involuntary, uncontrolled, and once reached, no way to turn off the spigot.

“You fuck me like that whenever we fuck and I’ll give you whatever you want, whenever you want it. And more.”

Christ, I wanted more.

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