[More than a decade ago, having recently returned from a girls’ trip to Las Vegas and, feeling inspired by a particularly gratifying spa day, Jill wrote the following story. I miss the days of profoundly filthy emails in which my wife explored and shared her darkest, sometimes most transgressive fantasies, but for now I’ve got a small collection of old ones, and it’s my pleasure (and hopefully yours) to share this one.]

 

Kirsten, Melanie, Raina, Chris, Blair, Genie and I were heading to the spa for a massage. When we arrived at the spa we were each given robes and told to shower before the massages. The showers were huge, with faucets and showerheads every several feet surrounding a central drain, and wooden benches lining the walls. We thought we should conserve water and just all go in together.

It started off innocently enough, all of us lathering up separately. Then Blair asked Chris if she could help her soap up her back. Chris started to massage her back, then slowly moved down to her ass. She started to fondle her a little, and she could see that Blair was enjoying it. She slowly moved her hands around to Blair’s pussy, and was excited to find her hot and wet.

Chris knelt in front of her and began to stroke her while kissing and running her tongue along the insides of Blair’s thighs. When she couldn’t take it anymore, Chris spread her open and began to feast. Blair was moaning intensely as Chris continued to please her with her mouth.

After awhile, Chris turned her around to face the wall. Blair braced herself against it with her arms and stuck her ass out. Chris began to rub her tight ass with a finger, then slowly pressed it inside. Blair’s moans got louder as she felt Kristen vigorously finger-fucking her.

Their show was turning the me on and I began to touch myself. Looking around the shower, I noticed that Kirsten, Raina, Melanie, and Genie were doing the same as they watched. Eyeing me suggestively, Kirsten moved closer, putting her arms around me and pulling me close. I began to massage her thighs and licked and sucked her hot breasts. Her nipples were hard and as my sucking intensified she lowered her hand to her wet pussy.

I bent Kirsten over the bench and spread her open with my hands, savoring the heat as my mouth reached her. I ran my tongue along her lips, licking slowly at first, but then faster and faster. As I fucked her pussy with my tongue, Kirsten rubbed her clit.

Then she flipped over and sat on the bench, spreading her legs. She smelled delicious and tasted even better. I devoured her pussy, then slipped three fingers inside her and played with her G-spot until she came. Her moans echoed off of the tile walls as she covered me in her sweet juices.

By this time, Melanie and Raina were standing nearby, making out and caressing each other. The show we were putting on was all but forgotten as they kissed, their hands exploring every curve of each other’s bodies. Melanie had one leg raised up so Raina could feel just how wet she was. Meanwhile Genie was kneeling on the cold, wet tile floor, rubbing her pussy and moaning as she took in the scene before her. I was so turned on by seeing all three of them in such a state of arousal.

Blair and Chris both came over to where I was pleasuring Kirsten. Blair leaned close and sucked my nipples while Chris went down on my pussy. As the same time she had three fingers in my ass and was fucking me hard with them. I came forcefully, explosively, and the three of them took turns licking my pussy clean before coming back up to make out with me.

When we were done in the shower, we all rinsed off, then dried ourselves and put on robes before heading into the room to wait for our massages. The floor was covered in warm, plush carpeting, and there was ambient, relaxing music playing quietly. We all climbed up onto large tables, enjoying the feel of soft flannel sheets underneath us. We waited silently, all of us already feeling very relaxed, and soon seven very hot guys came in to give us our massages. It was a huge turn on to feel my guy peel off my robe and touch my body.

After our massages were finished, the guys suggested we put our robes back on and rest on the massage tables, and then they would be back in to check on us after awhile. But the seven of us agreed that we would prefer to leave the robes off. I felt them eyeing our naked bodies lasciviously as they moved away from the tables and toward the door.

Once we were alone Chris and Kirsten began talking about how hot the massages were, but how there were some spots the guys missed. Blair and I said we could help with those spots, and got up from our tables, then moved to theirs. At the same time, Melanie got up from her table and moved to Raina’s, turning her onto her back and kissing and caressing her body.

I watched from the corner of my eye as Melanie helped Raina down from her table and the two of them began to scissor on the floor, their bodies slowly moving together in perfect unity. Meanwhile Kirsten was lying face-up on the massage table and I was kissing her legs and rubbing the insides of her thighs as nearby, Blair and Chris sixty-nined on the floor. Kirsten appeared to be really enjoying the show, and as I licked and sucked her clit she moaned with pleasure.

I maneuvered her onto her hands and knees and buried my face in her from behind, my nose up against her ass as I spoiled her pussy with my mouth. As I devoured her, she continued watching Chris and Blair pleasuring each other. Her moans intensified and I slipped my fingers inside her, stroking her G-spot hurriedly and awaiting my reward.

She came explosively, drenching my face, my fingers, and my tits, and then she got down from the table. She kissed me hard on the mouth, enjoying the taste of her juices on my lips and tongue, and then we stopped what we were doing and watched what was unfolding before us.

By now, Blair and Chris were scissoring, grinding their pussies back and forth against each other. Their hands were on each other’s hips, guiding them as they moved in sync, and as they moaned togetherI knew they were both close to coming. I didn’t want to miss a second of that, and I noticed Kirsten watching intently as well. Their moans reached a crescendo, and all at once they shuddered and collapsed against each other.

Genie had joined Melanie in licking and sucking Raina’s large breasts. There was no mistaking the excitement on Raina’s face as she slowly sank to her knees on the soft carpeting, and Melanie and Genie sank with her. As they continued to graze over her nipples, their hands met between Raina’s warm thighs.

As Genie and Melanie fingered Raina’s pussy together, they moved from her breasts and the three of them shared a kiss. I grew even more aroused than I already was when I saw their tongues batting playfully against each other. As the kiss grew in intensity Raina pulled Melanie close to her and their mouths pressed together as Genie moved her lips to Raina’s neck, and then to Melanie’s.

After a moment Raina pulled away from Melanie and turned to Genie. As the two of them made out, Melanie kissed Genie’s neck slowly, and then moved to Raina’s and did the same. Finally Melanie and Genie kissed as well, and I noticed that their hands were still moving together between Raina’s dripping legs.

When their kiss broke, Melanie and Genie helped Raina lie down on her back. Melanie spread her legs and began kissing her thighs and teasing her very wet, very needy pussy as Genie sucked Raina’s breasts. Blair and Chris came over to where they were, and as Melanie licked and sucked her clit, they kissed and caressed her feet and thighs, then moved up to her breasts and took over for Genie.

Kirsten and I joined them, and in moments there were six mouths and twelve hands moving all over Raina’s body. Eventually I took Melanie’s place, and as Kirsten and Chris were sucking her tits, Melanie was kissing her thighs, and Genie and Blair were making out with her. I felt Raina’s body tremble, heard her building moans, and I knew she was close. All at once she came, moaning into Blair’s mouth, and her dripping-wet pussy bucked against my mouth as she banged her ass against the carpeted floor. Still, I held on for dear life. There was no way she was going to throw me off of her.

Continued in Part 2!

I saw Avengers: Endgame on Friday. Don’t worry; I wouldn’t dream of spoiling it.

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When I’m lying supine, it’s pretty sublime.

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Jill’s hair may be her most distinctive feature. We’ve had online friends we were meeting for the first time and who’d never seen our faces identify us by her long, lush locks.

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This is about as unobstructed, unretouched photo of me as you are likely to see. There were a couple minor edits to obscure my face and protect my anonymity, but the body is all me.

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Jill wishes you’d join her in front of the tree.

We hope this sexy image of Jill brings you much cheer this holiday season.

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Those who know me well are aware that I’m a die-hard fan of the horror genre, and very well-versed in its tropes, variations, and subgenres.  (More info can be found here.)  Body horror refers to a subgenre of horror film and literature that concerns unnatural and often disturbing physical alteration of the human body through means including but not limited to disease, deformation, surgery, parasitism, mutation, transformation, assimilation, and mutilation.  Director David Cronenberg, known for such films as Scanners (1981), Videodrome (1983), The Fly (1986), and Existenz (1999), is considered a pioneer of body horror.  As this month’s Sinful Sunday prompt is “transmogrification”, here’s what I might look like in such a film.  (Kindly excuse the obvious edits; I’m a novice when it comes to making monsters.)

Below is the original image, which you may or may not find sexier than the above.

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On Fridays, I wear a particularly comfortable (and hopefully flattering) pair of boxer briefs as a reward for surviving yet another week.

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I was probably twelve when I heard it. I was definitely in junior high; I distinctly remember the kid who told it. I’d met him that year.

I’d only beome aware of sex as a concept a few years earlier, and I was always somewhat repulsed by the subset of so-called dirty jokes centered around sex, as opposed to, say, racial stereotypes or jokes about physical disabilities. That is not to say that I found the other categories less objectionable, even as a youngster.

Despite what I assume was normal adolescent curiosity regarding sex – maybe an excessive amount of curiosity, but presumably not dysfunctional or harmful curiosity – I always found sex jokes crass and egregious. Sure, there was something delightfully taboo about saying, listening to, or reading things of which conservative parents in 1980s America would disapprove. But once I got past the novelty of hearing one of my peers say the word “pussy”, I found little if any value in any of it.

I’m not going to judge someone who titters at the word “tit”; to each their own. However, as sex jokes frequently seemed to involve wholesale misogyny, they were never going to be a great love of mine. That’s not to say I was a feminist at that age. In fact, I likely would have taken umbrage at the label. (“What? Feminist? Look, lady, I’m all man.”) And while I was staunchly opposed to such low-brow boorishness on principle, I’d be lying if I said I never flipped through a paperback copy of one of the notorious Truly Tasteless Jokes books while my parents were browsing a different aisle at the local Crown Books.

Some fun facts: Ashton Applewhite, who published the long-running Truly Tasteless Jokes series under the pen name Blanche Knott, is a woman. The categories found in a typical installment of the series included Jewish jokes, Black jokes, Polish jokes (of course), gay jokes, dead baby jokes, handicapped jokes, and Helen Keller jokes (which is technically an offshoot of handicapped jokes, I suppose). Currently in her sixties, Applewhite is currently an anti-ageism activist.

Anyway, back to that miserable day in 1988 or 1989. (Why miserable, you ask? Well, are your memories of junior high school/middle school/intermediate school/child prison pleasant? If so, good for you, I guess. Mine are horrendous, and I’m grateful it only lasted two years.)

I don’t remember where we were, so for the purposes of this post, I’ll take some artistic license by setting the scene in the boys’ gym locker room, because that’s where such hijinks, skylarkings, and tomfoolery often take place. For all I know, however, it could have been on the playground, in the halls, or even in a classroom. Though not in Mr. Kern’s class; he didn’t tolerate hijinks, skylarkings, or tomfoolery.

P.E. had just wrapped up, and we were changing out of our reversible green and gold gym shirts (so none of us would have to be “skins”) and way-too-short-even-for-the-’80s gym shorts. As I pulled my backpack out of my locker and replaced it with my gym clothes, one kid whose locker was across from mine walked over on his way out of the locker room. I’m going to call him Jimmy.

“Hey Jack,” he said with the kind of smirk you’d expect to see on the face of a kid who heard his parents fucking the night before and can’t wait to tell you all about it. Once he was sure he had my attention he went on: “Why does Dr. Pepper come in a bottle?”

It seemed a strange question to ask. Was he inquiring about carbonation? I knew an unopened bottle of soda would lose fizz at a faster rate than an unopened can, but I figured it had more to do with economics. Despite the more rapid loss of carbonation, it was probably cheaper to buy a two-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper than it was to buy an equal amount in cans. Anyway, I wasn’t entirely sure because my parents almost never bought cans, and as die-hard diet soda drinkers, they stuck to Diet Coke, Diet Pepsi, or more often the store-brand equivalent.

Then it hit me: “Is this a joke?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not asking because you really want to know.”

“No, it’s a joke, you fucking asshole.” As he spoke the last two words he slammed his open hand against the locker next to mine, and the sound echoed off the walls. Jimmy looked around the locker room in the hopes of finding someone more likely to indulge him, but alas, the only stragglers left were even dorkier than I was.

I re-stated the question: “Why does Dr. Pepper come in a bottle?” Then he did as well. I thought about possible answers: Because it doesn’t come in cans. Except no, it totally does. Being twelve and completely controlled by my hormones, Jimmy’s use of the word “come” was not lost on me. I wondered if the answer had something to do with that. But how could it? Dr. Pepper is a drink. Drinks can’t ejaculate. I momentarily imagined the soda being “ejaculated” from a machine into empty bottles at the bottling plant, but realized I was overthinking the entire thing. That couldn’t have been it.

“I give up,” I said at long last. “Why does Dr. Pepper come in a bottle.”

Jimmy kept me in suspense a couple seconds before unleashing the punchline with a confidence that betrayed his certainty that my mind was going to be utterly blown:

“His wife died.”

Jimmy gave a hearty guffaw and headed for the door. I hurried to catch up to him, and as we stepped out of the locker room and into the sunshine, I asked him, “His wife died? What does that mean? What does that even have to do with it?” I didn’t even touch on the remarkable contrivance of someone with the surname “Pepper” pursuing a degree in medicine.

“Think about it,” he said in a way that seemed cerebral and in control but thirty years later tells me Jimmy had no more of an idea as to the meaning of the punchline than I did. In fact, he probably had less of one.

“What?” I asked. “Was she cremated? The bottle is the urn where he keeps her ashes?”

Jimmy nodded. “Exactly.”

“That’s really…” My voice trailed off as I tried to find the right word to describe the joke’s nebulous, unsatisfying payoff. Reaching? Unnecessarily complicated? Flat-out stupid? Any of those would have worked. But my mind was full of questions, and I ultimately said nothing.

The following period was English, and I spent the entirety of our discussion of Steinbeck’s The Pearl contemplating why someone – a widower who just happened to be a doctor by the name Pepper – would jerk off into the urn where his dead wife’s ashes were stored. I admittedly didn’t know much about sex, but I found it weird and decidedly unsexy to do such a thing. In fact, it seemed to border on desecration of human remains.

It didn’t occur to me until years later that my cremation theory was probably flat-out wrong, and Jimmy, who was as clueless as I was, expected me to laugh at the punchline and not ask questions. I’m guessing he overheard his father telling the joke, overheard the laughs that followed, and despite not understanding why it was funny, decided to bring it to school with him in the hopes of getting some laughs as well.

In fact, when I Googled the joke this evening, I found the following explanation on Reddit.

Dr pepper is the name of a popular soda, but it can also be a person’s name. Dr pepper comes in (orgasms into) bottles because his wife died and he doesn’t get sex anymore.

I confess that if Jimmy had given me this explanation back in 1988, I would have been just as confused. His wife died, so he has no choice but to literally fuck a random empty bottle? Jesus, how thin is this guy’s member? I guess saying that the grieving widower comes in a wide-mouthed mason jar wouldn’t have worked.

Anyway, how does his wife being dead lead to him fucking a bottle? Can’t he masturbate with his hand? Bottles are made of glass and they can break, severely lacerating his penis. Anyway, is he never again allowed to date, and thus possibly fuck, an actual human being? I understand going through a period of voluntary celibacy following the passing of one’s spouse, but that just seems unnecessarily restrictive.

And why does the fact that he’s fucking a bottle mean his wife is dead? In theory couldn’t any single man who who can’t get laid fuck a bottle? I realize most of them aren’t going to bother with a bottle when they have two hands that our species evolved for that specific purpose. Anyway, I feel like this explanation is a non-starter, and that’s probably what led me to the “cremation” thing thirty years ago.

In retrospect, a better punchline would have been “Because he didn’t want to cut his dick on a can.”