When I got into Larry’s account I was shocked to learn that he didn’t just read the site’s erotica. He wrote it. A lot of it. Larry had posted over 100 stories to the site. I don’t know why I was shocked. I mean I had already found that my late husband had saved thousands of pornographic pictures and videos to his hard drive, so why should I be surprised that he wrote and published erotic stories? As I leafed down his story list looking at the lewd titles and brief descriptions of his literary efforts I told myself, “I’m not surprised he read this stuff. That sort of matches his collection of smutty pictures and videos. But writing and publishing it? That’s another step further into depravity than I thought he took. My, my.” I was beyond being upset about Larry’s secret depraved life. I had found I was enjoying it too much myself to be upset with him. But each new revelation came as a bit of a surprise.
Of course Larry’s stories were just like his pictures—I couldn’t resist reading them any more than I could resist masturbating as I looked at his picture and video collection. I opened one at random. I don’t even remember which of the web site’s categories it purported to be posted under. I can’t think of a reason why I should have expected anything else, but I was still a bit shocked at the material Larry had posted. It was lurid.
The story I had chosen at random opened as follows:
I awoke to the sensation of someone sucking my cock. I picked my head up and looked down to see a tangle of long blonde hair positioned over my crotch. She was on her knees, her head down hoovering my quickly hardening prick with her round ass in the air. I could feel her tits rubbing softly on my thighs.
But who was she? And where was I. I had gone to a bar the night before and had way too much to drink, but there was no memory of anything beyond the smoky bar.
Fuck, could she suck cock! Her tongue was rubbing the sensitive underside of my prick as she raised and lowered her mouth on it. When she reached the upper end of her stroke she let her tongue tease the end of my prick while her hands twisted and stroked my saliva-covered shaft. After a bit of this basic but talented cocksucking she adjusted her posture just a bit and, “Oh Shit!,” She took my prick down her throat. I could feel her nose buried in the pubes at the base of my prick. My cock, the part that was now down her throat, felt like it was buried in a hot, wet pussy.
She held my prick there, buried in her throat, for what seemed like forever, until she finally needed to breath. She pulled her head clear back from my cock and sat up using one hand to continue stroking my prick while the other pushed her hair out of her face. Now I could see her, but I still didn’t recognize her. Her hair was a thick, unruly blonde mop that hung down to her shoulders. She had big soft tits that swung back and forth as she moved around.
“Hi,” she said.
“Uh . . . Hi,” I responded. “Do I know you?”
“Not really.” Now she was jacking my cock with both hands. “We met at River Street bar last night.”
That was good. I could remember that River Street was the name of the bar I had gone to. “Oh.” I said. I was silent for a moment trying to remember more about the night before, but my headache and what this voluptuous blonde was doing to my prick was distracting me.
“I know this isn’t going to sound good,” I said, “but where are we, and how did I get here.”
Now she was rubbing her nipples with the end of my prick. “Mmmm. That feels good.” she said. She was silent for quite awhile as she rubbed my cock against her tits. Finally she spoke, “You’re at my apartment. We came here last night.”
There was more silence while she masturbated my cock between her big tits. Shit that felt good, but I still wanted to know how I got here.
“You promised me, you know,” she said.
Oh oh. That didn’t sound good. “Uh, what did I promise?” Not a good question to have to ask.
She giggled at my discomfort with my failed memory. “You promised me you would fuck me. You also promised you would eat me until I screamed for mercy.”
“Oh, okay,” I said as a wave of relief flooded through me. It could have been much worse.
“And did I?” I gasped as she dragged the head of my prick over one of her engorged nipples.
Her face grew pouty as she responded, “No. You passed out.”
“Well,” I said, “if you’ll give me a couple of ibuprofen and a cup of coffee, I’ll make it up to you.”
“How?” she asked. She was still looking pouty.
“I’ll fuck you ’till your ears ring—in every room in this apartment. And I’ll eat you ’till you scream for mercy.” I was hoping she was the kind of girl who appreciated graphic dirty talk during sex.
“Okay,” she said, still holding my hard cock. Her pouty look had disappeared, replaced by a smile. “But can I get a sample now?” she asked.
“What’ll it be, fucking or sucking?” I asked.
She rolled off of me, flopping on her back, her legs spread lewdly, and said, “Eat me. Eat me ’till I cum and then I’ll fix you breakfast—with coffee.
“And ibuprofen?” I countered.
“Yes. Now get between my legs and start licking.”
I sat up and crawled between her legs. I was on my knees and elbows with my face just in front of her pussy. My god my head hurt. But if this was what it was going to take to get some ibuprofen, I was going to get right to it . . .
I was sitting before Larry’s laptop in his office with my robe open and my legs spread—I was so fucking horny! Dinner was out of the question. I wanted to read more of Larry’s pervy writing. I got up and walked quickly to the kitchen to get a bottle of wine and a glass, my tits jiggling and my open robe flapping behind me as I walked. After opening a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, I carried it and the cucumber back to the den. I poured myself a glass and sat before Larry’s desk sipping the wine as I read story after story from his Literotica page.
They weren’t great literature. The sentences were short, plots simple, or even nonexistent in some stories, commas seemingly random, and spelling shaky at best (didn’t he know about Microsoft’s greatest invention, spell check?). But Larry’s stories had one redeeming quality. They provided graphic descriptions of a wide range of sexual activities and the emotions of the participants, and they made me horny as hell. By midnight I had consumed most of the bottle of wine and cum four times. I wasn’t sure which was closer to being worn out, my pussy or the cucumber. Fuck, what an evening.
The next morning as I lay in bed before getting up to dress and go to work, I asked myself about the prior evening’s new revelations about Larry’s depravity. “My god he had a dirty mind. But why didn’t he expose me to that lewdly creative mind? I would have loved it. ”
“But would I really?” I asked myself. “I mean,” I said as I continued talking to myself, “a lot has changed in the last couple of weeks. Before Larry died you would never have walked around naked all over the house and masturbated in the back yard. Hell you hardly ever masturbated at all. The only thing you did less of was fucking with Larry. And if he had shown you his porn collection and his filthy stories, what would you have done?” I asked myself.
That caused me to pause. “Really what would I have done?” I asked. After another long pause I admitted to myself, “I probably would have screamed at him for being a pervert and made him sleep on the couch . . . or worse.”
“Yes,” I told myself. “Things have changed. Now I enjoy his collection of depravity.”
As I lay there, I began thinking about his stories. God they had made me horny. I asked myself ,”Which one was the best? I mean the hottest. None of them could be called great literature.” I remembered one in which he told of a couple that hooked up in a bar one night.
As I thought about that story I pulled my legs up and began to stroke my sex. My outer lips were quickly swelling and within minutes my juices were making me slippery. I let my fingers slide between my outer lips and begin to stroke my inner lips and slide into my fuck hole. “Fuck hole?” I said aloud. “When did you begin talking like that Alice?” I asked myself. “Fuck it,” I responded and shoved my fingers deeper into my cunt.
The story was told from the woman’s point of view. She was married and on a business trip. While the smooth-talking man she had met in the bar was picking her up she was feeling some guilt about what she wanted to do (which was to fuck this guy). Of course, as in all stories of this nature, her husband was a lout who didn’t even attempt to meet her sexual needs and treated her abusively. It was obvious Larry wanted the reader to believe his heroine was doing something very nasty, but totally justified because of her husband’s failures. It helped me step into the woman’s character as I read the story. He had done a nice job of having the heroine occasionally feel guilt about cheating on her husband and then quickly succumb to the charms of her partner for the evening.
I thought about rereading the story as a whole on the tablet that lay on my nightstand, but I didn’t have time. I needed to get up and get to work. But oh fuck I was horny. How had I gotten that horny so quickly just lying there thinking about one of maybe a dozen stories I had read the night before?
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