Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/T/TANGLED.1

Text File | 1994-03-26 | 23.8 KB | 422 lines

Greetings, Grownup!

This very explicit tale of hot, lubricious and thoroughly enjoyable
(not to mention, consensual) sex between consenting adults is brought
you by the oversexed and usually horny folks at the NixPix boards.

If you like it, let the authors know! And maybe tingle the rest of us
with some of your favorite tales of experience or fantasy. We'd love
to know what goes on inside your depraved head...and you'll have a great
time writing it down.

Remember -- fun and communication is what we're all about!

Now, if you're really a grownup and want some explicit, sexy reading,
page down -- and get warm!
=====================================================================

@BEGIN_FILE_ID.DIZ
WHAT A TANGLED WEB...@END_FILE_ID.DIZ



- GEORGE -
     George didn't look like a young Paul Newman, or even like Robert
Redford. George just looked like George.
     Not bad-looking, but not good-looking either. His face was not
one to turn a girl's head from across the room. But, then again, it was
a nice face. Nothing extraordinary, but at least it didn't stop clocks.
     George was no Rudolph Valentino either. His love life sucked.
Not that he didn't try; he did. He tried all the time. But his success
with the female gender usually approached zero.
     His body was fair, tending to put on an extra pound, but not to
the point of being chubby, yet.
     George's problem was meeting the fair sex.
     He'd tried everything, and nothing seemed to work  for  him.
Everyone else he knew was screwing left and right, and George's only
fucking was his handy right hand. Not that he minded jacking off; as a
matter of fact, he loved it, was good at it, practiced at least twice a
day, and built some very good fantasy's while pulling on his cock. But
it was still not near as good as a girl.
     George was an automotive sales clerk at a national parts chain,
and didn't meet any ladies where he worked, not counting his boss's
wife, the bookkeeper, whose name was Thelma and weighed at least 350
pounds. Thelma had rolls of fat standing on top of rolls of fat. From a
mole at the side of her jaw  grew two hairs that wiggled when she
talked.
     Thelma liked George, and liked to bend over showing him  the
cleavage between her pillow-sized breasts, but George wasn't interested
in fucking her. Too dangerous with her husband the boss, and too much
fat.
     George spent his time in the shopping mall book stores, looking
at the shelves of the self-improvement books, buying those that caught
his fancy, hoping to find the secret of meeting and fucking girls.
     Most of the books were a waste of his money and time, but George
had a lot of time.
     The books said that if you wanted to meet  girls  that  were
interested in doing what you wanted to do, then go to the places that
shared a mutual interest. George was interested in fucking, and he
didn't know where to go to find the girls who were also interested in
fucking.
     The bars and cocktail lounges made George feel very ill at ease.
Everyone there seemed to have more than a normal mouthful of teeth, and
they laughed and smiled at nothing and everything. Everyone else seemed
very confident that they belonged in the lounges, and George was well
aware that he didn't belong.
     George was also shy. No small-talk to speak of, unable to kid
his way through a conversation with a new lady, his bright remarks just
sounded silly when he finally opened his mouth. His female bar-side
companion would lose interest and turn to talk to the fellow who looked
like a football star on her other side, and George would watch them
leave the lounge arm in arm.
     George knew they were off to a rousing sexual encounter, while
he sucked on his scotch and water, hating the taste, feeling it lay
there in his belly, fumes rising. The worst part was the going home
alone, drunk, room spinning until he put one foot from the bed to the
floor to stop the spin.
     George went to concerts, football games, the dog races, horse
races, flea markets and any place else that people gathered, to meet
that special someone that would take him home and fuck his brains out.
     George didn't want a relationship, George wanted to fuck. In a
relationship, George would have to take his girlfriend out sometimes,
and buy her presents on her birthday, and remember the anniversary of
when they met and all that crap, and all he really wanted to do was
fuck.
     He even stooped so low as to ask Thelma if she knew a nice girl
he could meet.
     Thelma said he didn't need a nice girl, he needed a girl  to
screw, and the hairs wiggled when she laughed at him, deep shadows
between the huge breasts shaking with her laughter. Thelma was a bawdy
bitch.
     George hated the weekends, Sunday being the worst. Except for
the fat paper, he had nothing to do on Sunday, and worst of all, nobody
to do it with.
     Late Saturday night, almost Sunday morning, George was bored
with the TV, feeling cabin fever setting in.
     Saturday night was shit night for TV. Nothing but old movies,
seen many times, and the comedies with canned laughter, and George
didn't feel like laughing; he felt like screwing. He wanted his dick
deep into some warm hairy snatch, wet up to his balls, his face pressed
deeply into a pair of firm breasts, fucking his brains out.
     Moving from the shower, drops splattering the bathroom floor,
hunting for a clean towel, then into the bedroom closet to find a clean
shirt.
     Of the three hanging on the closet bar, all worn before, George
sniffed at the armpits. Sour, old perspiration odors.
     "That takes the cake," George muttered. "Before I  can  find
something to fuck, I've got to wash clothes."
     Not that George had ever found anything to fuck when he went out
looking for pussy. On the contrary. The only fuck George had ever had in
his life was paid for. A prostitute who had propositioned George in a
bar, and had complained bitterly while he was fucking her that he was
taking up all of her time, and wasn't he done yet because she had other
customers.
     He had never had a girlfriend, unless you counted Liz, who in
the seventh grade asked George to go steady. It had lasted three weeks,
and then Liz asked somebody else to go steady.
     Digging through the overfilled hamper, George knew every last
piece of clothing except his gray slacks needed washing.
     Filling a plastic garbage sack with the soiled clothing, picking
up the old socks scattered around the bed, clutching the garbage bag in
one hand, George wandered through his apartment gathering shirts from
the living room, shorts from the dining room and dish towels from the
kitchen, stuffing the garbage bag full.
     House keeping wasn't really George's thing. Hell, nobody ever
came over to see him anyway, so why keep the place neat?
     He pulled the gray slacks over his naked rump; no clean shorts.
Slid his sockless feet into his leather jogging shoes.
     Pulled his only clean tee shirt (the one with  Mickey  Mouse
holding up one hand, purchased at the flea market, and one size too big
for him) over his shoulders and head, George filled his pockets with
change, a comb, car keys, wallet and reached into the drawer to add a
pack of rubbers, just in case, to his shirt pocket.
     George was on his fifth pack of rubbers, had never used any, but
wore out the packages carrying them around, until the contents became
gummy in the Miami heat.
     George glanced at his watch as he pulled into the lot by the
washermat, calculating time. A half hour if he used three washers to
clean his clothes, another half hour to forty-five minutes to dry. It
would be after two a.m. when he finished.
      George fed dollar bills into the changer, quarters into the
soap machine, and quarters into the washers, stuffing his clothes into
the three white machines carelessly.
     "You really ought to wash the whites in one machine and  the
dark's in another."
     George looked.
     A tousled haired, undersized gamin. Blonde curls spraying from
her head, tight Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and a lumberjack plaid shirt.
Smiling with her mouth, but her eyes frowning. Standing with one hand
casually on her hip, she was inspecting the contents of his washers.
     "You work here?"
     "No, but I wash here when my washer at home is on the blink, and
it is tonight, and your clothes won't come clean if you mix the dark's
and the white's."
     She didn't look like she had any tits at all, but then again,
with that lumber jack shirt that was way too big for her slight body, it
was hard to tell. But her face was pretty.
     George resigned himself to pulling  his  clothing  from  the
machines and piling up whites and darks in two piles, and the ones he
wasn't too sure about in the third pile.
     "If you're going to wash that shirt, you'd better  take  the
matches out of your top pocket," indicating with feminine pointed
fingertip the packet of rubbers.
     "They aren't matches. I don't smoke."
     Her head cocked, "They look like matches, the pack is the same
size as matches, whatever could it be if it's not matches?"
     George's adam's apple moved, wondering if she knew what  was
inside the packet.
     "It's just something for men."
     "Couldn't it also be something for women too, with lubricated
tips?" She giggled, flirting with him and then moved away.
     George watched her body sway, ass moving fluidly as she walked
across the washermat to another washing machine, wondering if she really
had guessed the packet's contents.
     She bent over, stiff backed, across the tiled floor, putting her
clothes into the front loading washer, jeans molding to her trim ass.
Almost heart-shaped, an upside-down heart, her ass waved at him across
the room. George's cock jumped inside his loose slacks. Raising like a
cobra seeking a victim, head flaring like a cobra hood, throbbing in his
slacks, demanding to be let loose.
     George had visions of standing behind her, sliding his prick
into the sweet wet cavern, holding on to those slim rounded hips as he
slipped his pounding prick up her cunt.
     He turned away, fantasy building, his cock leaping to his heart
beat, almost feeling her softness surrounding his prick. Sorting clothes
aimlessly while he imagined the sweaty feel of her buttocks pressed to
his groin, his hands cupping her ass while he plunged and dug his hefty
cock between the smartly cleft cheeks of her ass.
     "You want to put yours in with mine?"
     George's head whipped back. Visions of her soft voice asking him
to slip his prick up inside her soft snatch.
     "What?"
     "I said, do you want to put your clothes in with mine? I have a
light load here, do you have a heavy load?"
     George's mind spun, his lips tightened. His mind wanting to tell
her just how heavy his load was, and that it was any heavier, his balls
would be hanging to his knees, the size of grapefruit.
     "Well, do you want to do it, or not?"
     Of course he wanted to do it. Gawd, how he wanted to do it. His
cock thudded inside his slacks, seeking freedom.
     He nodded weakly as she pulled a small batch of very  female
lingerie to pile it on top of the machine. Lace around the leg bands,
wisps of material that wouldn't hide anything. Panties sprawled over the
antiseptic white top of the washer.
     "We'll put our things together, and they'll be done at the same
time."
     George's eyes devoured the soft pile of panties, brassieres, and
other very female silky, wispy scraps of clothing that had hidden her
very secret places.
     A soft curly hair, light brown, almost blonde, clung to  the
crotch band of one pair of panties, woven into the silky fabric like
some perverse weaver had spent a pleasant moment sliding the curly
spring to engage the warp and woof of the silkworm's product.
     His initial thoughts of no tits, changed. Her tits were very
obviously there, and the still-rounded brassiere's pouches of lust lying
next to his shorts implied the fullness.
     She flipped open the top of the washer as George gathered his
shorts with her lingerie.
     Her head turned away, and George moved his head to sniff the
fragrance of her panties, heady aroma of healthy female. His cock
lurched and George felt the beginnings of a juicy flow of lubrication
slipping from the hole in his flare-headed cock.
     Dumping the lingerie into the washer, George watched her bending
to add the soap, her lumber jack shirt splitting down the  front,
swelling breasts and dark cleft between almost exposed at the angle his
eyes used, even standing on tiptoes to peer further down the secret
opening, glimpsing, or thinking he was glimpsing the beginning of a soft
pink nipple until she closed the gap by straightening up.
     George fed his quarters to the machine, which burped and ground
into motion. Thumping away in sexual rhythm, mixing George's boxer
shorts with the wispy lingerie.
     "We didn't introduce ourselves, I'm Linda."
     "George."
     George felt her soft palm snuggle into his as she shook his hand
briefly, the contact urging his cobra to spitting more venom on the
inside of George's gray slacks, while the cobra hood pressed against the
confining fabric, bulging out in a horizontal tent, and incidentally
leaking the spermy liquid oozing through his trousers in a spreading
circular stain.
     "Anything else to wash?" Her eyes noting the tent.
     "I can't wash these, they're all I have on."
     "Nothing under?" her eyes moving to the front of his trousers,
noting the spreading stain and the material moving with  thudding
heartbeats beneath the thin fabric.
     "No."
     "I don't suppose you'd like to go in the restroom and take them
off, and I could wash them for you?"
     "I'd have to stay there until they were dry."
     "You could go into a stall, and I could come in and talk  to
you."
     "I don't think so."
     "Now look here, you have a stain on your pants, and they need
washing, and you need somebody to take care of you, now go on in there
and take off your pants like a good boy."
     Inside the stall, George removed his pants, standing in  his
shoes and shirt, feeling foolish as he handed his trousers over the top
to Linda.
     Moments later, sitting on the stool, George heard the door open
again and Linda's voice.
     "They're in the washer with my undies."
     "Good."
     George could see Linda through the crack by the latch, his cock
standing from his lap, straining to get at the girl. Moving his head,
George could see her slim figure moving, past the narrow crack in the
door jamb as she began talking about her washer at home breaking down.
     His fantasy started building. Linda, overheated  with  lust,
desiring his body, wanting to jump on his bones, removing her lumberjack
shirt, breasts standing and bobbling on her chest, nipples puckered at
attention.
     Linda tugging and pulling at the tight jeans, drawing them over
the curves of her hips to bare the thatch of pussy hair between her
legs. His hand curled around his cock, slowly masturbating as his eyes
watched her, hearing only patches of her voice as his fantasy of fucking
her grew.
     "... thing went out again, and the repairman can't come out and
fix it until ..."
     His hand slipped faster and faster, oozing liquid beginning to
run over the cleft glans and make his fingers slippery. He tuned out her
voice, fantasy over reality, imagining the feeling of running his
fingers over the full curve of her thigh, sliding into that sweet little
honey pocket of her cunt.
     "... had to come here or else I wouldn't have any clean panties
for work Monday, and I have ....."
     The feeling of intense pleasure growing.
     "... are you doing in there? You're breathing funny!"
     George stopped stroking, fantasy fading quickly.
     "Just listening to you talk, was all."
     "It didn't sound like it."
     "Well, I was."
     A couple of tentative strokes, and then  back  to  a  steady
movement up and down the length of his hard prick, jacking off and
listening to her voice, the fantasy building again, trying to control
his rasping breath.
     "... said that I ought to go out more,  but  it  seems  that
everybody that I meet is either ..."
     George's hand moved to slide the slippery oozing lubricating
juice to coat the entire head of his dong, so that his fingers could
slip over the swelling knob even faster.
     "I wonder what she'd do if I opened the door and invited her
in?" Fantasy at white-hot energy level, warp eight.
     His balls swelled, George feeling the hot sperm shooting up the
narrow channel, as he leaned back harder against the raised top lid of
the toilet, his feet braced on the floor, body stiffening as he readied
his cock in one hand to shoot his hot spermy contents.
     Freezing, seeing Linda's face pressed to the crack in the door,
peering in with one eye as his prick spurted hot silver liquid in
pulsing rhythm to his still milking movements.
     Her eye centered at the crack, peering in nearsightedly, making
out his fist curled around his pounding prick, hand clutching as the
liquid spurted in ropey strings from the end of his cock to splatter in
the cement floor.
     "You bastard, you're jacking off in there, aren't you?"
     "Well, just a little bit. You made me horny."
     "I was going to take you home with me and screw you, and you
bastard, you jacked off instead. You'd rather jack off than fuck me?"
     George heard the bathroom door slam, sitting naked on the pot,
feeling very foolish, waiting.
     Unrolling six sheets of paper, George wiped the end of his wet
prick, annoyed when the paper stuck to his cock, cementing the coarse
cheap paper to the soft skin of his prick with the sticky residue of his
sperm.
     "Whatever possessed me to jack off like that?" Silently.
     George's mind backed up, rear bumper lights flashing, reviewing
his action in the john, pumping his prick to orgasm while Linda stood
outside, talking. Thinking about what it would be like to fuck her,
instead of trying to fuck her.
     Stupid!
     And she'd said she was going to take him home and fuck him.
     The bathroom door flew open with a bang.
     "Your goddamn clothes are in the dryer, here's  your  pants,
thanks for a nice evening."
     Anger and frustration in her voice as the door slammed again,
his gray trousers sailing over the top of the door, falling on George's
head, draping foolishly, still warm from the dryer, but damp at the belt
line.
     He didn't know what to say, sitting silent and miserable.
     He could almost hear her telling her girlfriends at work the
story of this guy jerking off in the toilet, and hearing them laugh.
Visualizing several pretty girls gathered around Linda, giggling at the
antics of a clod jerking off instead of screwing.
     Dressed again, the washermat empty, George gathered his clean,
dry, warm laundry, filling the crumpled garbage bag, noting that Linda's
clothes and Linda had disappeared.
     Driving back to the apartment, his dick itched, irritated by the
still clinging toilet paper.

- LINDA -
     Angry was a good word, but frustrated was even better. Sexually
frustrated.
     It was bad enough being driven into actively hunting for a man,
any man, but what was even worse was finding an attractive man to screw
and then being turned down!
     That damned George last night was a classic example  of  how
stupid men were when it came right down to the nitty gritty of raw
sexual longing, and Linda tossed her head disgustedly, remembering.
     Linda would begin to think that she knew something about men,
and would be able to manipulate the man of her sexual choice, when bang,
something like last night would happen and Linda thought that she was
back on square one, like a high school freshman, wanting to screw but
not knowing how to go about getting someone that was interested.
     There must be rules in the gamebook that she hadn't read. It was
not unlike sitting down and playing Blackjack in a casino without being
sure of the cards or the rules. Really frustrating!
     Most of the time she didn't think all that much about sex. Oh,
she'd have liked to have a boyfriend, and maybe get married some day,
but not right now, thank you kindly. The pressure of having a steady
boyfriend was more of a burden than she wanted.
     It was nice to have someone for the Friday night after work,
relaxing, letting down after the pressures of the work week, and maybe a
nice dinner out on Saturday night or even a Sunday afternoon lying in
bed for a rainy day-type of sexual exertion, getting her brains fucked
out. Snoozing a while while the world turned slowly past the half-closed
eyelids until a slowly awakening lust opened her myopic blue eyes, and
drove her into some sweetly exciting hot, sexual exploration. But Linda
found the problems generated by a steady boyfriend -- always wanting to
come over and just lay around, maybe watching a football game on the
tube, which bored her out of her mind -- to be more than she wanted to
handle.
     Not only that, but they always took over ownership of her body,
and then her mind, not letting her have enough freedom to be herself
and--
     It just wasn't worth the hassle!
     Not that Linda didn't like sex; she certainly did! She liked
everything about sex. She liked the warmth and the smooth feeling of
having her stomach knot up when she came, and the slippery wetness
between her thighs. She liked the taste and smell of sex, the rosy hue
her body achieved during a long, heavy sexual encounter, and  the
exciting exploration of a new lover's body.
     One of her previous boyfriends, Tony, used to fuck her  into
submission and then, when she couldn't stand it anymore, the Italian
stallion would pull his prick out and spray his sperm over her breasts,
driving her right up the wall with ecstasy.
     The hot spraying juice spurting out before her eyes, and the
feeling of it hitting and clinging to her tits would bring her to a
series of multiple orgasms that rippled her whole body like a piece of
cloth hanging on a line in the wind.
     When he would dip his stubby finger into his liquid, and wipe
his finger in her mouth, Linda would start gasping for breath, her eager
tongue lapping at the still-hot juice, savoring, while her loins churned
and spasmed with a muscle cramping-intensity.
     But they'd broken up when he'd started treating her like they
were already married, and coming over in old jeans, not showering and
having the weekend of stubble on his face, and she couldn't stand it.
     What she didn't like was not being able to have sex when she
wanted it, without all of the strings that seemed to be attached to all
of her relationships. Linda knew her body intimately, every curve and
hollow, sometimes laying in bed for hours caressing and teasing herself.
Once, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, she'd placed a new set of batteries in
her pink plastic vibrator and used it continually, mostly between her
thighs but over her breasts and the rest of her body, too, until the
goddamn batteries went dead.
     Next time she purchased a vibrator, the damn thing better work
on house current, and not depend on batteries! Dead batteries were also
frustrating.
     Sex was addictive. Once she started having sex, she wanted more
and more, and there didn't seem to be any such thing as an overdose. But
when she wasn't getting laid often, then she kind of forgot about sex --
except for the few days just before her period, when her glands were
secreting female hormones, driving her out of her mind wanting to get
fucked.
     Like right now!
End of part 1