The Adult Story Hub

When I awoke, I lay there for a few minutes trying to sort things out. The clock said 9:08. After reminding myself that this was a Saturday and I did not have to go into the place I laughingly refer to as "work," I began to wonder: Had I dreamed it? No; there was a wet spot where she'd lain. And I became aware of the aroma of fresh coffee (half-Sumatra, quarter-pound each of French-roasted Mexican Altura and French-roasted Colombian, dripped in a Braun Melitta-filter pot) I rolled to my feet, pulled on my faded blue terrycloth robe, slipped into my slippers (clever name for them, eh?) and thwap-thwapped into the living room.
Elly had opened the shutters and glorious sunshine was pouring in through the fourth-floor windows of my tenement apartment. She was doing wonderful things for my old, blue Dior robe (the tattered one that came halfway to my calves). A cup of The Good Stuff was on the battered old oak table next to the love seat and she'd switched the stereo to play through the living room speakers, the ones in the books shelves. It was something called "LITE FM" and I hated it. "LITE" means no calories and calories are a measure of heat; no one was ever going to accuse Ann Murray or Kansas of generating heat with their music.
On Elly's lap was the three-ring binder in which I keep photocopies of my published stories.
She looked up as I entered. Her eyes were red-rimmed; she'd been weeping. "Oh, David," she said, "I can't believe you wrote these!"
"Why not?" I already knew which one had elicited that response. "Because I like to fuck?"
Her expression collapsed. "Why do you have to spoil it?"
"I'm a package deal. With the beautiful story comes the guy who supported himself for a couple of years by writing brilliant, sensitive stuff like `Lezzy Bitch' and `Mom, Sis And Every Body'. And if that disappoints you, think what it does for me, okay?"
She looked down and pursed her lips. I tried to ignore the Parting of the Robe. She murmured, "I guess that's fair. I mean, you'll take me as a package deal, I guess I have to do the same. You don't mind being with a slutty bimbo who loves being fucked and cumming all the time." She looked up at me, beautiful blue eyes wide and bright.
"I don't mind and I don't think you're slutty."
She closed the binder and set it aside. I was disappointed that She wasn't compelled to finish what She was reading. She leaned forward and I got a good view all the way down the front of her robe. She open- ed mind and sucked my cock, still coated with our juices from the night before, completely into her mouth and began using her tongue to wash it.
The inevitable happened quickly.
She pulled back and released it and looked up at me. "I get off sucking cock. Drinking semen makes me get over."
"I know. So does being licked or having a cock inside you -- "
"That's different. Then I can't stop cumming and I don't want to. But drinking it, getting off that way -- then it's just once and I'm in control."
"And the other way you're being controlled."
"No -- no, the other way I'm out of control, I can't control myself. That's why I started studying Yoga when I was fifteen -- to help me learn to control myself. I controlled my eating and stopped smoking and never do drugs anymore and hardly ever even drink. And I never, ever masturbate. That way nothing controls me but me and no one can control me or hurt me or take advantage of me."
"That's why you want it to hurt you when you fuck."
She nodded gravely. "If it doesn't hurt -- well, you saw what happened." She was blushing. "I just keep getting over..." She dropped her eyes. "It's not natural to be such a slut. That's why you're the first man I ever let lick me and that was just because I like you so much."
I frowned, pulled my robe closed and sat down in the rocker facing the couch. "Last night you told me you liked it -- before I licked you."
"No, I didn't -- "
"You're not a good liar."
"But you are the first -- "
She stopped and tears welled up.
"How old were you when you let a woman lick you?"
"A year before I met you, my cousin and I, we -- we --"
"You liked it."
"Yes, dammit!" She shouted and then looked away. Softly: "I used to masturbate and get over every night before I went to sleep. But when Adele licked me, I went nuts. I licked her, too, and she went nuts, too. That's when I realized what a slut I am, because she was the biggest slut you ever saw and I was getting over just like her."
"How do you know she was a slut?"
"I'd seen her doing it with guys and men. She'd do it with any guy she saw, sometimes whole bunches of them. It was like she couldn't get enough, like she was an addict."
"Sounds like she was a sex addict, alright. And a slut. But you're no slut."
"How can you say that? Only a slut would get over the way I do.. "
"You're saying that every woman I ever cared about is a slut?" I growled, as menacingly as I could. It must have been pretty effective because her eyes widened, she jerked back on the couch and cringed, holding the robe closed. I'm terrific at terrifying insecure women under five feet tall.
"No! I just meant -- "
"The hell! You said a multi-orgasmic woman is a slut and every woman I've ever cared about has been multi- orgasmic."
"But -- "
I pointed at the frame photo of a nude torso on the wall. "You've met her. Is she a slut?"
"Her?" Disbelief.
"What about Livinia?"
"Who?"
"The Filipino woman who used to work in the Laundromat. Is she a slut?"
"But she was always nice and pleasant and polite and never -- "
"That's two. You've met both of them, talked with them. By your definition, they're sluts -- because they're multi-orgasmic."
"I don't understand," she whispered.
"You read a lot, Elly. There've been hundreds of articles in women's magazines about women being naturally multi-orgasmic."
"I don't read those articles. They start me thinking and then I want to get over too much." She blushed. "Even just talking about it, now, makes me -- you know."
"Horny."
"I can probably get over just by thinking about it and imagining it, I think."
I stared at her for a long time. "Elly, I know women who'd kill to be able to do that."
"Really? Are they slutty?"
"Nope. Elly, what do you do when your sweetheart wants you? Make him hurt you?"
"He can't help it. He's so, you know, big that it always hurts to have him inside. We hardly ever do that, because he likes to have me suck him off. I like that."
"I know."
Her eyes were open, but she wasn't seeing me at the moment. Pornographic images were in her field of vision. Her nipples were swollen points jabbing the front of the tautly held robe. Considering that the robe is terrycloth, that's pretty impressive.
"And I like you," she said suddenly. "You listen to me and talk to me. But you're telling me to take a chance and give in to being a slut."
"When you wanted to lose weight, you didn't stop eating completely did you?"
She shook her head. "I just learned to eat regular meals and eat the right stuff."
"Same thing. Get crazy only when it's right for you and do what feels good with the right people. Use your head the way you did when you were dieting. You're acting like an anorexic -- someone who's compulsive about not eating so he can avoid being fat."
"So you're telling me that you don't think I'm a slut, that it's natural for a woman to get over so much and that the way I'm doing it isn't really healthy for me."
"In my humble opinion."
She looked up at the Library Wall. I watched the robe, to see if the nipples were going poke holes in it. I didn't think so, but I wasn't willing to put money on it.
"I don't know," she mumbled.
"Think about that while I get some coffee."
"Mm-hm."
I stood and went over to stand before her. She refocused her eyes on me. She was slightly flushed and her breathing was shallow. "And one other thing," I said.
"What?"
"While I'm drinking my coffee in the dining room..." I took her hand put it over her cunt and squeezed. She gasped -- but didn't try to stop. "I want you to touch yourself."
"I don't know -- "
"Please, as a favor."
I didn't have to wait for a reply, because her fingers were al-ready moving of their own accord. I would have preferred to stay and watch, but I wanted my coffee -- and to keep the conditions I'd set.
I fed to so-called cat and sat down to drink my coffee. I did not look at the clock and tried not to scald myself with haste. I also tried not to visualize what was going on in the living room.
I remembered Elly as I'd met her. She was mentally rather mature for her age -- 16 -- and sold donuts at a local store, over near the subway. Her poise and perception and literacy had impressed me. Becoming acquaintances and even friends was odd.
Odd because I am truly repulsed, physically, by overweight females. (Don't take this as sexist, please; I suppose that overweight males repulse the vast majority of women, too.) That made it easy to be a friend to her, to be a confident and, occasionally, an advisor -- because I knew I'd never be tempted to hit on her and she could sense that I was safe.
As time passed, she would sometimes call me late at night, after her strict (Old Country Polish) mother had already turned in. She knew that I stayed up late and l encouraged her to call. There was something fragile about her. She needed a friend, a man whose interests weren't confined to fucking her, or who -- like me -- wasn't at all interested in fucking her. Considering her weight, that was no problem for me.
After she left the donut store, sometimes we'd bump into each other. More often than not, it was at the local video store. We'd chat a bit while we walked as far as my corner (she lived much farther east, in the old end of the neighborhood) and one night we stood and talked for almost an hour. Neither of us wanted to stop sharing of ourselves.
She'd ask about my girlfriend -- though "main squeeze" was more like it, since my girl and I had sort of an open relationship -- and I'd ask what new love was in her life. She was a hopeless romantic, falling in and out of love weekly, but usually had to worship from afar. Eventually, we simply lost touch with each other.
Her footsteps in the hallway snapped me back to the moment. I finished my coffee and looked up, expecting to see her come into the dining room. Instead, the steps changed direction and then I heard her bump into the doorjamb -- she is Polish, after all -- and then heard her hit the bed. I heard sheets rustle.
Then: "David, please come here." Her voice had a quaver in it. Being not nearly as dumb as I look, I immediately went to her. When I got there, she had the covers pulled up to her neck. Only her flushed face, framed by disheveled hair, was visible. Her hands were moving beneath the covers, though, clearly cupping and gliding over her breasts, then sliding down her torso to move at the juncture of her thighs.
I closed the door and looked down at her from the foot of the bed. My cock was already throbbing hard beneath my robe.
"I just kept getting over until I had to have you. Oooo... What would make you hot?" she breathed. Her eyes were half-closed. The heaving of her breasts beneath the light blanket increased. "C'mon -- tell me."
Continued in part 4...