We currently have stories with more being added every day

JENNY WAS A LOT OF FUN BACK THERE

Posted by: SoloTouchArchive Author: odysseus Posted on: 28 Nov 2004 2 comments
2 likes views Category: Sex Stories Anal Tags: mud

The young artist taught this writer well.JENNY WAS A LOT OF FUN BACK THEREOne man's meat is another man's dogfood, and there's not much use trying to explain our tastes: about all you can do is acknowledge what floats your boat, and if you need someone else to paddle it, hope that you find (in my case) her while you still angle up beyond horizontal.So, God bless Jenny!I had a slightly weird NYC apartment on Morton Street in the West Village. It had been rented for a long time by a Fifth Avenue lawyer; he had first defended and then married the highclass hooker who brought the term "$100 a night call girl" into the English language.The front room was small, but had a huge window of leaded panes looking out over Morton, which was supposed to be one of the only two streets in Manhattan with a pronounced bend in it. The window had a windowseat, and a very small porch outside. My landlady, who stocked the whole street with half-price untaxed liquor supplied by the sailors who walked up from the cruise ships docked at the end of the street, told me that the last night the attorney and his client spent there made quite a dramatic finish to their occupancy.The suave young fool of an upper-clas attorney had come home late to find a party going, with his $100-a-pop better half fencing (right, foils) on the living room rug with an Italian epee championl. She was wearing only a wire mask and a black turtleneck: a striking outfit, what there was of it.Mr. Attorney took exception to his bride's couture and tried to strangle her on the window seat. Tenants on the opposite side of Morton Street, who had an excellent view, were divided into three camps, one cheering the lawyer, another cheering the whore, and a third calling the police.My landlady, a 350-pound, 5' high, have you ever seen a glandular deficiency walking? said that there must have been at least 50 guests of various sexes and preferences in the happy couple's apartment that night when the boys in blue arived. Some tried to get out through the landlady's basement apartment into the alley behind the building, with the more desperate or better- known dropping from the half-story-up balcony onto the sidewalk and streaking for Seventh Avenue, where the Riviera offered solace and limburger sandwiches on rye to soothe the sin-sick soul.Terry Southern immortalized (I typed "immoralized") that delightful scummy joint by having the reluctantly incestuous Candy barred from it in his eponymous novel.But that's another story, one which Lillian Hellman had called "a nasty way to make a buck".Thanks to those great tabloid institutions of mass communication, the NY News, the Mirror,and the NY Post, 55 Morton Street was probably the best-known numbered address in the city in those days, outside of 21, and I moved in, unknowing, after screwing up royally on assignment in Italy for a Boston daily and needing to change, if not my act, then at least my venue.It was a brilliant decision; there I met Jenny, she of the educated middle finger, and found the delights of anal stimulation, a taste I still indulge, fifty years and two wives later. Technology has brought many blessings and banes to us in the interim, but the ballpoint pen and the radio-controlled prostate tickler are still sans reproche; I have a sample of the second buzzing in my lower intestine as I write these words.There was a fair procession of weirdos at my doorbell for several weeks, and since I was job-hunting, I managed to greet them at all hours of the day and night. Jenny was the prize.One Saturday morning I buzzed in a female voice which said, "Hi, I'm just your neighbor, and I wanted to say hello."That was fine: I had a petite blonde across the Hudson, but what man ever had so many that he could afford to throw something strange away without looking?Please don't get the wrong impression: I'm neither stud nor Hefner, probably fucked fewer than you in my lifetime, and at that time had a low-rent job at a sleaze magazine publishing house housed in a long two-by-and-tarpaper shed topping an 18-story building on lower Fifth Avenue.I unchained the door, and met Jenny. "Hi," she said, "may I come in?"She was slender, clear-skinned, shapely, heart-shaped face, and could speak English with correct usage. What's not to like?Water was already boiling in the tiny kitchenette and I had picked up the week's underwear: so I invited Jenny in, cooly, man about town that I was at the age of 26.Jenney was a few years younger, which I like. We stirred our instant espresso and I sliced the last two stale bagels. Toasted, they would do."I'm the painter who lives in the basement at Number 53," she began, "and I saw you moving in and thought we should get to know each other.""I'm so glad you did," I said, and I was. Jenny was clearly on the hunt, and I was happy to be the designated prey. "When can I see your stuff?""Any time you want to walk next door. I usually make a good breakfast on Sunday, and I flip a mean omelet. About ten? Just us?"Just us was just fine. Jenny had grey-green eyes and a wide, mobile mouth that curved in a lovely smile. And so, next morning, fashionably late, I was welcomed into Jenny's tiny half-down, where she could see the feet of pedestrians on the sidewalk of Morton Street."You certainly are a painter," I said, trying to take in two or three dozen canvases on stretchers, charcoal figure sketches and watercolor studies on the walls, and all the colorful clutter of a working studio."Some day I'll give you a private showing," she said. Her small, neat breasts under a paint-stained man's shirt seemed to include themselves in the offer.Sometimes, not often but once in a while, it's as easy as that. Jenny made a good omelet, French-style, smelling of butter; we had some cold white wine from her refrigerator, and spent the rest of the day together; found that we both loved Picasso's etchings, Segovia's Bach, and Cole Porter, whose "Kiss Me, Kate," was in its third runaway month on Broadway.I played my trump card. "Have you seen Threepenny?" The Blitzstein production was playing at Cherry Lane, a few blocks uptown. "No, but I hear it's wonderful." "It is. How about tonight?" "Dutch?" "Sure."Threepenny was surefire: I'd taken three different girls to it, with excellent results. Jenny lived on a small trust fund from a grandmother, I didn't care what time I arrived at the magazine house, so we were as rich as you have to be in New York when you're young, and I felt that Jenny had already made her mind up about the end of the evening.Parenthetically, there's no sauce to seduction like a girl's curiosity. Jenny had had two weeks to think about me, and that's always the key. We don't seduce the ladies, though they let us think so; they decide, we oblige.Brecht and Weill worked their magic, Victoria's messenger riding came, Macheath was saved ("Oh, I had no doubts, yes, I had no doubts") and we stopped by the Rivera on the way home. I told her about having had lunch there with Josh White, the folksinger, lunch consisting of of Cutty and Camembert for him, Jim Beam and limburger for me, and Turkey and swiss for the mutual friend. We had a couple of Cutty and Camemberts to honor the great (we agreed) entertainer, and walked down Seventh to Morton Street. "I don't get up very early," Jenny said, "do you?""Not till I find a respectable job.""I have a little Scotch in the cupboard. Nightcap?" And that was that. Jenny loved her lovin', it was that time of the month, and as O'Hara says, we made two lovers of friends.I had early on accepted as fact of life that I would never experience joy. (Too many years later, I was diagnosed as bi-polar depressive.) But that summer, in the grimy Manhattan sunshine, I was happier than I could ever remember.Jenny and I made love (more than "fucked") everywhere: sitting on the steps of the projection booth at the back of the 4th St. cinema, standing up on the subway to Queens, doggy-style against the railing of the 12th Street ferry, a quick one on the observation floor of the Empire State Building while the guard was around the other side, in the Sunday morning sun on the rug of my living room, in my bathtub, in her shower stall, finger-fucking each other as we lay on our bellies in the sand at Coney... I could go on and list a page of venues. It's a wonder we didn't wear each other's out, but Jenny was always wet and ready, and I learned that my tongue was for more than speaking and tasting. She climaxed about half the time, often repeatedly in one session, and seemed not to care when she didn't.I think she loved me.We had spent Saturday night in my bed, and Sunday morning we bought some tax-free vodka from my 350-pound dealer in the basement and started on Bloody Marys. I make them well, with a little bartender's substitute for eggwhite to smooth the rough edges, and we were feeling very loose and silly when we started on our favorite sport.I weighed about half again as much as Jenny, and she was drinking with me one for one. Her lips were a bit unsteady when she said, "I know a trick that I bet you'd like" and giggled."Anything at all, you sweet thing." We were both naked and washed, sitting on my living room couch."Wanta see?""Your deal." I was getting a little loose-lipped myself."Here," she said, stuck her middle finger in her mouth, reached under my buttocks and her small finger invaded my asshole.My cock, already semi-erect, seemed to swell like a toy balloon."Try this," she giggled, brought her mouth down on my cock and wiggled her finger in my ass."Jesus. Oh Jesus Christ! Oh Jesus God! Jenny, stop, stop, I don't want to come yet.""Who cares what you want," she mumbled around my straining cock. "I want a mouthful, and I want to tickle your hole while you give it to me!" Another finger joined the first, then a third, and she got what she wanted, a monstrous ejaculation of sperm that she swallowed eagerly as she plundered my convulsing anus.I collapsed on the couch, almost fainting. Her mouth still engulfed me, rough cat tongue abrading my sensitive tissue like sandpaper."No more," I said."Yes, more," she gulped, and sure enough one last impossible spasm gave her more of what she craved.Her fingers worked gently in my loosened asshole as she dropped her head in my lap. It was five minutes before I could speak, and it seemed I had somehow swallowed an extra Mary."Good?""Oh, God."It was bad bed manners, but I had to know. "Did you come?""Oh, God, yes. When you were pumping into my mouth, and my fingers were up you, came like a river.""Jenny, where in hell did you learn that trick?""Did you like it?""Oh, yeah.""Then what do you care where I learned it?""I don't. Just do it again.""I will. It gives me such a feeling of power to make you come that way."We lay naked in the sun on the couch. I saw a curtain twitch across Morton Street. We had given someone a good show. Then Jenny said, "Would you do that to me?""In your...""In my ass. When I come. It makes everything so much stronger.""Would I do that to you? You're damned right I would. Just say when.""Maybe next time." Pause. "Maybe now." And she dipped her mouth to my limp cock and sucked it erect like a vacuum cleaner. I spread her slender legs and found her crotch with my tongue. She was always as sweet as honey, and I wanted to be sure she climaxed. Time for me later, if I had any juice left. If not, I'd had mine for the day.She bucked against my nose until I thought it would bleed. My tongue stretched into her hole, until I pulled it out to ask, "Now?""Yes, Yes."My mouth was dry, Wordlessly I asked her to suck my middle finger.Then my hand curved around her delicate buttocks and I found the rose. I was wet enough to enter, and anyway she was as loose as a cunt.I duplicated her technique, licking quickly around her clit and slipping another finger, then another, into her willing asshole. Fully installed, I wiggled my fingers. She gave a gasp of acceptance, and began to buck against my face and hand alternately.She came again, as she had said, "like a river".Later, in the bathroom, I saw an enema bag drying behind the door. She had prepared her bowels for my entrance. Nice lady. I must remember to return the courtesy.Our sexual existence became more planned. I knew what I wanted, to plumb the depths between her sweet cheeks: but the time would have to be right, and I knew a lubricant would be needed to ease the passage of my straining cock into her bottom. What would be best? I reread Frank Harris's autobiography, looking for his story of the older boy in school who had forgotten to bring... what was it? ... to grease his "poor pathic".Butter. He had forgotten the butter, and hurt the younger boy badly.A few Sunday mornings later, I made sure that the ingredients for Bloody Marys were in the refrigerator, and that the butter dish was out on the sink with a soup dish over it.We began the sexual play that we both loved, between gulps of the cold red drink. Again Jenny matched me, and again the vodka flooded her bloodstream more densely than mine."Is today the day?" I asked, gently touching her anal rose."Wait a minute, she said, smiling, and in a few moments I heard her in the bathroom, emptying a quart of soapy water out of her bowels.She emerged, pink-cheeked, and said, "You too?"I douched quickly and thoroughly. When I came out, she was lying on her stomach, slender legs spread, face pressed into a pillow, holding her buttocks apart, offering her pink rose to me. I took a handful of the soft butter, anointed the cleft betwewen her cheeks, slipping a buttery finger into her rectum, and then bathed my erect cock with the sweet-smelling grease.I knelt behind her as she came up onto her knees, and pressed the tip of my cock against her tight, yielding asshole. She said one word twice: "Slowly. Slowly."My cocktip began to spread her tight ring. As I pressed, Jenny's ass muscle began to ease, until the crown of my head was almost past her stretched opening."Now," she said, "now" and pressed back against my invading shaft. It slipped in, deliciously, meeting nothing but softness in her bowels, the tight ring squeezing up the length of my cock as I pressed my belly down between her spread cheeks.I looked down to admire my cock sunk in her bowels, her ass divided and gripping, and almost came at the sight. I held her hips and tried not to move, controlling an overwhelming urge to ejaculate deep into her welcoming bottom."Oh, God," Jenny said, "that feels so good, so good." She turned her head to look at me over her shoulder, mouth open, "I'm so full of you, all the way to my throat, press harder, darling, as hard as you can." She lowered her belly slowly to the mattress, and I followed her bottom down, coming to a more extreme angle inside her rectum. Oh, so good, so good.I could feel the juice rising up from my spine, from my asshole, through the cock muscle and my balls. A few more strokes and it would jet deep into Jenny's warm, round ass."Coming," I breathed, "coming...""Now," the wonderful girl said, "now, give it to me hard, fast, come in my ass, make your juice spurt out of my mouth, now, now, now, now, now!"I slammed my belly hard into her buttocks. Her bowels seemed to suck the thick man-juice out of my swollen cock and swallow it upward. I could believe it would travel up her throat and drool from her tongue onto the bedclothes.And I could smell the butter, warmed by her body heat, rising from her ass.Well, that's my memory of Jenny.I praise the God of assfuckers that He sent Jenny to teach me in that long-ago summer in Manhattan. I could never have had a better instructor in the subject I learned to love so well.Jenny was a lot of fun back there, indeed she was. (endit)