by Arthur Kay |
No, Lucy Fern didn't need the money. What she needed was now nestling restfully in
between his legs. Along with its two best pals, Ike and Mike. And he, in a most
gentlemanly manner, would never, ever dream of making her pay for it. Unless,
of course, she insisted. Nah, he thought, not even then. Then again! Nah! Then
again . . . He went to her and put his arms around her. He gave her a juicy, sloppy French kiss, his tongue tasting his own cum again. He knew that if he came back in a few hours, that cum taste would still be there. Lucy had told him she wouldn't drink anything, even water, as she liked to hold onto the cum taste for as long as humanly possible. She loved feeling the salty tickle in her throat every time she swallowed saliva. She also told him that there were many times when she would get so turned on by that unbelievable effect, she just had to wank off right there at her little desk. While picturing his big, hairy, large-headed cock. Now and then, Tag had tried to catch her at it, but she was always a step (a finger?) ahead of him. Tag broke the kiss, gave her ass cheeks a squeeze with both hands, and said, "See ya later, kid." He winked at her and headed for the locked front door. At the door, he turned to her and said, "Lock it behind me, Sweetie. Loonies abound in these times, you know." She nodded and mumbled a quiet 'Sure.' as she went toward her desk. She opened the desk's center drawer and took something out. Just before he closed the door behind him, he took one last look at the beautiful redhead who had just given him one great sucking. She was coming over to lock up, a white 12" vibrator in her hand and a smile on her face. He whispered, "Fuck, woman, you're insatiable!" The door closed and he heard it lock. Through the door, he said loudly, "Watch out for that high-speed setting, lady, it could ruin your child bearing years!" He heard her giggle as he headed for the elevator. As he waited for the elevator, he thought, That Lucy! Thank you God for putting her into my life. I owe you big time, fella!" Tag felt a stirring in his groin just thinking about her and decided if he was going to get on a public elevator, it was time to think about something else, like baseball. That always worked. Just as well as thinking about Abe Vigoda or Phyllis Diller. Or all three. Vigoda pitching to Diller. Or vice-versa. * * * * * * TAG SOLD HIS CAR, getting less than he wanted, and sold all his furniture to some fat, old fart in an ill-fitting suit, getting way less than he wanted. But Tag wasn't in the mood for haggling price. He was never in the mood to haggle price. It wasn't in his makeup. To him, life was just too short for haggling, in spite of the fun some people said they got out of it. After depositing the money, he paid up his rent to the end of the month, which was two weeks away, gave the landlady notice of moving out and, feeling the joy of getting squared up with the world, happily wrote out a check to Lucy Fern for three months salary plus a little bonus of a hundred smackers. Yeah, old Tag felt square with the world all right, but for two weeks he'd have no wheels and an apartment without any furniture to enjoy. And that enjoyment included no bed in which to sleep. However, he felt sure that that little detail would be taken care of by witchcraft. Or, to put it more correctly, by his next door neighbor, Wanda Blake, a practicing witch, who had one witchy body on her. That old black magic, as practiced by a white woman. Of course, he thought, I'd better cast a spell on her first. Ha ha. That's a laugh! Wanda thinks swallowing male sperm gives her male power! And male magic. Christ, with the amount of my sperm she's gulped down over time, she should be Charles Atlas by now in the power and magic departments! He figured Wanda was deluding herself, rationalizing a reason for sucking him off, but his attitude was: Whatever floats your boat is fine by me. And, if she was telling a witchy truth, four other men as well. All, she told him, contributed to her power and magic attainment. The spell did its work! Wanda was more than thrilled to have Tag crash at her place for a few weeks. As long as his big cock crashed with him, that is. Any person watching how quickly she had agreed to the arrangement would have also been the first to see a witch salivate. And, if he or she had the eyes of God, they would have seen her pussy twitching, too. "Oh, Taggy, it'll be such fun the two of us living in sin. Of the carnal kind, I assume?" She looked him directly in the eyes. He nodded meekly. His nod saying: You want carnal, I give carnal. I'm easy that way. "Oh, goody, we have a deal then. You use my bed and I use you. All of you. For two whole weeks! Goody, goody. How married like and normal it will all seem!" She laughed, one of those throaty, hoarse laughs heavy smokers are famous for. He laughed, too, but not as vibrantly. More like the laugh a sheep gives when heading to the slaughter. A gallows laugh. But, in this case, he didn't mind being sacrificed. Well, he thought, how bad can it be? Wanda's got a great bod for a gal in her late fifties. Or was she now in her early sixties? Fuck if I know! Now, if I can only stand being in that all black bedroom of hers! Brr! Witchcraft! Why the fuck did those early coven members decide that black was the color of magic? He spent the afternoon packing up his personal belongings, which didn't amount to much as he lived life on the light side when it came to that kind of stuff. He would have to live out of a suitcase, so to speak, for two weeks, but if he cared he didn't show it. Hey, he told himself, lighten up, pal. I'm sounding as if I've been given a one way ticket to a Siberian gulag. There are worse things than bivouacking with wicked witchy Wanda for a few weeks. True, she'll want to devour my sillly ass every chance she gets until my balls are the size of raisins, but I like raisins. He had to be at Wanda's place at 7 p.m. for what she laughingly referred to as their first honeymoon night and celebratory salad supper. Brr! But, in the spirit of things, he had gone out and bought a pot of black pansies as a token of appreciation to his new roomie. At the florists, he had felt like a total Satan worshipping freak when he had stupidly asked the woman waiting on him if she had flowers a practicing witch would enjoy. "You mean witch as in coven?" She had asked, a tad of fear showing in her eyes. He said yes, and she threw him a look that said should I call a cop or what? He told her it was just a little joke, and this calmed her enough to suggest black pansies. It was the only thing she could think of that your run-of-the-mill witch might like. He took out his credit card and his deal with the dark forces was duly made and sealed. As he left the little shop, he looked down at the pansies. Oh, well, he thought, you guys have nice little yellow eyes. Just like Satan's, I imagine! As he rang Wanda's bell, the pansies cleverly hidden behind him, he said hello to her neighbor, a Mr. Crane or was it Thane. Maybe Wayne. Whoever. It ended in an "ane" sound. Maybe. He tapped the bell again a mere second before he heard her fumbling behind the door opening up the first of her four locks. She may have spells to ward off evil at her command, he thought, but she's a cautious spellbinder. Mr. Whoever was still standing there when Wanda threw her door open and said to Tag, in her deepest and sexiest voice, "Hi, hubby of mine, had a rough day? I'll soon make you forget all about it, Baby, with some good pussy." Tag watched Mr. Whoever's eyes pop out. The guy just stood there, his key half in the doorlock, a shocked looked on his puss. He appeared to be drooling from his gaping mouth. Wanda was standing in her doorway dressed in only a flimsy white see-thru nightie and, with the foyer ceiling light shining behind her and through the material, she looked absolutely naked. Her titties and pussy were just hanging out as if on the prowl. Mr. Crane, Thane, Wayne looked delirious. His tongue was now hanging out to one side. And his door key hadn't moved a whit. He was now a new hallway statue. Tag played along. "Hi, wife. You ready for some good fucking and sucking?" He had said the words as he entered her place so he couldn't see the guy's face, but he had fun picturing it. As he turned to close the door behind him, he saw that Mr. Manynames had added a frozen stare and a sweat-covered forehead to his job as hallway statue holding a key. Poor man, thought Tag, I'll bet he dreams wet tonight! In living color, no doubt. He handed Wanda the pansies. "Ohh, Tag, my favorite color! How did you ever know?" She laughed and told him supper was almost ready, and would he mind pouring the wine? As he nodded compliance, she said, "It's the red wine, darling, you'll find it already decanted and breathing on the prep board. I'll undress the pansies and we'll use them as a gay centerpiece." Gay? He thought, to who? A fucking mortician? Uncle Fester? He got the bottle of wine and brought it to the dining table. Wanda had made a nice setting for them. It looked as if she had broken out her best china and silverware. Black china and black bone handles on the utensils. Of course, it was no surprise to see the all black table cloth. But it did surprise him seeing this domestic, Martha Stewart side of Wanda. He heard her call out from the kitchen, "Din-din in a min, my love, would you kill the overhead lights, and put a match to the two candles?" Black! Of course. He noticed them now, two black tapers as sleek as India ink. He did his chores in what he considered a logical order. He poured the wine. Lit the candles. Killed the ceiling lights. Sat down and tried to guess if he would be able to see what he'd be eating. Sure, as long as the light coming from the kitchen stayed around. It didn't. She had murdered the light on her way out.. "Shit, Wanda, with everything black on this table, I can't see my plate. I'm not used to eating in Braille! Fucking yes, but not eating." She solved that problem by magically bringing the room lights up a notch. "I can see!" he quipped. "I'm cured, Ms. Witchdoctor!" "Dumbkopf!" she said. "Can't you recognize a dimmer switch when you touch one? Or does it need to have a nipple dead center?" She giggled and sat down. He laughed and they dug in. Tag enjoyed Wanda's cooking, if a salad comes under that general heading, and, after four glasses of a hearty burgundy wine, old Wanda was starting to look pretty damn good to him. Damned good. Despite some minor chin wrinkles and a few around each eye. And her body was pretty firm for her stage in life. True, her titties sagged a notch, but not enough to make a federal case out of it. And, whatever the minor titty drawbacks, her still shapely legs and young-looking tight ass more than compensated. Dinner over, she now sat across the dining table from him, smoking a cigarette in a foot-long gold and black holder. She took a puff, blew it up toward the ceiling, and broke the silence . . . Witchy Wanda |