Three Men Who Get a Lot of Pussy

I put “romance” as the category because ultimately, I think that’s what it is. But on the way there, it’s not all wine and roses….

If you don’t like violence, the John and Blake sections of the story are harmless, but you should skip the Dick parts.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Preface

We’ve all seen statistics about a few dozen old men having more wealth than the bottom 95% of the people in the world put together. That really shows two things: a few people have literally inconceivable weath, while a literally inconceivable number of people have nothing or even less than nothing.

Obviously not everyone loves this situation, and since a little violence would redistribute things, and at least some people are eager to make that happen, such extreme inequality has to be sustained by even greater violence, or at least the threat of it, as well as constant propaganda to persuade people in the middle that their interests lie with “the haves” rather than with “the have-nots.”

Pussy inequality is fortunately not quite so bad, but it does exist. We usually don’t consider it a polite topic of conversation, probably because the men who get a lot of it and the women who give it to them strongly influence what we consider polite conversation, and they don’t want the deprived men to realize how unequal the situation is.

Why not?

Because they would murder people.

Be all that as it may, we wish to inform you (lest the title is too vague) that this is a story about three of the men who do get a lot of pussy. That means, to be clear, that these three gentlemen have a lot of sex with women. Specifically, their dicks get hard, women open their legs, and these guys just slide their boners right up in those wet, slick pussies and jiggle around until their cum shoots out.

They do that quite often.

So without further ado, let’s meet our heroes.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

John

John looks around, wondering where to wipe the booger off his finger. He’s only renting the Rolls, so he doesn’t care, he just wants to hide it from the driver. Or the chauffeur. Whatever.

He rubs it on the side of the seat just in time, just before the driver opens the door for him.

“Thank you, sir,” John says, handing the guy a twenty.

Getting out of a car isn’t as easy as it used to be. John eats well, very well, big hotel buffet breakfasts, whatever’s for lunch, and quite often steak for dinner. But the most exercise he gets is when he decides he wants to be on top, which only happens two or three times a day. And unless he cums pretty quickly, he goes back on the bottom and lets the girls do the work.

He’s rarely actually seen his dick go into a woman. There was a time when he was ambitious to seduce women and worked out a lot, but paying was just so much easier, so why bother?

And, ironically, paying was cheaper, too. Trying to impress women, he’d bought a big mansion in Beverly Hills, seven thousand square feet, with a swimming pool, wine cellar, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of furniture. Back then he’d owned his own Rolls Royce, as well as a Ferrari and a Jaguar. He’d had his own driver, chef, and household staff.

Such a fucking waste of money. Now he’s much more efficient. For legal reasons, he maintains a small permanent address in a tax-friendly state, but he spends all his time and money traveling the world as a big-tipping sex-tourist. He fucks hot girls who are never trying to decide whether they want to be with him. No, they do their very best to please him, and it’s easy for him to stay under budget.

He still dresses well as a man of his shape can. He stops back in London about twice a year for the tailors to measure his ass and gut. It’s not a bad place, London, plenty of girls from all over the world.

Today we find him in Sydney, making his way from the car to the doors of Dragon Ladies Massage. The tinted glass doors open automatically in front of him, and as soon as he steps through, a tall middle-aged white woman greets him:

“Ah, Mr. Jackson again! What an honor! We’ve missed you!”

“Thank you,” he smiles bashfully, like a little boy embarrassed by a compliment.

He hasn’t been here for about three years, and they still remember him. That’s what money can do.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Blake

Blake closes the bedroom door behind him.

“They’re all asleep now,” he tells his wife. “We got all the way through the stories of Samuel and Saul, though.”

She closes the magazine’s been reading — this month’s issue of Christian Motherhood magazine, with a picture on the cover of a pretty white woman having a picnic with two pretty white children surrounded by article titles: “Biblical Discipline and Submission,” “Housekeeping Tips from a Pro,” “Speaking the Truth in Love? Or Nagging?” and, “He has Duties in the Bedroom Too” — and puts it on her nightstand.

(On his nightstand we see the book The Antichrist: Biblical Evidence. The cover promises to prove that he is alive today and that he is a Democrat and a Socialist. The image of Satan on the cover looks suspiciously like a darker-skinned version of Barack Hussein Obama, but if Obama wanted to look like Anton LaVey.)

“I started my period today,” she looks up at him, obviously eager to see his excitement. “You know what that means….”

He smiles happily. “We need to hurry these prayers up.”

She gets up and walks around to his side of the bed, where there is more room for them to kneel together. They kiss each other’s lips, pull their bodies close together. He wraps his arms around her, feeling her soft skin through her thin cotton nightgown.

“I love you, Candy,” he sighs.

She rests her head on his shoulder and breathes in his scent. Masculinity tempered with domesticity. “I love you too, Blake.”

He won’t be wearing those dark blue plaid flannel pajamas very much longer, for Candy is the kind of Christian wife who believes that Christian wives have a duty to ensure that godly men have even more fun than evil men. As a result, every month when she starts her period, she performs oral sex for him, and he always returns the favor on her fertile days, warming her all the way up before trying to do his own duty: giving her another baby.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Dick

Dick is initially only mildly annoyed to find a Camaro in his driveway, preventing him from parking in the garage. He pulls up right behind it, intending to punish whoever it is by forcing them to ask him to move for them to get out.

He takes off his aviator shades and checks his hair in the rearview mirror.

Big night tonight. It’s been months since he’s seen Adriana, but their youngest is two now, and she looks pretty fucking good again in the pics she’s been posting online. So he’s surprising her tonight, showing up unannounced with a diamond necklace as a gift.

Why tonight? Well, she’s about to ovulate — he knows because he tips the maid to keep him updated on her periods — and he intends to get her pregnant again. He’s got a few days free before he has to start preparing for the job in Somalia, so he’s going to spend them boning the fuck out of her while their three kids run wild.

The kids don’t seem to be home, though. Usually they recognize his big black Navigator and run out to him, shouting “Daddy!”

That’s how all the kids in all his families usually greet him, because their all mothers know who pays the fucking bills.

He presses the garage door opener and gets out. Still no kids running out to greet him. They must not be home.

He checks out the Camaro on his way past. It’s an old classic, kept up pretty nicely. He doesn’t know Camaros well, but he’d guess mid-80s. T-top, standard transmission.

Something about it feels wrong. Adriana might have bought it, but it somehow seems like a man’s car. But why would another man’s car be parked in his driveway?

He closes the garage door behind him and goes through the side door into the kitchen.

“Dick!” Adriana says, rushing to embrace him.

Her kiss tastes as good as ever. He picks her up by her hips, sits her on the edge of the sink, and opens his eyes just in time to see a tall, skinny guy run across his front lawn to the Camaro. He must have just gone out the front door.

“Well he’s not going to be able to get out,” Dick says, pointing through the window with his chin.

Adriana turns, guiltily, to look.

“He’s just a friend,” she says quickly. “The babysitter’s brother.”

Dick and Adriana watch the skinny guy assess the situation. After a moment’s thought, he just runs off down the street.

“He could just ask me to move so he can get out.”

Adriana is unbuckling his belt, trying to get to his cock.

“He’s got to come back for his car eventually,” Dick shrugs.

He tears her blouse open, sending little plastic buttons flying in every direction. “You’re looking good,” he whispers, pulling her panties down as she pulls her bra off. “Push-up bra. Plunging neckline. Tight skirt, perfume. Bright red lipstick. Funny to think you weren’t expecting me.”

“Oh, god, Dick, I’ve missed you,” Adriana moans as he slides inside her.

He grabs her hair, pulls her head back, not to hurt her so much as to threaten her.

“You better fuck me like you mean it,” he growls.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

John

John wonders how much he’d have to pay to fuck the woman who greets him at the door. With any woman, as far as he knows, it’s always only a matter of the right price.

She’s older than the girls, maybe even as old as he is, but she has something — perhaps dignity — that they lack, and perhaps he’d enjoy trying to fuck it out of her. She was probably one of them once, she probably knows her way around a dick better than most of them do.

Maybe, maybe not. It doesn’t matter anyway because he doesn’t have the courage to ask her. Even though he’s paying, she seems to be in charge, and for some reason he wants to please her so that she’ll think he’s a good customer.

“How many ladies will your pleasure require this afternoon?”

“Four, if that’s all right.”

“Of course it’s alright!” the woman winks as he hands her his credit card. “Shall we just hold on to this and keep a running tab?”

“Yes, please.”

“Very good,” the woman says. “We’ll start with just the first four then, but you know you can always have more.”

“Thank you.”

She leads him through another set of automatic doors and down a dark hall into a room where a few dozen young women sit on sofas that wrap around the room. As soon as John and the attendant enter, the women rise and shed their robes, revealing their bodies, naked now except for chains around their waists with little badges displaying their numbers.

They look at John with exactly as much enthusiasm as you would expect given that he is a short, bald, almost comically overweight man with a badly pockmarked face…

… with exactly as much enthusiasm as you would expect, that is, given all that and the fact that they all know he regularly tips as much as two thousand dollars for a good root — several times more than the actual cost.

That’s big bickies, as they say, so his reputation precedes him. It’s easy money, too, since he apparently doesn’t want anything particularly kinky. Sure, he enjoys watching girls sixty-nine each other, he loves facials, and he doesn’t mind if they tie a girl up for him, but he doesn’t like her to pretend that he’s raping her. He doesn’t even like rimjobs — some girls have tried, and he asked them not to!

Very vanilla for a guy that tips the way he does. But of course they understand this kind of customer: he is lonely, sad, he just wants to feel loved.

Whoever said that the stomach is the shortest way to a man’s heart didn’t know about the dick. But these girls know.

And they know it is very, very important to satisfy him. He sometimes gets five or six “massages” a day, spending thousands and thousands of dollars, day after day, as long as they keep him happy.

But if they fail to fully satisfy him, perhaps even just once, he won’t say anything, he won’t complain or give them any instructions, he’ll just sulk away and start going to another brothel, or even leave the country. They’ll probably only be able to guess what they did wrong, and they never know if he’ll come back. And if he does come back, it’s two or three years later.

And for the girls who fail to satisfy him, well, the least of their problems will be that he doesn’t tip them much on his way out.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Blake

“Dear Heavenly Father,” Blake begins, his wife kneeling beside him, modest even in her own bedroom, her long brown hair brushed straight down her back.

They rest their elbows on their queen-sized bed, hands folded, eyes closed, heads bowed, looking exactly the part they’re choosing to play in this life: ordinary, decent, God-fearing, humble, small-western-town, pious white working-class American Christians.

The country-style quilt on the bed was made for them by the ladies of the church as a present for their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Beside the bed are two simple wooden nightstands, each with an old-fashioned lamp and a wind-up alarm clock. Everything could be from the (way they imagine the) 1950s, before American society was (as they see it) ruined by feminism, civil rights, and liberalism.

“We just come before You tonight with gratitude for the beautiful children You’ve blessed us with,” he continues. “May You keep them healthy and safe, and guide our hands as parents that we would know the way to bring them up to love and fear You.”

“Yes, Lord,” Candy agrees. “Amen, Lord. Amen.”

“And I thank You, Lord, for my beautiful wife that You’ve blessed me with. You know, Lord, that I love her with all of my heart, above everything and everyone except You alone, Lord. I pray, Lord, that You will grant her the patience she needs to forgive me for my many failings, and that You will teach me to be a gentle, wise, and loving husband to her.”

Blake’s silence signals that he has concluded his prayer, so Candy says a short one of her own:

“Yes, Lord, thank You for the blessings of my husband and children. Please keep us all safe from the temptations of the world, and guide me in Your ways that I might be a good wife to the husband You have given me and a good mother to the children You have entrusted to me.

“And, Lord, please enable me to please my husband as he pleases me, tonight and every night, according to Your plan for Christian marriage. We know that You made us for each other and for each other’s pleasure, and we seek to follow You in all things.”

After a moment of silence, Blake closes the prayer: “In Your Son’s precious Name we pray.”

Together they say, “Amen,” looking in each other’s eyes and smiling.

Blake leans over to gently kiss his wife’s lips, stroking her sandy blonde hair.

“I love you,” he tells her again. “You’re far too beautiful for me.”

“I am not,” she smiles, “you’re a good man and I love you too.”

They stand up together, embracing, kissing, and Blake pulls his wife’s nightgown over her head.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Dick

Adriana lies on the bed, now, hips elevated on a pillow just in case a little assistance from gravity will help his sperm reach her eggs.

Dick sits up next to her, looking at her phone.

“So your boyfriend’s name is Lon?”

“Dick,” Adriana pleads, “I’m so, so sorry. It’s just that you’re never home….”

“Shhhhhh,” Dick tells her, soothingly petting her head as he scrolls through the texts on her phone. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just lay there and keep your hips up. You had ‘something special’ for him, tonight huh?”

“I just meant –”

“Shut up, whore,” he pinches her lips between his thumb and forefinger. “Are the kids really mine?”

She nods.

“All of them?”

She shakes free.

“Dick, don’t say things like that!”

“Why not? I’m getting them tested. I don’t trust whores.”

“Okay, of course, Dick, of course. Anything you want. I’m sorry. I’ll….”

“And for that matter, where are my children?”

“At a babysitter’s. She’s a great girl. Very responsible.”

“Very responsible. Interesting that you thought to say so. How old is she?”

“Eighteen. She’s a good girl.”

“How long is she expecting to have them tonight?”

“Dick, it’s just that you haven’t been home in months. You have all your other women but all I have are the kids –”

He takes her face in his big hand, squeezing just hard enough to communicate a threat, not hard enough to hurt her.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“Eleven. Eleven o’clock tonight.”

“That’s a long time. Let’s text our friend Lon.”

“Why?”

“Come get ur car,” Dick types on her phone, reading aloud for Adriana’s benefit. “He will move his car. I told him ur the babysitters boyfriend lol.”

“What are you going to do, Dick?” she worries.

“Have a chat.”

She looks up at Dick, at his massive, powerful body, at the eagle, globe, and anchor tattoo on his shoulder. She knows the stories behind some of his scars, but not all of them.

Chatting isn’t really what he’s known for.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

John

Dragon Ladies is truly a global establishment. Sure, they have women from China, Japan, Philippines, Thailand, Vietnam, and so on, but there are also women from India, Brazil, Nigeria, Russia, Mexico…. All kinds of skin colors, breast shapes (both “natural” and “enhanced”), hair styles….

And all of them are beautiful. No wonder the prodigal son has returned.

John’s feeling conservative this morning, so he begins by selecting two girls that he remembers enjoying before.

“Number twenty-six.”

Number twenty-six jumps up and down, clapping with joy, and then runs out to hug and kiss him. She’s definitely a true “dragon lady,” a Thai woman with fake breasts and tattoos that he doesn’t understand. John receives her kiss, and then, as she puts his arm around her waist, John points to another girl.

“Number nineteen.”

This one is Pakistani. Dark, skinny, angular, with dark knowing eyes and breasts that are small but interestingly floppy, she greets him with a lusty embrace and a sultry kiss.

“Hello, Mr. Jackson,” she drawls. “Welcome back.”

Reassured by having his arms around familiar girls, he takes a chance on a new girl.

“Thirty.”

Number thirty looks exotic. Maybe a Filipina, John guesses, vaguely Hispanic, and he hasn’t had a nice spicy Hispanic girl in weeks. She walks to him slowly, licking her lips and showing off her swaying curves. Her kiss is hot and wet, and John’s mouth waters. When she’s finished, she turns around, pushing her butt into his crotch.

“And number eight.”

She’s a short and girlish blonde, very petite, her small breasts topped by pointy nipples. She skips up to John, giggling, giving him a very innocent little peck of a kiss.

Now the four naked women rearrange themselves, all with their arms around him, pressing their breasts into his body, looking up eagerly into his face. His little dick begins to stiffen.

“Are you sure four will be enough, Mister Jackson?” the attendant asks.

He nods happily, forgetting for a moment to keep his lips shut.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Blake

We worry that some readers will accuse us of a bait-and-switch when we introduce Blake S. White, pastor of the First (and only) Southern Baptist Church of Ulysses, Montana, but hear us out:

Sure, Blake only fucks one woman, but he fucks her constantly. They fuck far more often than most married couples because he’s just randy as all hell and his wife — we kid you not, her name really is Candy — is (at the very least) happy to perform what she sees (or justifies) as the duties of a Christian wife. She performs them to the best of her ability, and, more frequently than most husbands, Blake does his best to make sure she enjoys them too.

This is one of the easiest ways to get a lot of pussy. Tried and true. That’s why most men eventually go this route, although usually not putting as much work into it as Blake. Sure, it can be boring sometimes, but at least there are no long droughts, and if a man can find a good woman and persuade her that she really wants to keep him, they sometimes get to know each other well and do things that rarely happen in less committed relationships. Some things get better with practice, and some are much better when a woman means them.

In fact, if you opened the door of the nightstand on Blake’s side of the bed and looked around at the contents, the word “Christian” would not immediately spring to mind. They didn’t have faux fur in the 1950s!

Psychologically and emotionally, Blake is pretty much a normal wholesome guy. He loves his wife and knows she’s too good for him — she’s one of the prettiest women in their town, actually, and she keeps herself in good shape for her age, while Blake had a “dad bod” before he was even a dad. He loves their four children more than anything. He thinks of himself as a good person, a patriot who served his country as a chaplain, a hard working man, a good husband and father. Yes, a sinner saved by grace alone, but a man who tries to follow the Lord.

Barely even aware of most of the things he can’t afford to do, he’s content with who he is and the way his life is unfolding…

… probably in no small part because he has a fairly hot wife who sincerely loves and respects him and she fucks him, simultaneously submissive and eager, nearly every night, often in the morning, sometimes even in the afternoon.

You can’t say that’s not a lot of pussy.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Dick

Wearing a white bathrobe and boots, Dick greets Lon at the door, offering a firm handshake. Lon looks up at him, involuntarily showing how intimidated he is.

Because Dick is a big, big, man.

“Come on in. That’s your Camaro in my driveway?”

He speaks with the kind of bone-rattling oktavist voice you would expect a man his size to have, and the kind of formal good-cheer that would precede a brutal ass-beating.

“Yes, I, um….”

“It’s a nice car,” Dick says, closing the door as Lon finally steps inside. “How long have you been fucking my wife?”

“What?”

Lon’s head turns toward Dick just in time to receive a shockingly hard open-hand smack square on his cheek.

Richard Hardman has been known as “Big Dick” since his childhood, and for several reasons:

1) He’s big. Six feet six inches tall with the brutal body of a man who works out for strength and power rather than for looks, he intimidates nearly everyone who sees him — and usually they look two or three times before they believe their eyes.

2) Known for aggression and bluntness, he’s not the kind of guy you want to ask something like, “Do these jeans make me look fat?” But if you do, you’ll quickly find out that he’s a big dick.

3) Though it’s not quite what you see in your pornos, an impressively long and even more impressively thick pendulum swings between his legs. In the Marines, they nicknamed him “Kanamara,” Japanese for “iron dick,” and his men still call him that.

To see a man like that smack someone, or even merely to hear it, is pretty shocking. It’s literally like an adult smacking a child.

Lon stumbles backwards, just barely managing not to fall down, but he doesn’t recover in time to avoid a brutal kick to his groin.

Now he falls forward, catching himself with his hands.

“Being such a large man,” Dick squats down to speak to Lon as he throws up on the carpet, “I have to wear bespoke clothing. But it enables me to craft a personal style, and I’m particularly proud of my boots. Cap-toe oxfords, full-grain leather tops, dressy enough for most occasions, cushy midsoles for comfort, Vibram outsoles rugged and tough enough for most adventures. And of course steel toes, which come in handy when I have to kick the shit out of someone.”

“I’m sorry, mister.”

“I imagine so, but at least take a moment to appreciate my fucking boots.”

Then Dick stands back up and kicks Lon in the kidney so hard that it flips him over. He’s unconscious before he hits the floor.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

John

John grew up nicknamed Fatty McFatface, which sounded rather like his actual name and described him fairly accurately. He was a hopeless loser, as ugly as he was fat, bad at sports, below average grades, abused at home and bullied at school, ashamed of everything about himself. Even the girls bullied Fatty. He hadn’t committed suicide only because he didn’t know how to get or use a gun and was too cowardly to do it any other way.

His parents had never married. His dad, half black, ran a trailer park outside of town and kept having kids with women who struggled to make rent.

His mother was one of them. Chinese-American and fatter even than John, she taught him that sex was sinful and disgusting, an offense against God and women. Men wanted it because they were sinful and disgusting, and women who seemed to want it were actually just lonely, weak, confused sluts, probably on their way to hell. No woman in her right mind would ever want such a thing, although perhaps they might let a man do it sometimes, just to be nice, or out of sheer desperation to have their bills paid.

But one of his mom’s bill-payers was a white man named John who lived with them from Fatty’s sixth through tenth grades, so long that Fatty almost thought of him as a step-father.

John had one of the all-time great porn collections. Thousands of hours of vintage pornos transferred from video to digital storage, thousands more downloaded from the internet, decades of issues of pornographic magazines both famous and obscure, American and foreign, and posters and books and calendars and playing cards and coffee mugs and keychains and dice and decorative figurines. He had pornography from all over the world, reproductions of pornographic statues from ancient cultures, pornographic silent films, and a multiracial collection of sex dolls.

At first Fatty had been merely curious. It was interesting to see women’s breasts, and no matter how many pictures of vaginas he saw, they remained a mystery to him. A lot of details he didn’t understand, and for a very long time he wasn’t even sure where the hole was.

Of course his mom sometimes caught him with John’s porn, but she didn’t really try to keep him out of it.

“You’re just a boy,” she’d sneer. “Like all the others. Go on. But don’t ever touch me again with those filthy, disgusting hands.”

Fatty wasn’t clever enough to wonder why she let John touch her.

“Don’t listen to her, kid,” John would assure him. “Ain’t nothing on earth wrong with it. Until you get a girl to do it with you, you gotta beat it yourself.”

Beat it? Fatty wondered.

Then puberty hit him like a damn train. What had been merely curiosity became an overwhelming desire.

He discovered that he wanted all that disgustingness, wanted it bad. More disgusting and horrible than his mother would ever imagine, his body ached with it. His mind became almost unable to think of anything else. He probably still holds the records for masturbation, whether measured by the number of times performing it or the number of hours engaged in it.

But deep in his bones and guts sat the painful knowledge that he was never, ever going to get it for real. Even the ugliest, loneliest girl was not going to spread her legs for him.

When John finally left his mom, taking all that porn with him, Fatty just dropped out of school and moved into a van to get away from her too. He worked at a truck stop for several years, adding smoking and drinking habits to go along with masturbation.

He actually began to think he had a pretty good life. He showered in the truck stop during slow hours, using personal hygiene products left behind by the customers. He often ate for free from the sandwich shop. He had (by his standards at that time) plenty of money, and from the time he was eighteen, he invested most of his disposable income in lottery tickets, which sounds insane to anyone with the ability to form better long-term plans, but that wasn’t Fatty. Every now and then he won a little bit, and if he won enough he would drive to the nearest city and get “massages.”

Then, when he was twenty-four, he hit the big one. Over a hundred million dollars, cash value after taxes. The lottery people advised him to travel for a while to get away from people, and he liked that idea so much that he changed his name to John Thomas Jackson and simply disappeared.

He can’t even remember all the countries he’s visited over the years. He stays in expensive hotels, enjoys expensive food and expensive drinks, wears expensive clothes, gets driven around in expensive cars, and fucks lots and lots of expensive pussy.

It’s easy to envy John, for now at least, and interesting to reflect that he spends so much of his time contemplating suicide and marriage. As for marriage, well, he’s a little better-looking now — plastic surgeons and dentists have fixed what they could fix, image and fashion consultants have done what they could do — and a little smarter, and travel has made him a little classier, but he knows that no woman would want to marry him for anything but the money, so what would be the fucking point?

Still, he thinks about it.

As for suicide, well, he assumes that will happen someday, but he might as well fuck a few more whores first.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Dick

So who do we have to thank for giving us Richard “Big Dick” “Kanamara” Hardman?

First, his biological father, a strongman competitor from (of course) Iceland, for raping a young Samoan woman early one morning when they were alone in a gym.

Next, that young woman’s brothers, cousins, and uncles, who actually owned that gym — it was one way of investing the money that several of them had made playing professional American football. They began by persuading the daddy to leave the country forever, and continued by persuading the young woman to deliver the baby and give it up for adoption. (They were devout Mormons.)

Finally, his adoptive parents were two amazing individuals. His father, a retired Marine on his second attempt at having a family, owned a martial arts gym and a Jeep customization shop, but he hunted and fished so much that they needed three freezers to keep all the meat.

His mother, trained as an anthropologist, had studied masculinity and violence, and not as critically as you might expect. When enemies at her university forced her out, she opened a “natural foods” shop, selling food to hippies. Her hobbies included gardening, foraging, preserving, and homemade cooking. They had a fairly nice place in Duluth, but they also had a cabin on a lake about two hours outside of town, to which they went as often as possible.

No one grew up eating better than Richard Hardman. In fact, his mom even paid (at various times) about two dozen women to sell her their breast milk, and she kept giving it to Richard as long as he wanted it, so he wasn’t fully weaned until thirty months.

Skeptical would be a euphemistic way of describing their attitudes toward American public education, so they homeschooled Richard, believing that he would be better socialized by activities — so he played all the sports and did all the activities, starting swimming on his first birthday, tumbling on his second, riding a bike at three, t-ball and soccer at four, graduating to Little League and Pop Warner and gymnastics (and Cub Scouts) at five, then to karate and taekwondo (and guitar lessons) at six, dance (and voice) lessons at seven, Brazilian jiu-jitsu and wrestling at eight, boxing and Muay Thai at nine. He was pretty good at most sports, but he really excelled at the fighting ones. And as kids who crossed him found out, he was even better when there were no rules.

A devilishly handsome boy who wasn’t one tiny little bit better than he absolutely had to be, Richard got better as he grew up at not getting caught doing bad things, or getting away with them if he did get caught. He was brilliantly manipulative, so people liked and trusted him, and forgave him readily, but secretly he was ruthlessly ambitious and shockingly cruel. His parents saw what was happening, but felt helpless to do anything about it — especially since, in their own secret hearts, they were proud of him exactly the way he was. When he had a girl (or girls) in his bedroom, they figured it was good for him.

They were loving, attentive parents: dad always pushed him to be better, work harder, never give up, teaching him how to survive outdoors, use tools, win a fight, pump iron, anything he might need to know to be a man, and mom always provided a safe and unconditionally loving refuge from the challenges of the masculine world.

He grew into a star athlete, an Eagle Scout, and straight-A student in high school. Then he played football at a military academy, breaking some of their weightlifting records and impressing everyone who knew him. He enjoyed studying history, political science, and anthropology, and he loved martial arts, but he applied his considerable intelligence and charisma primarily to the problems of military science and leadership.

He got off to an early start reproductively, marrying twice and divorcing twice, having six kids with four different women by the time he finished college. You can infer what lessons he learned from those experiences.

As an officer in the Marines, the kind of man who loves war and excels at it, he received a below-the-zone promotion (despite his “interesting” family life) for some really amazingly good work, continually impressing the right people and making the right connections, enabling him to found a private military corporation, capitalized, you might say, by the Lockheed Grumman Dynamics corporation, headquartered in the Pentagon.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Blake

Candy playfully pushes him and he obligingly falls backwards onto the bed.

“Drop your drawers, big boy,” she winks, “and let me suck that big baby-maker dry.”

Pretty soon Blake is sitting naked on the edge of the bed. Candy kneels on the floor where she’d been praying not so long ago.

“I love you,” she coos, “and I love your penis,” looking at it sweetly and stroking it gently. Then she kisses his scrotum, licking first one ball and then the other.

“Oh, Candy,” he sighs.

They smile lovingly into each other’s eyes as she gives his dick a series of tender kisses, slowly moving up to the sensitive spot just below the head. With a mischievous wink, she licks it with her tongue wide.

“Looks like we have a little dew on the stalk,” she teases, putting his drop of pre-cum on her finger.

She licks it ecstatically, closing her eyes as if really savoring it.

“I love your semen,” she says, looking up at him gratefully. “I want all of it in my mouth tonight. I want to swallow all your sperm.”

Fondling his balls as if to loosen up his cum, she puts her mouth around his dick, pumping it as her hair falls around her head like a tent.

He moans to encourage her, so she pauses to tease him a little.

“You like that, huh?”

“Oh, I do, Candy, you’re amazing.”

“I know,” she giggles.

She licks his balls again, pumping his shaft gently with her hand, then sucks his shaft and strokes his scrotum.

Blake puts his hands gently on her head.

“Oh, Candy, it’s coming soon,” he says. “Please keep going.”

He parts her hair and they look into each other’s eyes, she sees the urgency and need in his and he sees the affection and love in hers, and then he grunts, staring hard at her as his body shakes.

She looks up lovingly at him while his dick empties itself into her mouth and he moans about how beautiful she is and how much he loves her.

When she feels his penis getting soft, she releases it and swallows, eager to get the taste out of her mouth without hurting her husband’s ego.

She kisses his stomach, his chest, his shoulders, his neck, and finally his mouth — but just a little peck on the lips because she knows he doesn’t want to taste his own cum any more than she wants to taste her own pussy juices.

Then she settles in, nuzzling up against him, rubbing his chest and stomach with her hand.

“I got excited and forgot to cuff you,” she laments. “That would’ve been fun. But I’ll do it right if you can stay awake until you’re ready to go again.”

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Dick

Lon is barely aware of Dick carrying him to the garage, but he briefly wakes up when he realizes Dick is binding his wrists behind his back.

Some time later, he wakes up again, looking around wide-eyed, suddenly aware that he’s in mortal danger. Dick, still in his bathrobe, sits on the stairs that lead to the kitchen, legs spread wide, dick hanging between them like a hammer. Adriana is kneeling on the concrete floor, duct-taping the ankles of Lon’s pants to the chair.

But he really wakes up when Dick sprays him with a garden hose. The water hits him hard in the face.

“Naptime is over,” Dick taunts.

“What are you going to do to me?” Lon moans.

“Me?” Dick feigns innocence, putting down the hose. “That’s up to your girlfriend.”

“We’re just friends,” Adriana protests again.

“Get me his phone and wallet.”

Adriana, trembling, moves quickly to obey him, pulling them out of Lon’s pants pocket, but careful not to touch Lon.

“Alonso Campana,” Dick reads, and then puts the driver’s license in his own pocket. “So Lon’s just a pet name. There’s not much money here, honey, but perhaps you wanted some of it.” He throws the cash on the floor near her, and she flinches away as if afraid it would touch her.

Dick drops the wallet and picks up Lon’s phone. “What’s your password?”

Lon looks at him with defiance, as if determined not to tell.

“I guess my wife neglected to tell you that I kill people for a living. It’s true. Not ordinary murder-for-hire. When a western government, or, more often, a major corporation wants something violent done somewhere in the world, but does not want their fingerprints anywhere near it, they turn to my men and me. They might not even know who we are, but if it’s profitable enough, dangerous enough, and sensitive enough, it eventually winds up in our laps, along with enough money to enable us to do the job right.”

Dick picks up a big knife, the scariest thing Lon has ever seen, and looks at it with admiration.

“Dick, darling,” Adriana begins to beg, but she shuts up again when he looks at her.

“Ka-Bar,” Dick tells Lon. “Beautiful, isn’t it? Every man needs one. Useful in all kinds of situations. Camping, fishing, gouging the eyes out of a guy who’s fucking your wife, hunting. If you ever get married, you might want one of these. You never know when it’s going to come in handy, so I like to keep it sharp.”

Dick puts it on the freezer next to the stairs, and Lon sees a huge pistol there too.

“If she truly cared about you, Lon, she would’ve told you that my men and I, we’re known for thorough and meticulous work, and not for having qualms about killing or facing death.”

Dick looks hard at him. “Do you think you understand what I’m saying?”

Lon nods.

“You seem like a slow learner so let me put it in terms you might understand more easily. I can make you disappear, forever, without a trace, and even if I carelessly leave behind a little evidence that points at me, I have connections in high places. Powerful men who would have my back, not because they love me, but because they owe me favors and they need me. Are you sure you understand?”

“I understand,” Lon whispers.

“Put it in your own words.”

“You can kill me.”

Dick appears to think for a moment.

“Do you think I would feel bad about it?”

“No.”

“Do you think I would get away with it?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s the code to your phone, Nancy?”

“Six six six six.”

“Good. You’ve learned your catechism.”

Dick scrolls through his texts.

“Well, Adriana, looks like you’re only one of many. Hey, Lon, this Ava looks really hot. Seems important to you, too. Oh, and she’s a sexter! Nice! Good for you. You want to see this ass, Adriana? No? You should see her Instagram. Unbelievable. How’d you get a girl with tits like this, Lon?”

He sighs with melodramatic sadness.

“Problem is, Lon, I love my wife, so I can’t let you get away with cheating on her. So what I’ll do is, I’ll dump Ava for you. Now don’t worry, I’ll try to let her down easy. Let’s see.

“‘Hey Ava,'” he says aloud as he types a message on Lon’s phone, “‘I’ve met someone else. You’re hot and my dick likes you, but my new woman, I love her so much, I would die for her,’ — literally — ‘and she loves me that much too. She treats me better in bed than you do. Have a nice life. I’ll never forget how good fucking you felt and I’ll always jackoff to your Instagram photos.’

“I don’t break up with many women, but I think that’s how to do it, Lon. Nice and easy.”

“Why are you doing this?” he moans.

“Why do you think?”

“It was going to be our first time. We never –”

“So I got here just in time.” He looks at Adriana. “This time, at least.”

Lon’s phone rings.

“I bet I know who this is. Yup. That didn’t take long. But it looks like you’re too busy with your new lover to take her call, Lon. So let’s reject that and see what else we can find here on your phone.

“Oh, your sister Mona looks good! Pretty eyes. Nice tits. Damn. Really nice tits. She looks like she puts out. And you call her ‘Moaner,’ huh? That’s nice. You’re a prince of a big brother.

“How’s this sound to you, Lon? ‘Hey Moaner, I found a really great guy for you. Big strong guy, very nice. Handsome and successful. Deep voice. Great boots. You’ll really like him. I’m gonna give him your number.'”

“What are you doing, Dick?” Adriana asks.

“Taking this guy’s women. It’s only fair. He’s sleeping with my wife.”

“Dick, we didn’t — and I’m not your wife.”

“Just a minute, darling. Ava keeps calling. She’s refusing to go down easy. I like that. I like a girl who puts up a fight. But let’s reject the call and text her, like a classy guy. And the best way is always to begin by telling the truth:

“‘I never actually loved you. I only stayed with you for the pussy. That’s not as good as it used to be so I’ve been cheating on you. But I got caught and I had to choose, so I have to dump you now. Goodbye forever, Ava.’ Maybe that’ll do it.”

He looks at Adriana. “What were you saying?”

“We’re not married.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because we’re not, Dick! We never signed any papers! We never had a ceremony!”

“Sorry, Adriana. I’m pretty busy here. Lon, your sister says, ‘What about Glen? Am I supposed to just dump him?’ Let’s see. Again, I recommend honesty. ‘Yes. This guy’s better. Just meet him.’ Adriana?”

“We’re not married.”

“We are. I gave you a ring and you agreed to my terms.”

“But it’s not real! You have so many families!”

“Wow, Ava must really like you, Lon. She says she wants to see you again. Would you believe that, Adriana? After the way he’s treated her? Conveniently, I was planning to take you out tomorrow, so I have some pretty sweet reservations. ‘Meet me at the Penthouse at Mastro’s tomorrow at 5.’ That’s way downtown. I’m afraid you won’t make it, Lon. But I will console her for you. Does she like opera? I have tickets. I wonder whether she’ll want to go with me after dinner. Anyway, your turn again, Adriana.”

“Look at you. Look what you’re doing right now. Destroying people’s lives! And how many families do you have?”

“I’ve just started my eighth. Nine counting your kids, who better be mine too.”

“Exactly! That’s –”

“Those were my terms, and you agreed to them.

“But they’re not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, honey. You want a divorce? You want to spend your evenings with winners like Ava’s ex there while some babysitter ignores our kids, munches edibles and sucks off her boyfriend? You want to find out what kind of work you can get with a useless degree and almost no experience? You want to find out what the dating scene is like for a single mother of three in her thirties? You want to find out what kind of home and car and groceries you can afford when I’m only paying however much child support the law requires?”

“Dick…”

“Get me those loppers,” he tells her, pointing across the garage.

“The what?”

“The branch cutter that you use on the bushes.”

“The branch cutter? What do you need that for?”

He looks at her to ask if she really wants to wait around for an explanation, and she decides she doesn’t.

While she fetches them, he talks.

“Of course you can find another man. Maybe even one who’ll provide for you and your kids as well as I do. Maybe. But who knows what he’ll expect in return. And you can find a job, make at least a little money for yourself. Maybe even enough to cover daycare and babysitters. Try to get that work-life balance. The woman who has it all! If that’s what you want, just give me the ring back. Maybe I’ll give it to Ava or Mona or the babysitter, and you’ll never have to hear from me again. You want that?”

He waits.

“It’s up to you.”

She searches for words.

“No, Dick, I, I just…, no, I just….”

“Well, then your pussy is mine, Adriana. It’s not merely the law, it’s fucking reality. I own it like this house and that BMW X5 that you pretend is yours and the money you’re paying the babysitter. So my cock better be the only one that ever gets near that pussy, and all the children that came out of it better be mine too.”

“They are, Dick, and I told you, Lon and I are just friends.”

She hands him the loppers, but he drops them on the floor and grabs her face in his huge hand.

“Your lies sicken me, whore. I saw your fucking texts. Your blouse and skirt. Your lipstick. I smelled your fucking perfume. You left the kids — again, my kids, you better hope — with some bimbo so you could give ‘something special’ to your boyfriend there. I’m in a real bad fucking mood. My hand hurts from smacking him. You better stop giving me lip. Every lie you tell makes me want to hurt you. But I’m trying to control myself because I’d rather get you pregnant again. I want more babies, and you’ll give me one if you know what’s fucking good for you.

“But him? I don’t give a fuck about him. I’ll take everything out on him. Every lie you tell me makes things much, much worse for him. So shut the fuck up, take off that fucking robe, stuff your fucking panties in his fucking mouth, duct tape it the fuck shut, pull down his fucking pants, and then get me a fucking ice pack for my fucking hand. You think he’s the only one I can slap?”

Her eyes widen. Dick raises his eyebrows to confirm the seriousness of his order, and when he releases her face, she turns away to untie her robe.

“No,” Dick says. “Face me.”

So she turns to him.

“Eye contact.”

Dick gestures between their eyes with two fingers, then points to her body to tell her to resume stripping. He sits back, legs spread wide, and grabs his cock, rubbing it as he watches her pull off her robe.

“You like that, Lon? She’s still pretty hot but you should’ve seen her before she’d had three kids. Ten years ago? God damn. Like your sister.”

Looking at Adriana: “Pretty sweet. Now gag him with your panties.”

And at Lon: “Open up, prince.”

“Look, mister,” Lon begins.

“I know,” Dick agrees, “Good point. But we’ve got neighbors, so I’ve got to muffle the screams. And believe me, buddy,” he warns with horrifying darkness in his voice, “it’ll go better for you if you don’t resist.”

He looks at Adriana, but she’s not moving.

“Give me your panties. I’ll do it myself.”

He holds out his hand expectantly, so she pulls them off, completely naked now. Dick picks up the Ka-Bar knife, and sure enough Lon opens up, so he stuffs her panties in, poking them in with the point of the knife, and wraps Lon’s face in several layers of duct tape.

“You taste that? That’s my cum, Lon, leaking out of her pussy. Adriana? His pants.”

He picks up the loppers, opening and closing them as if to be sure they worked.

“Please, Dick….”

“These would take off toes,” he tells her. “Especially cute little ones like yours. Pull his pants down to his ankles.”

Lon begins to whine, so Dick cracks him on the top of his head with the loppers, hard enough to hurt rather than to knock him out again.

“You better shut up, lover boy. Raise your hips to make it easy for her.” He turns to Adriana and points at Lon’s pants.

When Adriana has his pants down, she stands up.

“Dick –”

“Did you already forget about the ice pack?”

“I don’t have one,” she whimpers.

“You don’t have an ice pack? Do my kids never fall down and get a bruise?”

“Will a bag of frozen vegetables be okay?”

With an angry sigh, he nods and she scurries to get the vegetables.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

John

“Will the Pink Flamingo suite please you?” the hostess asks. “You’ll recall that it’s our most luxurious accommodation, and we’ve added some nice touches since the last time you were here.”

He nods.

“Well, then, I’ll leave you to the ladies,” the attendant says. “If they do not fulfill your every desire, I beg you to let me know. We are eager to do everything humanly possible to please you, Mr. Jackson.”

“Thank you.”

“Anything and everything, you understand. Please don’t be shy to let us know.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Everyone except John can see that the attendant wants to say more. She wants to make sure he understands he could ask for almost anything. Body paint, uniforms, costumes, role-playing, tickling, butt plugs, spanking, choking, hot wax — hell, if he wants to sodomize a woman hanging from the ceiling by her ankles and covered in human shit, for him and the money he pays, they can try to work that out. No problem, no judgment.

And everyone except John can see that she’s also hesitant to say more lest she seem to be lecturing him. She smiles at him as encouragingly as she can, and then chooses to make her point by addressing the girls.

“Ladies,” she says, “as you know, Mr. Jackson is a very important man. Our most important, most valuable customer. Serving him is a great honor and privilege for us all. Please do anything and everything he asks you to do. Treat him like a king, or a god. Give him everything he wants. His wish is your command. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” they answer. “We promise. We’ll do anything for him. Anything he asks!”

“Good,” she tells them, her voice firm and her eyes wide with warning, and then turns her attention sweetly back to John. “Mr. Jackson, you’ve chosen well. These girls will do anything you want. Just let them know. They will do anything, anything you want.”

“Thank you,” he says.

Seeing that maybe she pushed too far, embarrassing him, she bows deeply, turns around, and walks away.

The four women John has chosen lead him through the halls of the brothel. The two that know him each hold one of his elbows with two hands, pressing their breasts into his arm. The other two walk in front of them, looking back frequently to participate in the conversation.

“How have you been, Mr. Jackson?” number nineteen asks him, her head on his shoulder. “I’ve missed you. You need to visit us more often. And pick me more often. You know how much I like you!”

He smiles at her.

“Me too,” twenty-six says, holding him the same way. She rubs her hand vaguely over his crotch, unsure where to find his dick. “You know how much I like this!”

“You’ve never even picked me,” eight whines, “and I’ve always wanted to go with you. I can tell what a good guy you are.”

“I’ve wanted to,” he smiles at her.

“There are just so many beautiful women here, and Mr. Jackson only has so much time,” nineteen says.

“That’s why you have to visit us more often,” twenty-six says.

“A lot more often. Because we miss this. We all want it.”

“I will,” he smiles, “as long as you keep making me so happy.”

Actually he wants them to stop nagging him.

“We will always make you happy, Mr. Jackson.”

“I hope so.”

They step into an elevator. One of the women pushes a button. Then all four of them embrace him, their hands all over his body, especially his crotch, their mouths all over his face and neck, his ears in their lips, their breasts pressed against whatever part of his body they’re next to.

“We will, John,” one whispers. “We always will. Just tell us what we have to do to make you happy and we’ll do it.”

He says nothing, but moves his hands to their butts. They move to make it easier for him to slide his fingers between their cheeks and feel their pussies, groaning as if they really wanted it, as if he were making them feel really good.

“Oh, yes, John” they moan. “Touch our bodies.”

A moment later the elevator doors open and the four of them lead him across the hall to the Pink Flamingo suite.

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

Dick

“Good news, Adriana,” Dick says, enjoying the coldness of the vegetables on his hand. “Mona has agreed to meet me tomorrow for lunch. And look at her.” He shows a photo on Lon’s phone. “Makes me horny. You see what he grew up with?”

She refuses to look.

“No? Well, maybe you’ll like looking at that.”

He touches Lon’s penis with the business end of the loppers.

“Not bad for a kid who’s scared to death because he’s just been caught trying to fuck the wrong man’s wife.”

“Please don’t hurt him.” Adriana protests. “He means nothing to me. I just missed you.”

“You want to save your boyfriend’s cute little dick? Get on your knees and suck mine. You’d best do a fucking good job too.”

She almost flies to his crotch.

She would never admit it, but all this violence and humiliation — hers and Lon’s on her behalf — has turned her on, and she leaps to appease Dick — this huge, strong, dangerous man, and his big, thick, amazing cock.

“I’ll suck it,” she promises. “Let me suck it. God, I love your cock,” she moans, nuzzling her face against it. “I miss it so much when you’re gone.”

She takes his shaft in both hands and licks his balls. Then she gives the shaft several long licks and begins pumping her head vigorously, sucking hard, one hand cupping his balls and the other helping her pump.

“Not bad,” Dick says, taking a handful of her hair to guide her. “Oh, fuck yeah. I’m gonna cum, bitch, and I’m gonna do it all over your fucking face.”

It takes a while, and Dick coaches her along, telling her when and where to lick and suck. Pretty soon she’s deep-throating him with a finger in his butt while her other hand teases his nipples.

Then he fucks her face, his hand full of her hair to make her mouth go where he wants it. She feels so used, so dominated — she truly wants his cock and cum.

Finally he pulls her head off his cock and holds it in place to take his squirts. As she looks up at him, smiling and giggling happily, one squirt after another shoots out, some barely reaching her chin and others smacking her forehead. Finally he puts the tip of his dick on her cheek for the last bits to ooze out there.

“Oh, god, Dick, I love your cum.”

“Good. Clean my cock up with your mouth. But don’t swallow. ”

She obeys, licking and sucking it eagerly.

“Now go over there and dribble it out on your boyfriend’s face. Go on. No, spit it out on his forehead and let it run down. Good, that’s right. Hold still, Lon, you’ve got a lot at stake here,” he prods his dick with the loppers to remind him. “There you go. Wipe it off your face, Adriana, there’s more there. Rub it all in his face, in his eyes. Put it under his nostrils, let him smell it good. Good, good.”

But Lon begins vomiting again, and Adriana jumps back.

“Well, shit, he’ll choke to death if we don’t help him,” Dick sighs. He tosses the loppers aside. As they clang on the concrete floor of the garage, he rips the tape off Lon’s head.

The chair tips over. Lon lays there, continuing to vomit.

“Look at that, mess Adriana,” Dick points to the seat of the chair. “That’s why they say ‘scared shitless.’ You see he’s pissing blood, too. That’s the kidney shot he took earlier. It’ll go on for a few days. I guess Lon here has learned some very valuable lessons tonight.”

Dick hoses the vomit off his own arm and then hoses off Lon, washing all the vomit and shit down the drain.

When he finishes, Lon lies there, bawling and simpering like a child, his face on the wet concrete.

Adriana wimpers, “Look at him, Dick. Aren’t you satisfied yet? Just fuck me again.”

Dick strides toward her. She steps backwards but he grabs her, kisses her, pulls her up against him, his tongue deep in her mouth.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he tells her, “Go get cleaned up and dressed. Clean up the vomit in the living room. Do a good job. I don’t want my kids getting this fucker’s germs all over them.

“Meanwhile I’m going to take your boyfriend for a little drive and when I get back you and I are going to go meet the babysitter. You better tell your boyfriend goodbye because I suspect you’re not going to see him again.”

“Are you going to kill him, Dick?”

He looks at her. “Probably not. You want to beg for his life again?”

“No, no, I was just….”

She turns and runs through the door into the kitchen.

“My cock’s gonna be busy tomorrow,” he says, walking over to Lon. “First your girlfriend,” he indicates the door, meaning Adriana, “then your sister, then your ex-girlfriend Ava, and then I think I’ll fuck the babysitter too. Since she’s apparently responsible enough to take care of my kids, she might as well have one to call her own.”

He squats and begins pulling the tape off.

“It’s not cheap, Lon. I’m not trying to cuckold anybody. Well, not usually. Occasionally, yes, but usually, when a lady has a baby for me, I buy her a house and a car, pay for her life.

“It’s not easy, but the secret is these boots, Lon. These boots make me a lot of money. Well, them, my big dick, and my irresistible charm.

“Anyway, as for you, here’s the deal. You’ve got two options.

“One, you behave yourself. I’ll take you to a little motel I know, right here in town. The owners, they’re good people. You stay there, watching television, eating junk food, reflecting on your life choices. Three days from now, if you’re still there, I’ll bring you your car, your wallet, your money, and your phone. We’ll have another little chat, and if it goes well, you get to live, keep your dick, and maybe nine or ten months from now, unless your sister’s infertile or something, you will be a proud uncle to one of my beautiful children.

“Option two, you try something funny. Maybe you try to sneak out of the hotel, call the cops, cause me trouble with my wife or Ava or your sister. Maybe you even get some wise idea about shooting me or something.

“But you’re on a short leash, Lon. And you see that 96-gallon trash can over there? You know how easy it is to hide a little guy like you in one of those? Not that I would kill you. I’d be out of the country. Perfect alibi.

“But I know people, Lon, and in my circle of friends, I’m actually one of the nicer guys.”

— — — — — — / — — — — — — — — —

John

The girls begin by washing each other and John. They soap him up with their hands, asking him to soap their breasts and hips while they all take turns kissing each other, putting on a show for him. At all times at least one girl his massaging his cock and balls, careful not to make him cum too soon.