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Stimulating
Stories About Couples Sex
A Compilation of Literate
Erotica
He Really Is A
Fuck-Monster
by Harry Merkin
This short
story is a work of
fiction. Names,
characters, places and
incidents either are the
product of the author’s
vivid imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual
human beings, living or
dead, business
enterprises, events or
locales is entirely
coincidental.
“Audrey asked me to come. She told me all
about you.”
“When she invited me, she strongly hinted I
would not be disappointed. What did she tell
you about me?
“The usual.”
“What do girls say about guys?’
“You know, the usual.”
“How much could she know about me?”
“She knows one of your ex-girlfriends.”
“And you still came to meet me.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“I’m glad you came.”
She smiled shyly.
“Have you been to another of Audrey’s hot
tub parties?”
“No. Though I almost didn’t come when she
told me not to bring a swimsuit.”
“It’s not as bad as you fear. Usually the
girls all change in the cabana, then emerge
wrapped in towels and go in the tub, spacing
themselves out to leave room for their
dates.”
“When do the guys come in?”
“Usually they’ll come individually and take
their place by their date.”
“So, it’s not a nude orgy?”
“That comes later.” I smile. “Not really.
I’ve never seen one of these get raunchy.”
“So, what will you do once we’re in the
tub?”
“We’ll talk, drink, avoid politics, drink,
and I’ll try very hard to look only at your
face.”
“My face?”
“Yeah, your breasts will be floating just at
the surface. Since we’ve just met, I’ll try
not to stare.”
She blushed.
“You know, we could avoid all the looks and
comparisons and awkwardness by going in
now.”
“Are the towels in the cabana?”
“Yes, I’ll show you.”
She took my hand.
“Would you want me to leave while you
undress?”
“Please stay. I want to see if what Audrey
told me is true.”
“I hope I don’t disappoint.”
We go to the hot tub, wrapped together in a
single beach towel. I held it up while she
went in.
After 15 to 20 minutes:
“I’m confused.”
“What confuses you?”
“You.”
“Moi?”
“Oui.”
“Let me see. … Do I not resemble the
description Audrey gave you?”
“Yeah ... there is a discrepancy.”
“Is my third arm not showing?”
“No … it’s not that.”
“What is it?”
“Audrey implied that you were a
fuck-monster.”
“And, you think that an academic cannot also
be a fuck-monster or a fuck-o-saurus?”
“I guess so.”
“Did you know that Marcus Aurelius, the
Stoic, philosopher and Roman Emperor had 14
children with his one and only wife?”
“No, that factoid was not in any of my
history books.”
“Were you expecting a knuckle-walking rape
ape whose pendulous scrotum drags on the
ground, picking up burrs, seeds and assorted
vegetal debris?”
She can’t stop laughing.
“You know, I have considered playing the
knuckle-walking rape ape role while
traveling.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but only so I would to able to pick up
underage truck stop waitresses. The sort who
wear ill-fitting uniform dresses, walk and
chew gum at the same time and are still
cheerful at wee hours.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“May I tell you a story?”
“Okay.”
“Imagine a truck stop out west. It’s a
garish, neon-adorned structure surrounded by
acres of big rigs in the middle of a
creosote bush desert. The whole place is
under the yellowish glow of sodium lamps on
tall poles.
Even though I’m starving after driving all
day, I first stopped at the dark edge of
their parking lot to change into a western
shirt, raw selvedge denim jeans and
pointy-toed boots.“
“Why did you change?”
“My plan was to look and act like a local
good-old-boy. I dropped my elevated diction.
Y’all became the second person, plural
pronoun. I temporarily forgot all literary
or historical allusions. I avoided all
floridly vapid discourse, in fewer words,
any sillabub or pretentious silliness.
“Anyway, I then parked by the restaurant,
strolled in, and slid into an empty booth.
My fervent prayer was that my waitress would
be young and pretty.”
“I can’t believe those were your only
criteria.”
“What else matters for a one-night-stand
performed for an audience of one? If our
prayers are actually heard, wouldn’t we be
better supplicants with simple,
to-the-point, requests? Now, for a
second date I would also insist that she
doesn’t go through life as an NPC
(Non-Player Character). I also prefer
outdoorsy types who are physically fit for
strenuous bedroom gymnastics. Additionally.
I cannot stand the sort who praises Eurasia
effusively until handed a note and
immediately reversing stance to proclaim,
“We have always been at war with Eurasia.”
“That’s from George Orwell’s, 1984?”
“Yes it is.”
“Some of my long-ago friends from Sunday
school would be scandalized you were praying
for a pretty fuck-buddy.”
“Their moral outrage would be fake outrage.
My subsequent actions did not involve
adultery because neither of us were married.
Neither was I coveting my neighbor’s wife.”
“So your prayers were answered?”
“Yes.“
“Could you please tell me about it?”
“Not specifically. I respect her too much to
tell you anything about our first encounter
nor anything else we did over the following
year. I could, however, describe my
well-developed fantasy in all its lurid
details.”
“I wouldn’t want to feel like some voyeur.”
“That would be your choice. It is, of
course, an X-rated fantasy, a fantasy
originating from many encounters with pretty
waitresses on my many roadtrips. Building
and re-building that fantasy became a good
way to pass the time while driving.
She looked at me expectantly, sliding even
closer to me.
“I imagined her of average height, somewhat
wavy hair and unblemished complexion
enhanced with a bare minimum of makeup. The
cheap polyester uniform dress doesn’t hide
her C-cup breasts.”
“My boobs aren’t that big.”
“I’ve dated A, B, C, up to double-D girls.”
“Double-D boobs?”
“Yes, she was top-heavy. She definitely
defied gravity and also defied social
conventions. She was outrageously funny with
an off-the-charts verbal IQ. Her bras were
built like tanks. One of her favorite
sayings was, “That schmuck couldn’t rape the
muffler of a Gremlin.””
“That’s very funny.”
“May I resume my fantasy?”
“Okay.”
“The waitress is delightful. My chicken
fried steak is the biggest schnitzel I have
seen on either side of the Atlantic. She
brought me iced tea refills regularly. The
huge slice of apple pie was ambrosial. I ask
her when her shift ends when she brings my
change. She tells me it ended at midnight.
It is now 1:00 AM. I thank her for staying
and tell her that I hope she doesn’t have
too far to go home. She lives on the other
side of the truck stop fence.
I walk her home. She invites me in. We share
a beer. Our conversation is interrupted when
I place the beer can on her kitchen counter.
We move closer. I hold her in a long
embrace. We start to kiss. We play out the
lyrics of the country/western song on her
radio. We are wordless for a while, just
looking into each other’s eyes. She doesn’t
blink when I slide down the zipper on her
dress. She leads me into her bedroom. We
peel back the comforter. We undress each
other slowly.
We fondle as though we’ve known each other a
long time. She knows where to touch me and I
know where to touch her. She is so
responsive. Her vocalizations become primal
and wild. She spreads her legs as my hand
lands on her mound. Her muscles tighten and
relax as I move a finger up and down her
slit. I soon have two more fingers traveling
up and down between her outer labia and
inner labia. Her scent overpowers me. I ask
if I may push in a finger. She assents. My
index finger soon finds the bundle of nerves
called the G-spot. My thumb orbits the
nubbin of her clitoris. Her breathing
quickens. She arches her back, raising her
hips off the bed. Her vagina contracts and
then pulses as waves of pleasure engulf her.
She is loud and out of control. Her spasms
subside while her juices keep flowing,
drenching my hand. She becomes still, her
eyes closed and her slowed breathing
encourages me to rub her nubbin slowly and
oh so gently. Her eyes flutter open, she
stretches, smiled one of the most beautiful
smiles I‘ve ever seen, then turned to me:
“Mister, you can do that to me any time you
want to.”
“I am so wet.”
“Of course you are. You are neck-deep in a
hot tub.”
“You know what I meant.”
“May I not tease you?
“Mister, you may tease me any time you want
to.”
She wraps her fingers around my dick.
”It’s obvious you liked her.”
“She was beautiful, wholesome and fearless.
I often ask the universe to watch over her
and protect her “
We kiss.
Our tongues play well together.
We touch, first tentatively then
passionately.
Our bodies play well together.
“Why don’t you sit on my lap?”
She smiles like a shark, swings her left leg
over my legs, holds my erection with her
left hand and guides it into her as she
settles down on my lap.
In her sweet, innocent, little-girl voice:
“Is this what you wanted?”
“This is beyond my wildest wet dreams.”
She laughs. Her vagina contracts in time
with her laughter.
“It feels like you are milking me.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
‘Yes and no. If we continue, we’ll create a
broth of bodily fluids the other three
couples will have to share with us. Yet I’m
more than willing to trust the filtration
mechanism and brominated water to take care
of our discharges. Don’t stop.”
Her laughter increases. Audrey walks over to
ask what is so funny.
“His trust in technology is deeply funny.”
“You two are weird enough that I decided to
pair you up.”
“Thanks Audrey, we’ve already made a
physical connection.”
We laugh even more.
Audrey didn’t get it.
We kept going.
The inevitable happened.
The filtration system took care of our
bodily fluids.
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The End
Harry Merkin (a nom de
guerre) is a
dick-brain who is more
articulate than an arthropod
and has many ways with
words. He tries desperately
not to write like Edward
Bulwer-Lytton, but often
fails.
NOTES
A. This short story is a
fabrication.
B.
Harry never met Mr. Epstein nor
visited his Upper East side
townhouse nor Zorro Ranch in New
Mexico nor
his island.
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