|
All
stories are Copyrighted by their authors and PF Publications, and may not be
used, reproduced, published or transmitted in any form without prior permission.
|
Return to Pink Flamingo Paperbacks Home Page
Free Excerpt... Dear Diary: I’m so horny I
could fuck a horse! Diane paused to read the entry
she had just printed into her diary, a wicked little smile bending her lips.
Suddenly inspired, she added: Make that two horses, please, WITH BIG
DICKS! It was a warm day in early
August. Diane lay on her stomach in her bed, dressed only in a
t-shirt and a pair of baggy gym shorts. A
cool breeze wafted in through an open window, smelling of honeysuckle and damp
earth—the fragrances of the country. Now
Diane dropped her pen to the bed, and with her eyes closed, slid both hands
beneath her hips. Her fingers
immediately found her horny spot, and she pushed down hard with her hips, once,
twice, three times. She was going to masturbate.
Diane knew it at once, and had known it ten minutes earlier when she
turned the lock on her bedroom door. All
day long she had been on “red alert,” as her friend Lisa liked to say, her
thighs and pussy alive with hunger. And
now...now she was going to make things worse.
She could use her fingers, or she could use the special antiperspirant
bottle she kept in her drawer. Two
hours later she would only be hornier than ever.
What she wanted, needed, for once in her life was a man.
No, forget the man: all she needed was a hard cock, warm and pulsing,
with plenty of jism to pump into her ripe, virgin little pussy.
Let her ride on that for, oh, say a month, and she might even be sane
again. Diane had worked her fingers into
her shorts and was prodding gently at the little button of moist flesh in her
crotch, her hips working slowly around and around, up and down.
One finger poked at her pussy hole, pushed into it.
She shivered and pushed with her hips, and suddenly it was as if a wall
were coming down inside her. For
months she had been toying with a thought too dangerous to contemplate, not
really thinking it—just playing with it.
Now it came into her mind clear and unrestrained.
What she needed to do was get out of Pisga, away from all the cattle
farms and the Bible-toting boys with blocky haircuts and the TV commercials
urging you to try the new weed ‘n feed with the patented baloney additive.
She knew exactly where she wanted to go, too: Los Angeles, where her
horny, beautiful cousin Susan lived these days and could provide her with a room
and a bed for a while. For years, much of the family’s
table talk had been about Susan and the way she was “rather liberal with
herself,” as Diane’s father liked to say.
Diane had long ago decided that in plain words Susan was a slut, which
exactly suited her needs. Even if
Susan did have a high-powered job now and had given up some of her wild ways,
she would understand it if her younger cousin seemed to have a different guy in
her bedroom every night. She could
do her own thing, and there would be no harsh words between them. Realizing she was now too horny
only to use her fingers, in a single quick motion she flipped over on her back
and stripped off her shorts and panties, then kicked them toward the door.
By the time they fell to the carpet she had her drawer open and was
clutching at the special antiperspirant bottle with the rounded cap. The bottle was large, and
sometimes it hurt going into her, at least at first.
She doubted if that was going to be a problem this time, though.
Thinking about moving out to LA and getting her pussy full of cock on a
nightly basis had made her even more wet than normal. With a quirky little smile that
would later guarantee her all the sex she ever needed from adoring males, Diane
lay back on the bed and very deliberately positioned the bottle at the mouth of
her pussy, pushed once, gently, then slammed it up inside her. Across Diane’s room from her
was her dresser mirror; she looked into it and saw an eighteen-year-old girl
with long blonde hair, her feet spread wide apart and her hips lifted off the
bed, the butt end of a glass antiperspirant bottle sticking out of her pussy. Smiling at herself in the
mirror—she always liked the way she looked at these times—she worked the
bottle in and out, in and out, going faster and faster, her eyes never leaving
the mirror. As she pushed the bottle into her, her ass pumped up and
down, keeping rhythm. From far off
she heard the doorbell ring. Diane
listened to it with a slight feeling of regret.
Lisa had said she’d be over in a couple of minutes, which was now. She had to stop, only she noticed
she didn’t. Only the night before she and
Lisa had stayed up talking about this and that, but mainly about boys and sex,
sex, sex. The more they had talked,
the more excited they had gotten, and toward the end of the evening they had
been sitting on her bed wearing t-shirts and panties, and the room had smelled
of wet pussies. “I swear, Diane, your pussy
smells ripe enough to eat,” Lisa had said, and laughed. Diane remembered she had said,
“Yeah, but you know there aren’t any boys in Pisga that eat pussy.
This is the deadest place in the whole world.” To which Lisa had replied,
“Well if you want somebody to eat your pussy, you should let me do it.
I’ll bet I’d be good at it.” After that they had talked about
eating pussy for quite a while, even discussing different things they could do
with their tongues, but for some reason talk had been as far as it had gotten.
Too scared, Diane thought. What
we needed was something to give us a shove. The doorbell rang again, more
insistently this time. Deep in her
hips an orgasm was building, a warm pleasant feeling that threatened to take
control of her thoughts, her feelings—her hands. Abruptly, without thought, Diane
slammed her ass onto the mattress and squeezed her pussy tight.
She worked the bottle in and out, slowly, the feelings much more intense
now because of the greater friction. One more.
One more. She was losing it, about to
orgasm. An orgasm would be fine, she thought...but talking to Lisa in
the mood she was in now, before she orgasmed, would be much, much nicer.
She would be horny out of her mind, and Lisa was always horny.
Who could tell what would happen. Her fingers worked the bottle,
again and again, taking her further and further into danger. She stopped.
With icy resolve, Diane plucked the antiperspirant bottle from her
gushing pussy, wiped it on her t-shirt with a grin.
The bottle went back in its drawer, she into her shorts—forget the
panties—and in less than a minute she was down the steps and at the front
door, horny and sweaty and breathing hard, her pussy still trembling on the
verge of an orgasm. “That certainly took long
enough.” Lisa stood in the doorway, her bare sun-tanned arms held across her chest in a comical impatient-Indian pose. Goodbye Susan Reviewed by
Kevin R. Tipple |
