Heather Brown: Juicy piece

Once again I had a wildly exhilarating orgasm, and for the first time the teen came simultaneously with me. His cock went off in my mouth with the force of a geyser, the torrent of his hot cum striking the roof of my mouth so intensely that I was forced to swallow in slurping gags as he continued to fill and re-fill my mouth repeatedly. While I choked from the massive gobs of sperm that filled my throat, my pussy-walls constricted mightily around his tongue as I writhed in total, unrestrained coming. I felt my senses reel and my body swoop and soar from the thrusting forces pounding at each hole, reality ebbing rapidly from my consciousness as I asked myself one last question before I collapsed: "Where is he getting it all?" I moaned thickly, wrapping my tongue around his still surging dick to form the prick-and-sperm-muffled words before the blackness overtook me.

When I regained consciousness, he was gone. There was no telling how long I had been lying there. He had taken the trouble to drag me behind some garbage pails so nobody would discover me and try to take advantage of me in my fuck-induced sleep. That teen was a gentleman to the end. His parents should be proud of him.

The weekend flew by after my intoxicating encounter with the nameless teen in the alley. Fucking that clean, innocent teen had made me clean and innocent inside. I felt the grime that had accumulated on my soul from being Madame Fellatio five days a week starting to fade, replaced by the sparkling memory of the teen's graceful, shining prick inside my cunt and mouth, and the remembrance of his endlessly spurting sperm that bathed my insides with its stickiness. His cum had been like a detergent that had scrubbed me clean, making me temporarily feel that life wasn't such a bad deal after all. And if I could be as happy as this just from sucking and fucking a teenager, then there was hope for the miserable souls who wrote in to Madame Fellatio.

But my new-found euphoria evaporated the instant I walked into my dingy office. Shark was too cheap to hire a regular janitorial service, and trash dating all the way back to the middle of last week was littered and crumpled around my office, a half a cup of coffee having started to turn a poisonous shade of green on top of my desk. Roaches feasted on the crumbs from my last Friday's lunch, totally unconcerned when I came into the room as they continued their munching.

I sat down, and instead of brushing a path of cleanliness across the top of my desk, I flopped back in my chair, already exhausted at nine in the morning, and watched the roaches feast. I was just getting to the point where I could recognize one roach from another when I was suddenly startled upright in my chair. When I glanced over to the roaches on my blotter, I saw that for the first time they were frightened and were scurrying away.

"Well, well," Shark smirked, "if it isn't the Dear Abby of the crotch-set, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and rarin' to go. Got the sunshine machine ready, poopsie?"

I felt like joining the roaches, but instead I managed a weak and hypocritical smile and mumbled, "Yeah, sure… I left it out in the hall."

"Ho, ho," he laughed, which I knew was a put-on, because when something really amused Shark he went "Heh, heh."

"Listen, Shark," I said, suddenly feeling testy, "the only time you play the part of jolly good fellow is when you have some ulterior motive in the back of your mind… some new thing you want to get away with."

"Madame F," he said with a phony wail, putting his arms out and his palms upward in a stagey gesture of innocence. "Would I do something like that, boobie?"

"You would and have," I snapped.

"Well, now that you mention it," he said quickly, the, hail-fellow-well-met facade dropping like a trapdoor, the lines of his face suddenly slanting down instead of up, the thin slit of his mouth closing like a steel trap, "there is something I want to talk to you about… Ah, let me amend that, something I want to tell you."

"Yes," I sighed, weary before he actually told me what it was, feeling certain in advance that it would be some atrocity and I would have to put my brains and guts in a turmoil while I decided which was more important to me – my integrity or my paycheck. So far I'd been weak enough to always pick the latter. But the new insight I'd felt about Christ on Friday, which came back to me now fully as I sat in the chair and office where it was conceived, suddenly gave me the courage to hope that this time I could survive Shark with my integrity intact.

"Frankly, little lady," he said with the oily glibness he always adopted whenever he was certain he had the upper hand, "the freaks are getting tired of the stuff in your column."

"How can that be?" I replied, struggling to hold my own, praying for Christ to back me up. "They're the ones who write the damn letters. If they don't like reading them, they should stop sending them."

"And we'd be in the used-corduroy business," Shark snapped. "The freaks are what makes us go…"

"You, Shark, you," I interrupted. "I think I'm stalled."

"Listen," he hissed, "the letters stay as they are. It's the answers that have to change."

"How do you mean?" I asked defensively. "Well, you have to make them different. The fact is we're dealing with space-age letters and we're using Jewish-mother answers," he rambled. "We're still giving him that old crap about anything two consenting adults do. That's for liberals during the '50's, not his generation of weirdos. These people are strange. They don't want to be patted on the head and brushed off with an Ann Landers one-liner when they write you about the guilt they feel from fucking the family cocker spaniel in the ass."

"Well, what do they want?" I asked impatiently, knowing that as far as I was concerned I had the answer, Christ, although I despaired over the lack of hope of getting across the message of Him to a heathen like Shark.

"I dunno," he said in a rare moment of naturalness and fallibility, although for all I know it was just a clever ruse designed to nudge me toward going along with whatever he had up his sleeve.

"Sure, Shark," I challenged him.

"No, I kid you not," he said.

"Then how can we change if you don't know the answer?" I asked.

"I didn't say I was completely baffled," he said. "It's not that I don't know all of the answer, because part of it is obvious. We have to come up with a new, more startling response to these letters… something that will really grab the reader in counterpoint with what the freaks write."

Suddenly I saw an opportunity being presented to me on a silver platter that I wouldn't have thought possible a few moments before. "Don't worry, Shark," I said, practically saluting him in my sudden enthusiasm. "I can handle it for you. I've got something great in mind."

"No kidding?" he said, obviously surprised. "What is it?"

"No, I won't tell you."

"Why not, afraid I won't like it?" he leered.

"Maybe," I admitted in the understatement of the year. "You said yourself you don't know what'll work, it just needs to be different. So you admit you're no expert on specifics, so what you think isn't important. If you let me just go ahead on my own, I'll be able to develop my idea without feeling you're looking over my shoulder."

"Okay," he said, kicking the leg of the desk like a child reluctantly conceding a point, "I guess you can do it. But I'm warning you, boobie, don't fuck up."

"Total control?" I asked expectantly.

"You better believe it… and total responsibility," he said, pronouncing the last word like it was a death sentence. "I'm going on a vacation for a week or so. Before I leave, I'll tell the printer to pull off the column we already have scheduled, and if you get a new column into him by Thursday morning, he'll be able to substitute it in the next issue."