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The Adventure of the Amorous Amazon 1
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Ursula Parkheart, P.I. :
The Flexing Detective
in
"The Adventure of the Amorous Amazon"
© WIG, LTD 1993
by
Forrest Curran
Chapter One: Sighing Like Susan Sarandon
Ursula had spent the morning in her office, behind the locked
door with the frosted glass window that read:
Ursula Parkheart,
Private Investigations
She hadn't made a sound since staggering into the small third-
floor office at nine-thirty, a full hour and a half after I had
let myself in and set the office up for the business of the day.
Coffee was made, mail was read, and I had opened the two windows
in her private office to air it out; the room got awfully stale
and dingy-smelling in the heat, like a cheap bookstore on a rainy
day. A rainy day like today.
It had been threatening to rain since early this morning, the
grey clouds hovering over the city, waiting to explode in their
own good time; and the sky had opened up and had begun a
torrential downpour minutes before Ursula had arrived; having
forgotten her umbrella, my bosslady had gotten soaked walking the
half-block from where she had parked. It was the sort of thing
that seemed to be happening to her these days. I knew her step
as it came down the hall and had a cup of coffee at the ready for
her when she came in, all damp hanging hair and downcast face;
her long trenchcoat was dripping but she didn't seem to care, and
she took the coffee and kept walking, slamming the inner door
behind her, the glass-pane insert shaking as she did. It re-
opened a crack for just a moment, long enough for her to say, in
a voice even huskier and, to me, sultrier than was usual for her,
"I'm not in, JT. If I get a call, take a message and tell 'em
I'll call back...."
These days there were few.
It had been that way ever since the breakup. She had been
engaged to some guy I had never even met, but had heard alot
about; all bad; but a guy she was crazy about, to be sure; even
now, she was still carrying a torch and was trying to drown it
out with Old Forrester. It was starting to take it's toll on her
appearance; she was skipping her daily workouts at Silver's
Amazonia, a gym for, well, women like her...
And that was a shame, too, because how many women as beautiful as
my dark-haired boss could also boast of standing six foot three
in her fishnet-stockinged feet, with a physique so muscular and
big and hot and buxom and zoftig that...?
Okay, so you get the picture. I had a thing for my big bosslady.
It was the oldest story in the world. A secretary falling for
the boss. But with a twist.
It was hard, back in the dark days of the closing years of the
twentieth century, before muscular women became the norm as they
are now; today, women have taken the bull by the horns; tired of
years of abuse, of being afraid for their safety as they walked
the streets at night and realizing their men could not always
protect them; tired, too, of being patronized as being "just a
gal"; they had all wised up; and biceps sprouted prodigously on
women throughout the world as the millenia approached. Females en
masse sprouted daring deltoids made thick and broad in the gym;
it was only a matter of time before the world of haute couteur
caught on, and musclefashion became prevalent; high, high heels
showed off calves and strong bare thighs everywhere one turned;
husbands did not like seeing their once-demure little wives strut
about in micro-miniskirts and punishing spike-heels, displaying a
whole new kind of attribute; the kind that flexed as well as
jiggled. They did not like knowing that their upper hand was now
largely gone; their wives could equal them in strength. There
was a return to the days of "yes, ma'am" and "no, ma'am", from
strangers; respect had become commonplace once again, and with
many women, was simply mandatory. And they did not like knowing,
either, that many of these wives and girlfriends had found their
freedom, sexual and otherwise; Women became strong and confident
and powerful, and had elected one of their own as president in
the last election. Her picture would one day look down from the
wall over my boss's desk.
But all this did little to help me in the early years of the
nineteen-ninties. I was in head over heels in love with the
abundantly muscular woman, whom I and I alone could call Sally;
the woman I worked for, who kept me trotting back and forth not
for kisses and pledges of love, but for files and phone calls.
To her, I was just good old JT, always faithful and at the ready.
"Coffee, JT" or "Fetch me some lunch from the Health Food Store,
JT"; I made sure she knew I was available, should she ever want
to turn her muscle-packed charms on her assistant; I tried more
than once, as I sat on her desk taking a memo, to break that
invisible barrier between employer and employee without risking
the steady paycheck that had enabled me to pay off my college
loans and get a small apartment not far from hers. I would
mention a weekend spent quietly, or a dateless New Year's Eve; I
was pretty sure she knew what I was trying to do, and she let me
do it. I think it amused her; and I'd get a pat on the head and
a playful smack on the rump as I ran to fetch a file; that was
all the feedback I ever got from the beautiful Ursula Parkheart.
Before this downturn in her private and professional life, we had
a great relationship, full of laughter in the occasional empty
moments that happen every so often in all businesses; and full of
efficent co-operation whenever she worked on a case. Not
infrequently, I would go with her on a job, serving as a sort of
operative; my average looks and slightly diminutive height helped
me avoid notice; something that was difficult for a muscular
amazon like my boss.
And so many a morning she would usher me into her inner office to
take care of some bit of office minutiae; she would smile as I
eyed her powerful limbs, thick and brown, veined and taunting,
bared by a revealing tank-top stretched to bursting by her big
breasts. Robust calves flexed and unflexed as she would cross
her long killer legs; and a smile would cross those exotic
features that combined equatorial sensuality and european
nobility so uniquely; she would smile quietly and shake her head
as even now, after being with her all this time, I would sigh at
a particularly huge flex of angry and engorged bare bicep; the
equally massive triceps would meet it's challenge and bulge
correspondingly. I would watch the show, as the molten
muscularity held me spellbound. An erect nipple making itself
visible on the perfect breast, through sheer cloth, was for me a
cause for celebration; a slice of panty creeping out from under a
short skirt was an epiphany.
She would tease me about it; when I had first gone to work for
her those massive flexings would befuddle me so profoundly I
could not walk a straight line in her office; and I had, stunned
at her sights, dropped countless cups of coffee in my first two
weeks with her until she had had to go buy a whole new set of
mugs, and I had received a polite but stern admonition that any
more chipped crockery would come out of my salary.
I wasn't aware of it, but when those thick arms would make their
muscles dance and pulse, she was doing it on half on purpose,
enjoying the effect it had on her new assistant; and she chuckled
quietly when I walked into her office one morning to see her
facing the window that overlooked that treeless drab street; she
was humming aloud and pulling a haltertop over her broad and
powerful torso, and a back, thick and broad and chiseled with
muscle from waist to neck, exposed itself to me for just a
second, until the curtain of cloth came down and called an end to
her operatic muscleshow.
"Oh, my...", I had whispered, another coffee cup teetering. I was
unaware I was speaking at all.
Ursula had loved that; an unguarded moment of pure adoration,
lust and excitement inspired by her huge body in the heart of her
new employee. She had teased me later, on a Friday evening when
she had taken me out for a drink---a reward to an employee for a
hard week's work---that it reminded her of the jelly-kneed and
breathy "Oh, my!" sigh Susan Sarandon had issued in the film
"Bull Durham". Whenever my longings for my MuscleBossLady got to
intense, when I seemed to be hovering needlessly yet hopefully
around her desk like a fly near sugar, she would flex the latest
developments and mimic that cinematic shivering.
And chastened, I would go back to my typewriter.
I was hers, body and mind, heart and soul.
And she found that endearing; but only in the way an adult might
find the crush of a teenybopper; something to be tolerated,
nothing more.
She was out of my league. Or so I supposed.
But she felt she was my friend notwithstanding my schoolboy
crush, and as she so often would say at the end of a hectic day,
"You keep things so neat and organized for me, JT. Where would I
be without you?..."
That is, before that hot, hunkin' package of stacked female
animal would saunter out for the evening, dressed in the shortest
of off-the-shoulder miniskirts revealing a huge and rock-hard
upper body, and leaving a trail of wicked perfume behind her that
left me breathless and shaking as I took care of the last-minute
office affairs of the day. Running to the window, I would see
the tall, broad-shouldered lady detective strut down the street
to the stunned looks of passers-by.
And I knew I was in love with my muscular bosslady. Hopelessly.
I loved the cool way she sauntered, rather than walked---her hips
rolling like a panther-woman, predatory and dangerous; but too
beautiful to turn away from; risking whatever fate might befall
those who stare for too long. In those days, lots of women who
were gifted with superior genetics, who were tall and strong and
muscular, were made to feel like outcasts in a world of much
smaller women and hostile men; and would stoop low as though to
deny their stature; and conceal ripe hot muscles in long sleeves,
loose pants, and high-necked blouses.
But not Ursula.
She was proud of what she had; every inch of height a thing to
enjoy; every thick bit of hard-won muscle showing in matter-of-
fact, take-me-or-leave-me grandeur.
And she would glide through life just this way; unafraid of her
body's sexual power, and unconcerned with what the consequences
might be; even for her assistant, who stood hovering with bated
breath.
She could take care of herself.
And take care of herself she did. She would be calm and in-
control as she dispatched her own brand of justice; would have no
problems bending the law if she felt it was in the cause of a
greater good; and displayed the patience of a virgin saint as she
staked out a miscreant; she would hold her pistol rock-steady in
a muscle-thick arm; the barrel gleamed in the dim light, as she
brought a felon to meet his fate under the law of the land.
She was all woman. A new kind of woman, definitely. Commanding
the ship of her own destiny, riding life like a horny pumped-up
cowgirl showing up the boys as she tamed a wild bucking bronco; a
heroine for her own time. She would one day be a legend, I was
sure.
And, as I said, I loved her like a Goddess.
But then two things happened.
First, her engagement broke off, and she was launched into a
bitter and teary depression. Then secondly, crime took a turn
for the better. Or in our case, for the worse. The fewer
crimes, the less work for Ursula Parkheart Investigations.
Business had been slow, and combined with the heartbreak she
seemed to be enduring, she had begun eschewing not just the gym
but the health food store as well; boredom, maybe even despair
had set in, and she had sent me out more than once to get her a
lunch of Big Macs and fries. Her protein shakes were nowhere to
be seen, replaced by the kind with a straw and a clown's face on
the top. In the last week, I had watched as her short skirts had
gotten even tighter than they were designed to be; her stomach,
while still flat, had begun to lose the chiseled muscularity on
her abs, beginning to fade from view under the thin layer of flab
that booze and fatburgers can create almost instantly on even the
finest physiques. It wasn't like I hadn't tried to be helpful
either; I had tried to give her some encouragement wordlessly,
and had gotten my hands on a photo only several years old, of
Ursula as she stood on stage at the Ms. Amazonia contest; her
huge, muscular body ripe and shining and brown in a white string
bikini whose top was as always stretched to bursting by her
magnificent breasts, her long black hair radiant and lustrous and
loosely flowing down her back as she received the award for
Heavyweight and Overall Winner. I had it enlarged and put in her
office, on the wall.
She had ignored it.
The next day, when I got in to set up the office, it was gone.
Boy, it was hot in here. And humid, too. Even my desk had the
clammy, damp feel that comes from mugginess like this. It had
settled on the city firmly, and wasn't letting go. Having a good
deal of Latin blood gave Ursula a natural tolerance for heat, she
explained to me; something she had accrued while she grew up in
her native Cuba; the child of a Cuban woman and a visiting
Englishman. What were comfortable temperatures for her was
broiling hot; oven-like for me; she would be elegant and dry even
as I slid in a puddle of my own sweat...
But she had refused my request for an air-conditioner all the
same. Easy for her. She frequently traipsed around in next-to-
nothing, to the delight and satisfaction of my active fantasy
life; if only she knew what she and I were doing together, at
night, in my dreams...
I clawed at the back of my shirt, as it stuck to my skin in a wet
pool of sweat and starched white cloth.
The morning had passed quietly; there were no calls. Only an
order, from behind the frosted glass, around 11:30, to get her
some ice. I knew what that meant; and no sooner had I brought it
into her, where she sat in her high-backed leather chair with
those killer legs bared save for fishnet stockings and crossed
under the short skirt as she stared out into the rain-whipped
street, than she had grabbed it from me with thick muscular arms,
and sent me out.
But before leaving, I noticed her trenchcoat hanging, soaked and
limp, on her rack; it had created another small puddle on the
floor beneath it; Ursula didn't seem to care. Shaking my head, I
grabbed the coat and brought it into the bathroom, to shake it
out; water had mixed with the dust on the old wood floor, and
created a foul-smelling pool I had had to mop up.
All the while, Ursula sat in her high-backed leather chair with
her back to the door, staring out the window, a large tumbler of
bourbon clinking in her hand.
And, not knowing what to say to her, what comfort I could offer
that she would accept, I went back to my desk.
To pretend there was some work to do, I thought to myself as I
sat down at my old, scratched oak desk. The office, looking
pretty much unchanged, I imagined, from it's heyday thirty years
ago, had begun to seem particularly dingy; cobwebs of dust had
begun to form around the corners of the high ceiling; the place
needed paint. The faded parquet wood floor needed sanding and
varnish. But I wasn't that ambitious. I slid into the desk, to
try my hand at the crossword puzzle, and it was then that I found
a challenge; something to sink my teeth into...
My rolling chair squeaked, and I decided that that would be as
good a way as any to earn my pay for the day. I grabbed my
umbrella and went out to buy some oil.
I rode the old slow freight elevator to the first floor lobby,
and I wondered how I could put out a torch of my own; one whose
existence was known only by it's diminutive holder. Me.
I went out into the wet grey day.
I had to pass the gym on the way back to the office, and slowed
down as I went by. Maybe one of Ursula's training partners could
bring her out of this, challenge her...I stopped and my eyes
searched the gym through it's rain-streaked front window as I
stood on the sidewalk, and a very developed tank-topped blonde,
thick deltoids bursting as she pressed a heavily weighted barbell
over her head, paused in her exertions and blew me a kiss. I
watched her body answer the challenge made by the metal; as her
reps accumulated, so did the size of those muscles; engorged and
exploding, the small top growing tighter, tighter, as her upper
body continued to swell; and after she finally put the barbell
back in it's place I saw two drops of perspiration run down
either huge delt, making long slow journeys from the chiseled
peaks as they followed the muscular contours of her arms, flowing
down the deep gorge where delt and triceps met, then following
it's course, down the forearms.
I smiled at her from under my umbrella, appreciative for the
display, and kept walking.
Timing is everything in life. Be in the right place at the right
time and you can save yourself a lot of footwork. And I was.
I waited at the red light, standing on one leg to avoid stepping
in the steadily-growing puddle near the curb; the rain still
showed no sign of slowing, and I was studying the building that
held Ursula's office; it was aging, and beginning to show it;
having been built just after the war. It must have been fairly
sharp back then, but smog and neglect had taken it's toll, and it
looked run down even in this less-than-glamorous section of town.
The parallel to the gorgeous hunk of woman inside it was a bit
uncomfortable for me to ponder too long, and I shook the thought
off; she'd come out of it sooner or later, I knew.
Besides, I was always getting little lost in philosophical
reflection, especially on rainy days...
"...Hey, slim", the voice said again. I turned and looked over
my shoulder, and stepped into the puddle I had successfully
avoided up to now.
Officer Dell'Avitta stood in her raincoat and shook her head in
amusement as I lifted the now-soaked foot from the deceptively-
deep pool of warm rainwater.
"Slick as always, slim", Maria said, as she wiped an accumulation
of water from the brim of her hat. I hopped up the curb, where
she had been standing all the while, watching.
She was tall and blonde and pretty in a regular-girl sort of way;
nothing like the killer looks my boss had, whose high-cheekbones
made her look like deposed royalty in a trenchoat. Maria had a
round and softly pretty face and a few extra pounds and a big
bust she like to point at me.
"Careful, Maria, those things might go off", I said, pointing at
the huge breasts prominent even through the raincoat. Maria
laughed. We had a good give-and-take going, due mostly to the
fact that she was married and unable to do anything about the
friendly sexual tension that had sprouted up between us. It was
something neither one of us had worked at; just a certain frisky
familiarity that had grown from the everyday comings and goings
that make up life.
But more than once in our business dealings I was sure she had
hiked her skirt up before coming into the office to see my boss;
she knew I was a sucker for, among other things, a great pair of
legs. And she had them. She looked at me from under the still-
dripping visor of her standard-issue hat and let her eyes roam up
and down for just a second, as though imagining what could be, if
only...
I let her.
"Kinda hot for that coat, isn't it, Maria?", I said, nodding at
the large and roomy yellow slicker.
"Maybe so, slim. That's why I'm not wearing anything underneath
it but my birthday suit", she said, eyes dancing with the sheer
enjoyment of flirting...
"So how's things in the P.I. business, slim? Your big boss on any
hot leads I oughta know about?"
I told her the score with Ursula, professionally; I had been
ordered to strictest confidence and complete silence about the
break-up. She listened sympathetically.
"Rough business she's in, slim. I heard rumors she was hitting
the liquor store pretty heavy. When a woman like her starts
prowling around, word gets around the neighborhood. If I get any
word-of-mouth, I'll call, okay? You take care of her. She's a
lot of woman and she needs some looking after..."
I nodded.
"But what about you? How are you keeping yourself these days?",
she asked now, as she shook the puddle from the top of her hat
again and revealed her pinned-up neat blonde coiffeur. "No woman
has captured your heart yet? Or are you just waiting for me to
dump my old man and sweep you off your size tens, huh?", she
said, leaning into me and putting a hand around the small of my
back playfully.
I shrugged. "I always figured you were too much woman for me,
Maria", I said, jokingly.
She put both hands on her hips and pivoted like a showgirl.
"That goes without saying, slim."
I nodded, and we were off to our lives again, in separate
directions; but not before she blew me a tiny kiss with painted
lips, and a wicked little wink.
It was the second kiss I had gotten in the last ten minutes,
albeit through the air. But I had nothing to show for it.
Just like with Ursula, I sighed.
That would soon change.
When I got back to the office a shock was waiting for me...
Even down the hall, I heard the sounds of crashing coming from
the office, and I assumed that my big boss had taken a drunken
fall; I almost didn't want to go inside and see her in that
state...But an assistant had to do that sort of thing, didn't he?
I walked in and almost fainted.
Ursula, my boss, the beautiful, muscle-packed woman for whom I
had pined and daydreamed about, who I had spent lonely Saturday
nights desiring as a far-away and unattainable treasure, was
sprawled magnificently on my desk in nothing but a pair of
fishnets and black spike-heels. Naked.
And absolutely glorious.
And she had been drinking.
Heavily.
She had cleared off everything on the surface of the scratched
brown desktop, every piece of paper, every scrap of
correspondence and junk mail; even the phone; it lay on the floor
at my feet, the receiver laying off the hook; deaf and mute. The
floor had become a disaster area, and with the pure reflex that
comes with being an assistant I reached down and put the phone
back in it's cradle. I would regret my diligence later.
Ursula's eyes were half-closed with drink; she extended her thick
commanding arm and bade me step closer with a finger. I dropped
the package on the floor, and remembered to close and lock the
front door before I approached.
A good assistant would have helped her. He would have gotten her
cleaned up, and put some hot black coffee into her. He would
have helped her into the shower...
Which would have driven me just as crazy; water pouring off that
powerful body...
Even now, even here, in this state, I wanted her. Her body was
an architectural work of art; overwhelming even the big oak desk
with her size; she had turned my workplace into a place upon
which she would now take her pleasure; big, shapely; ample
breasts, nipples prominent and erect; arms, shoulders, legs all
sheathed in pounds and layers of female muscle, carved and
striated and showing only the slightest signs of neglect. The
still-hard plain of her stomach beckoned me to worship and taste
the hard terrain.
Miles of naked female muscleflesh was there for me to enjoy---
lush and curved and vigorous; full of audacious delight. I felt
a small electric shock course through me as she parted her legs
just a bit more; and thick pink vaginal lips became exposed, the
clitoris swollen, ready to be pleased by the partner she had
chosen.
Her hair was flattened down on her head, it's owner not bothering
to groom herself after getting caught in the downpour earlier.
Her makeup had run, and she hadn't bothered to fix that either;
small raccon-like rings encircled her eyes...She moved sensually,
with a strange sort of slow animal grace, and sat up on the edge
of the desk; a siren of desire, a predatory seducer of small guys
who loved a babe with big bad biceps...
I stepped, literally, into her arms, knowing I was doing wrong; I
was like a medieval apprentice paid visit in the dead of night by
a succubus who promised dark and dangerous rewards if only he
would serve...
I was prepared to do anything she wanted.
Even after I got a whiff of ninety proof respiration.
Her powerful arms, muscles prominent in awesome display, huge
biceps almost throbbing in my eyes, slowly went round my waist.
Her eyes were nearly obscured by the long hair as it hung
shapelessly down over her face, and the regal features that had
enabled her to sneak into many a high-rent affair while on a case
with only a nod as though she owned the place now seemed almost
vulgar; facial muscles had given up control to the Old Forrester.
When someone as strong, as utterly commanding as my bosslady
wants to get a kiss, she usually gets her way; especially when
the kissee can't really offer any resistance, and wouldn't if he
could.
Her arms held me close, their thick power capturing me. My mouth
fell on hers, pulled in with a magnetic force, as though it would
destined by physical law to rest upon hers, and let her hot moist
tongue invade my mouth at last; now, after working for her for
over a year and a half in lustful silence and reverent awe. I
tasted the whiskey she had been guzzling, but I didn't care. My
hands went to her broad shoulders, thick with layers of muscle,
and rubbed them as they had wished to for so long, delighting in
the size, the brazen appearance, the deep cuts and sculpted
relief...
Her hands began to unbutton my shirt, tossing my tie away to some
dusty corner. My conscience beckoned; I knew I shouldn't; not
with her in this state. It wasn't really fair to her, was it?
But I let her anyway. My need for her overcame even my sense of
right and wrong...
When the shirt did not give way to her immediately, she solved
the problem in a more direct way.
"Wanna see some skin", she slurred...
She tore it off me, the cloth giving way in her powrful arms, the
tattered shreds falling to my waist, held in place by the long
shirttail tucked into my trousers. I was barechested, and for a
moment, just a bit self-conscious in the prescence of this
statuesque magnificent drunk who was now kissing me so hard I
thought my mouth would bruise. Her hands went around my slim
arms, and she pulled me back with her, as she lay back on the
desk. My feet lifted off the floor with a jump, and I could
detect the musky scent of her damp vagina; my hand went to the
breasts, holding them for just long enough for me to kiss them
both, my tongue massaging the big nipples before going on to
explore the rest of her masterful thick body. Her hair had
tumbled back over the edge of the desk and she gave me a
smoldering look, as though I were someone else other than the
faithful assistant who had up to now received only playful kisses
on my forehead from this amazon...
She began undoing my belt, unzipping my fly, pulling off the
trousers...She yanked them off my body, and they fell into a heap
around my knees as I knelt over her.
Her fingers reached around my rear, the long fingernails lifting
up the cloth-covered elastic and sliding in, under the tight
band. I was in the middle of burying my face in her neck, where
I was kissing the soft flesh, tasting her hair as I did so. The
sharp fingernails scrathced my buttocks lightly; a moan went up
from my throat.
And she tore my briefs into pieces.
"Good and naked", she grunted in a voice I did not know. The
shredded cloth fell limply onto my desk; and I was naked, just
like the great pulsing slab of female omnipotence who was
reaching for my penis with both long-nailed hands.
Her preponderant breasts pointed up to me accusingly; thick
nipples aimed at my heart...I did not notice it at the time, but
there were no tan lines on this body. None. When she and her
fiance had gone to the beach, they must have...
"Walk around here looking cute", she said, as though I had been
doing something wrong all the while I had worked for her.
"Now you're gonna get it. Ursula's gonna make you fuck for her,
boy..." she said heavily through half-closed eyes, as if it were
a threat...
Dreams do come true, I realized, as she ran drunken hands up and
down the length of my shaft. My eyes went to hers, but rather
than the deep royal orbs looking back at me in the way that had
helped me fall for her in the first place, I saw two blue balls
unfocused and vague, not seeing me at all. She had no idea who
she was talking to.
Her powerful hand went to my behind, and she pulled me to her,
guiding my penis to her waiting wet vagina with the other. The
head was swollen and throbbed with my rapid heartbeat; pre-
ejaculate oozed. I felt the heat of her loins as my penis
hovered for just a second; my hands were unconsciouly running up
and down the magnificent gladiatrix arms, enjoying, no, loving,
the rise and fall as they ran across their contours.
The head of my penis lay across the wet lips of her vagina, the
lubrication flowing from both our organs now, preparing their
owners for imtimacy and delight...
I knew that Ursula had not changed her attitude towards me. I
knew that this was a desire that comes from a bottle; that rather
than want to share the love I felt for her, Ursula only wanted to
commit a sexual act---get laid; and let my semen try to do what
the Old Forrester had not; extinguish the flame in her heart she
could not douse herself.
And then the phone rang.
And I let it....
The head of my penis found itself surrounded by the warm wet
walls of her pussy as it began it's descent into her depths.
Her thick powerful arms moved down my body, the hands running to
my bottom, where they each took hold of a small white buttock,
and proceeded to pull me deeply inside her; my penis began to
disappear within my bosslady's velvet pussy.
I let out a cry that comes from the relief of an old, burning
urge, satisfying my heart and soul as well as my loins. She
dictated a slow rhythm with her strong arms, pushing me into her
and pulling me just as slowly out, only to repeat the whole
ecstatic process.
"Sally", I said in adoration, as a whisper, using the nickname I
alone had permission to use.
The answering machine picked up the call now, and Ursula was not
listening to it...Neither was I at first...
"...it's really important, Ms. Parkheart. I'm downstairs in the
lobby. I have cash and I'm ready to pay. My daddy is Mr. Hugh
Sternwood, the billionaire industrialist, and..."
There were many sacrifices you have to make in life. Some you
don't mind making; like the sort you'd make for the welfare of
your child. Some you do mind making; like giving up tickets to
the AFC championship game to take your girlfriend to an art
exhibit. Then there are the real killers.
Like this one. Ursula needed the work badly, and I had to get
her attention...
"Sally?",I said, trying to control my voice as it even now shook
with pleasure, my big built bosslady's vagina massaging and
squeezing my penis like a second mouth; my body not ready to give
up the delights it was at long last knowing even as my mind knew
it must...My hands eager to keep running their course along the
muscular terrain of her elemental body...
Even as they, too, knew they must...
I sighed again, just like Susan Sarandon; a rush of air escaping
as though released from someplace deep and secret within me,
freed from captivity by the body of Ursula Parkheart.
"Sally, it's a job..."
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