A glorious #giveaway: Of Angels, Mice And Men

I found a pile of Playboys under my dad's bed. This wasn't yesterday, by the way; it was way back. After fully - and I mean fully in its every sense - exploring my bi-sexuality (which has faded somewhat with the years) with the aid of the undeniably beautiful graphic photographic images, I began to read. The letters page (What everyday people get up to! What sexually-charged events they stumble into!). Fiona Richmond (What a fucking dirty slag she was and how I fucking envied her). The problem page (The problems people have! My dick is too big. My pussy is too tight. There was even a guy who could fuck his own ass and wondered if he could give himself AIDS, for fuck's sake!) And the stories. The brilliantly penned pithy tales by the world's top erotic writers. Fuck, they were clever! Fuck, they were hot! Fuck, how they made me cum, and harder than all the porny pics put together! Fuck, how they haunted me. Some still do to this day. I was only young, inexperienced too, but those writers inspired me to write torrid tales of my own. With pen. On paper. Remember that? On completion, I hid the well-fingered pages amid a pile of girly mags of an entirely different genre: they don't make magazines for girly teens quite like they did back then. The problem page. The letters page. The story page. The centre-spread boy band photos. Those were the days...

Before I left for uni, I sorted through all my old stuff and sent the said mags (plus my secreted first naughty shorties) to a local charity shop. Only later did the penny drop. I called in to buy them back, but alas, they had gone to some collector, who had snapped up the whole pile for a couple of quid. Were they in for a surprise! All my wildest fantasies laid bare. And me, myself and I laid bare in a sordid collection of Polaroid selfies, most of which were (hopefully, probably) too blurry to identify as the brace-wearing geeky virgin from number fifty-seven.

All that is in the past and has not (yet) come back to haunt me. Perhaps if I ever get famous enough, someone will take out the (hopefully) cum spattered pics and similarly soiled A4 pages and say, 'Hang on a minute! Isn't this that bird on the telly? You know? That porn writer woman? That slag that's even dirtier than Fiona Richmond?' If I'm totally honest, the thought still hangs over me, though these days it's less a Sword of Damocles and more a Spoon of Damocles, and a teaspoon at that. I have, over the years, stopped giving no more than the slightest fuck.

'Of angels, mice and men' contains tales inspired by those Playboy writers. They wrote stories, proper stories, with a message beyond the masturbation, a purpose beyond the porn. I have tried to do that here. Sometimes the sex is tame, somewhat vanilla, when compared to my more graphic tales, but it is in keeping with the setting and characters and so, to my mind at least, it is perfectly apt and equally erotic. Remember when a glimpse of stocking was something shocking? No, neither do I... though I can perfectly imagine such a time, when the merest hint of sensuality set hormones pumping and organs inflating; as Hugh Hefner knew only too well, it's not only tits, cunts and cocks that arouse us. Indeed, they can be quite a turn off in the wrong circumstances (ever been flashed at? I have and it was the least arousing episode of my entire brief existence).

Nip over to Amazon (yes, I hate the capitalist bastards as much as anyone, but who does it better?) and grab yourself a free handful of my sordid psyche, and my more sensitive sordid psyche at that. Then wank yourself daft/set the vibrator to eleven, and take a personal moment away from your busy day. And, while you're at it, arouse your mind too. The book is here:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GZZ9IF2

Take care and have a glorious weekend,

Alexandra xxxx

Post script to my projected 19th of October date

What am I like? I lead you up the the garden path, hide us behind a well-placed bush and tittilate you with my torrid tongue, then leave you before the climax, simply skip away and never mention it again. I am referring, of course, to the impending date which I mooted on the 19th of October. Fear not! I am not psychologically scarred, am not suffering from heart-stopping flashbacks and terrifying nightmares (to which some previous such encounters have come precariously close to producing). No. None of the above. It was excellently awesome. Bloody brilliant. Fucking fantastic.

He was crossing the hotel carpark when I first laid actual eyes on him. I was retrieving my laptop (more of that later) from the boot of my car. He was bang on time. A very good omen, I always think. He glanced up, caught my eye and grinned his recognition before quickly eyeing me up and down. What he saw he obviously liked and I fancied he even licked his lips at the prospect. He gallantly carried my bag and we sidled - as nonchalantly as two strangers who are about to fuck possibly can - past reception and into the lift. Small talk - traffic, weather, dinner or lack of it - filled the lift before the short walk, the clicking keycard and somewhat awkward ingress into my generic little room. An offer of tea, its acceptance and subsequent kettle filling, cup rattling followed, till he eschewed the tea, simply took me in his arms and kissed me. And how he kissed me. In mere moments, straps were off shoulders, dress was around my waist and my tits were out. Our mouths parted and suddenly his was around my second - or third depending on your tastes - most intimate sexual appendages. I remember thinking that if he sucks clit like he sucks nipple then I won't last for more than a moment.

He eased me back onto the bed and now we were kissing again. I manually tested his groin, hoping for a tangible sign of his arousal and lo! Fuck. He was rigid, ready to break and enter whatever hole I offered. And I intended to offer all three, hoped he would find the ultimate pleasure in each, for condoms come in packs of three, we had three hours, and I am a great believer in providence. 

His mouth was again sucking on my aching teats and now his hand crossed my belly, skirted my pubis and settled on my thigh where it proceeded to inch towards my now dripping lips. He suddenly sat up, peeled off his shirt and cast it aside. My mouth found his nipples and my gentle licks elicited many a moan from his lovely lips. Again our mouths locked and now our hands were free to roam. I undid his jeans, tugged open his button flies and delved inside. I had seen his cock on cam and it had looked impressive enough, but the beast now in my hand was of an altogether different species. I could barely close my hand around it. Forefinger and thumb formed the C of cunt and proceeded to act like one, squeezing his prodigious girth before rhythmically tugging back and forth, up and down, till his deepening groans warned me to cease. His jeans came off and so did my dress and we dived back into the fray, pants and knickers teasingly still in place. His hand was suddenly inside mine, delighting in the prepubescent smoothness it found there. Mine was inside his, slowly stroking his full length, measuring him up, considering the impending delicious pain it would soon administer to my privates.

'Fuck, you are so wet!'

Not an ounce of romance here and I was glad. I needed fucking, was perfectly primed, and he had the perfect equipment to do it.

'So are you!'

And he was, precum oozing onto my fingers with every stroke.

I lisped like a schoolgirl, a ploy that had brought him prematurely off on our first cam-fuck.

'I want to do something naughty, something weally, weally naughty.'

'Oh, fuck, yes, anything...'

A joint effort freed him from his tight black pants. I eased his legs off the bed and positioned myself on the floor between them. Words were unnecessary. A smile and a wink and my mouth was around him. He grabbed my hair and forced my face into his groin. I resisted just enough, just enough, then took him deep into my throat, skilfully suppressing a gag till he was all but completely in me. Fuck, he was big. My mouth was forced open almost as much as his disbelieving eyes. I slowly drew him out and proceeded to lick and stroke him right to the very edge, over and over till he could bear it no more.

'Fuck, you give amazing head, Alexandra!'

And I do.

And now it was my turn. I clambered onto the bed. He positioned himself between my legs then kissed me, while his dick prodded my panties between my thighs, pressed my wetness back up inside me, the skimpy sopping cloth all that kept us apart. Another kiss before his mouth began the long journey south. No eight lane superhighway here. He took the back roads, meandered, paused to admire the scenery - he undoubtedly loved the scenery - till at last his tongue teased my most intimate parts, tasting my juice-soaked knickers, nibbling on my cloth-covered lips till I too could bear it no more.

'Lick me!'

It was as much plea as order, as much whisper as squeal. My knickers hit the wall. I even fancy they might still be stuck there. His mouth hit the target. I even fancy it is there now, nuzzling, kissing, lapping, licking, lolling and penetrating. Much as I am now, I was pissing lubrication and he was swallowing, swallowing, sucking and swallowing. A finger entered, then two... three... He hit the spot, yes, that mythical spot that many scientists say does not actually exist. Well, it does. I have experimented, researched enough to know it does. And the gorgeous fucker hit it, full on, bulls-eye, then rubbed it, roughly massaged it, all the while tastefully tonguing my clit. It was too much. Way too much. A sledgehammer on an ant. A Ferrari racing a tortoise. An atom bomb on Cleethorpes. I came. As simple as that. If you were in a Yorkshire hotel that night and thought you heard a murder, a long protracted and painful murder, then that was me. Close the investigation. Call off the sniffer dogs. Fuck. Orgasm isn't a word I use lightly - and nor should you in my experience - but I will use it whole-heartedly here. I had an orgasm. A fucking incredible gut-wrenching orgasm that I am certain caused me self-inflicted internal damage. And still the fucker forced his hand up me, still the dirty bastard clamped his mouth around my cunty bits, and still I came. On and on and on and on.

'Tea?'

Now he was asking. And I was refusing. 

'No. Please just fuck me. I want your cum up me.'

Within that rather forward statement was an implicit, 'Well, up me, yes, inside me, of course, but encased in a condom, for fuck's sake, for this is the twenty-first century and all manner of ills can reside in uncontained bodily fluids'. And, though he was on my wavelength, he was sadly on another planet. Or even in another galaxy. He glanced around.

'Where are they?'

'They?'

He coughed, having perhaps already glimpsed the awful inescapable truth.

'Where are the condoms?'

His expectant look told me I had brought them, when I was absolutely fucking certain I had not. My incredulous gasp and zig-zag mouth told him that, sexual equality or not, that condom bringing was his fucking responsibility. His fucking job. He has the cock, after all. He is the sprayer of spunk.

If the plethora of fucks in the preceding paragraph hint somewhat at my disappointment, then good. They should. For I was terribly disappointed. Though not, I hasten to add, even minutely tempted to take his flesh directly into my cathedralesque body, nor his spunk into my pristine chapel of a womb. Fuck that. Or rather don't.

Suffice to say, I wanked him onto my tits. But not just any old wank onto tits. Surely you know me better than that? This was a Rolls Royce wank onto Real Madrid tits. To stave off my cock-starved frustration and his pussyless perturbation, I logged into Cam4 (hence the earlier carpark/laptop reference) and showed the whole fucking world (well, the seventy-nine who eventually tuned in) how a sexually-skilled young woman teases cum from a young man's very meaty cock. Tease describes my efforts and not the eventual outcome: he exploded, spouted, like some untimely geyser. It was incredible. It was everywhere. I tasted it (I know, cathedralesque blah-blah, pristine chapel doo-dah: it would have been rude, unbearably rude, not to do so... And it looked - and tasted - wholesome enough). It was an amazing experience and was probably more rewarding than any (considering the orgasm I had already achieved) cunt-stretching cervix-battering he could have dispensed me. The watching crowd expressed their satisfaction (Fuck, I'm cumming! Cumming! Me too! Fuck Alex your tits are amazing. Wank it baby! Fantastic tit wank Alex! Lucky guy! Yeah, lucky fucking guy! Cummmmmmmmingggggg!!!!!!) and, as his cock finally deflated and oozed its last, we waved the assembled throng a synchronised, anonymous and very satisfied goodbye.

He quickly - almost too quickly, to be honest - dressed, eschewed my offer of a shower, even turned down a last plea for tea, kissed my lips (my facial lips) and he was away.

So there you have it. Bet you wish you had never asked! Oh, you didn't ask. So it's my fault is it? My fault you are forever plagued by those rather sordid images. Well - and here's a solution-producing solution - have a quick wank on me and exorcise them for good! :)

You'll be pleased to know I now constantly carry condons. And I would urge you to do the same.

Now be good a good boy/girl/other and have a great weekend. And read some porn. My porn. And cum. Cum loads. I intend to.

Take care and lots of love,

Alexandra xxxxxxx

Baby, you can buy my car: an erotic short story from the impeccably pervy pen of Alexandra Amalova

Hi

No blurby intro today, just a get your bits out and stroke/finger till the inevitable. And while you're at it, spice up the moment by simultaneously imbibing the following pithy piece that Webuyanycar.com should surely use instead of its pathetic car-shaped sofa ads, telling us how honest they are for saying 'you could get more for your car if you sold it privately' then showing a little girl being grateful that her daddy spent time with her rather than the streams of gorgeous girls who might turn up at their door, offer several thousand pounds more than webuyanycar.com ever would and then piston his pole while sucking him off as an added bonus. No wonder romance - along with punctuation - is dying. Anyway, here's a proper car-buying story - containing everything but the car shaped sofa and the grateful little girl - and it won't cost you a penny.

Baby you can buy my car

As his front wheel grazed the kerb and came to a halt, I was kissing him. Upon opening the door and sliding from his seat, I was stripping him. By the time he had pulled himself fully upright, I was fucking him, riding him, bouncing up and down on his firm, bulging body, his phallus embedded deep in my clenching innards, the thick, stiff shaft splitting my dripping lips.
'Hi,' the voice so deep my slender chest resonated with it, my tiny tits vibrated with it. Tingling nipples grated gently against my crisp white cotton blouse. Could he tell I was braless? Could he see the shadowy areolae and their ripe rising teats? I sincerely hoped so.
'Hi. You've come about the car?'
I batted heavy lashes towards the little red Fiat, a hint of an incredulous smile on my similarly tinted lips: his impressive frame would surely destroy my tiny machine. A sudden smile dazzled me, momentarily eclipsed the personalised porn movie spooling behind my eyes, in which I was now sitting on his face, his tongue lapping at my clitoris, while I shaved his well-gelled groin with a gleaming cut-throat razor.
'It's not for me. It's for my...'
Frames flickered and froze the blade's glinting edge to his dangling scrotum. His next word was fatal to my fantasy, poison to the probable possibilities. I simply could not allow it. Whetted words cut him off in his prime.
'Hope you're not another time-waster! Look, she's perfect for you. For anyone...'
He was already beside her, testing her cute waxed curves with a huge hand. I was jealous as fuck. Again the voice; again my quivering tits.
'A few scratches...'
On buttocks and between shoulder blades, the scabbed-over evidence of my most recent sexual seeing-to were a single body scrub away from total erasure. I objected.
'Nah. Bodywork's virtually perfect.'
He licked his thumb, massaged away a stubborn mote and tilted his head.
'Why are you selling?'
Because I need the money, for food, warmth, and a roof over my head.
'Going abroad.'
'Oh. Okay.'
With nonchalant incredulity, he kicked a tyre.
'Plenty of tread.'
My hip-hugging hand eased a pound of flesh under my denim skirt's waistband.
'Exactly as advertised.'
'Serviced regularly?'
The film rolled on. I towelled off his pristine privates then took his full length down my throat. Writhing beneath my sleek, throbbing, well-tuned bodywork, my mechanic groaned his intense approval into my sumptuous sump. In total contrast to the movie mayhem, my response remained calm and detached.
'Of course. I'm very... pedantic about regularity.'
He nodded knowingly.
'Enough room in the back?'
After tickling my sphincter, his tongue slipped up my arse.
'Depends what you're putting up there.' I believe I actually blushed. 'Er, in there. No room for golf clubs, obviously.'
Was he smirking? And was the bulge in his jeans really growing? Or was it my fuel-injected imagination?
'How many...'
I immediately clocked his meaning.
'Twenty K, give or take a mile.'
'Cool. I like 'em well run-in, all those niggly little faults ironed out. Still under warranty?'
I should think so: I'm only twenty-three.
'I should think so: I've only had her two or three years.'
He circled her.
'I'd like a test-drive, if that's okay?'
'Er, yes, of course. I'd expect nothing less.'
'Great.'
Never mind driving, these boots weren't even made for walking. I tossed him the keys.
'Ease yourself into the cockpit and fire her up.'
His look was classically quizzical, like I'd lost my marbles. And I actually had, though knew exactly where they were: clacking around within the well-lubricated cylinder that was my 10cc pussy.
The seat slid back. He adjusted the wheel then actually eased himself into the cockpit and fired her up. No words could have described it better. He glanced at me and smiled, as though he had independently reached the same conclusion. I crossed my legs and let the short skirt ride even further up my bare thighs. The seatbelt pressed blouse to breasts till my poking teats could have made eyes water. And lo! Indeed they had, though he chose a more prosaic explanation.
'Touch of hay fever. Pollen count high today.'
The nipple count too was high, an observation that transcended verbalisation.
'I also suffer, so have special filters in the A/C.'
He confirmed my belief that approving nods are excellent silent retorts.
His handling was masterful. He drove her to the limit, to the edge of space and back again, taking his time, milking the moment, reviewing her responses, masterfully manipulating her mechanics. Decisive yet thoughtful. Aggressive yet careful. Senses flaring. Body responding. As much as a car is capable of cumming, she was continually on the brink, roaring and purring, twisting and turning. When he finally opened her up on the M69, both myself and my car were at the point of no return. I ran my index finger across the central console, searching for the off-switch for the heated seat, then remembered she wasn't blessed with such luxuries. Oh, dear. Note to self: on egress, remain facing him at all times.
She sat at the kerb-side looking as winsomely innocent as she ever had, though I knew she was forever tainted, spoiled, subverted, by his buff rough handling. My vanilla clit-tickling antics would no longer be enough for her. He'd broken her in; bled her; desecrated her. She was already lost to me, whether I sold her today or not.
'So,' we were walking up the drive to my door, 'you are having her?'
I am nothing if not blunt. He twisted his lovely mouth into an expression of thoughtful doubt.
'The ride was a little soft and she lacks a bit of poke...'
My sexual fantasy had long since reached its inevitable conclusion, his mouth-filling, cum-squirting cock having erupted at the exact moment his arse-tonguing, pussy-fingering, clit-thumbing antics had pushed me over ecstasy's precipitous edge, so I was perfectly primed for any impending action, yet subdued my body's cravings just long enough for cold economics to spill past my pouted lips.
'At that price she's a gift and well you know it.'
He rubbed his stubbly chin.
'Would you take...?'
'Look,' a slow breath and my two front steps raised my nubile nipples into his eye line, 'I'm throwing her at you and you're turning me down.' Again I pouted. 'I'm offended.' I somehow pouted even more. 'Almost as much as if I'd thrown myself at you.'
The gleam in his eye said try me. I opened my front door, bade him enter then followed him inside and turned the key.

*****

This finely-wrought piece plus nine further precision-engineered components comprise the surprisingly affordable 'Measuring up: an indispensable compendium of eclectic erotica' that, were it a car, would undoubtedly win What Car's 'Sexiest vehicle of the year' award.

Copyright: Alexandra Amalova 2017. This work may not be used, either in part or in full, without the author's express permission.

Morpheus in the underground: new Naughty Nibble free today on Amazon!

Hi!

I've been too busy, reading, rereading, editing and finally publishing to post anything here for a while. Apologies again xxx It's been a while in the coming as real life has called, stomped over my doormat and ensconced itself on my sofa, demanding cups of tea and deep meaningful conversation for which I simply do not have the time. So yesterday, while it was sleeping, I quickly engaged my computer and, after logging into KDP, I posted a new Naughty Nibble, the twelfth in the series and one of my favourites. It is taken from the sexy compendium 'Sensual Ghosts' and, while not a ghost story, it contains dark paranormal themes that more than justify its inclusion in that seminal tome. Seminal because it was my first foray into publishing and not because of the gallons of semen and other, more feminine bodily fluids, its readers have undoubtedly produced. I have, I blushingly admit, contributed several pints myself, all deliciously delectable and luxuriously lubricious as I, and several of my closest admirers, can surely attest.

So, before the clock strikes midnight in California, head over to Amazon and download a free copy of 'Morpheus in the underground'. The title alone should surely entice you, never mind the titty-lating sexy young Russian (a not so distant relative) featured on the cover. The book is here:

'Morpheus in the underground' free today on Amazon!

Take care and have a delightfully debauched weekend,

Lots of love,

Alexandra xxxxx