The Complete Inversion Chronicles. Phew!

Hi
It is done! The sixth and final volume of my sexy sci-fi series The Inversion Chronicles is published! It took me a while (around 10 years, I reckon) and a lot of heartache/soul searching/researching, but I got there. And not only that, but I then crammed all six volumes together into one mighty (540 pages by one reckoning) tome and put it out there (after much editing/heartache/soul searching/researching) in both virtual and actual forms, i.e. as an ebook:

The Complete Inversion Chronicles on Amazon

The Complete Inversion Chronicles on Smashwords

and as a paperback:

The Complete Inversion Chronicles on Amazon

I hope you can find the time to take a look. The first 10% of it is free to download. Indeed, the first two of the six books are available free to download from my Smashwords page:

Alexandra Amalova at Smashwords

It has been an almighty journey and one I will not be repeating soon. I have beaches to walk, hills to climb, people to meet, for goodness sake! But before all of that, I need a shower, a haircut and a decent meal. Oh, here's the cover:

There now follows a brief taster (especially for those amongst you who have never had the pleasure of tasting me), from the perspective of my favourite character (am I allowed a favourite character in my own book?), Nina. I trust your palate will be suitably whetted. Take care till next time,

Alexandra xxxx

It was a perfect day for a run. The air was crisp and still; the clear lemon sky was taut and thin and stretched to the peaks of the distant hazy mountains. The peaks beyond those peaks were our target, for what was left of the beacon after re-entry had crashed amongst them. It was incredibly liberating to step beyond the cave without having to consider the beacon's position and that freedom was expressed in our movement. We strode through the towering skeletal remains of the ES Benjamin3, its twisted rusted ribs scoured by storms, battered by rockfalls, and partially buried by sand. On reaching the open space beyond, we immediately picked up speed. At a constant two hundred and seventy-three miles per hour, we zipped across the intervening dune-covered plain to reconnoiter the impact site, feet thrumming on sand with a sound akin to the soft whirr of an electric motor. If Executive soldiers came, the beacon’s crash site was surely where they would land. Advance intelligence would ensure it was also where they would make their last stand. And then we would have a ship! At last, a ship! I could barely stand the wait. Adding to our urgency, a massive storm was sweeping across our hemisphere and was expected to be upon us within a single rotation. Quite uniquely within my experience, time was an issue. I sought to fill the few fissures that flawed its smooth flow with fragments of conversation.
'Why the change of mind?'
I referred to the two year-old about-turn that had brought us to this point. As usual, Al was instantly on my wavelength.
'I told you. It was time.'
'Come on, Al. Remember who you're talking to.'
He turned his head till I filled his visor, my sandy suit blending perfectly with the surrounding terrain.
'Okay. I found something.'
'What?'
'A memory.'
'You found a memory?'
Memories were not things we normally lost.
'Yes.'
Perplexed, I continued the metaphor.
'Where did you find it?'
'It was hiding behind something Fiver said.'
'Fiver? Fiver said something useful? Are you sure?'
He laughed at my incredulity.
'Yes. Well, indirectly.'
I waited. Nothing. I prompted.
'So what was it?'
Al adopted Fiver's petulant tone.
'Paint it that colour if you like...'
'I remember that. It was shameful of him. But how...?'
'Amongst the plans for the server that stores us and the network of relays that connects us to it, there are blueprints for a craft. A two-seater.'
I was decidedly underwhelmed.
'I too have those blueprints. We all share all of those files.'
'True. But here's the thing: do you remember painting it?'
'Painting it?' I was amazed. 'No, I don't.' He left it to me to break the fragile silence. 'And you do?'
'Yes.'
'So... what? You built it?'
'I believe so.'
'So where is it?'
'Gone.'
The single syllable was disturbingly hollow. In response, I carefully filled my words with all the love I could muster.
'And is that what carried away your hope?'
He sniffed a reflective laugh at that.
'Am I so hope-less?'
I bounced his laugh right back.
'Yes.'
'Then yes.'
I was momentarily lost for words, which, considering Englese contains over three hundred thousand of them, was no mean feat. Many of the words - names of plants, creatures and physical features of a long-dead Earth - were now totally redundant. Words for that planet's unique weather were also a waste of hard-drive space, as was the vast array of colour descriptors for which this comparatively monochrome system had no equivalents. I thought too of the thousands of lost Earth languages that time, plague and war had dispatched in roughly equal measure, and of the peoples that had once felt a need to create them, and felt an unexpectedly keen loss. Thankfully, the melancholy was dispatched by a steep wall of bright russet rock that rose to our right, a block of welcome colour that warmed my cold eyes. On reaching its end, we changed bearing. My questions too changed direction.
'Did you come here on the Aria?’
'The inventory says not.'
'I know. But what do you think?'
He seemed amused.
'Think?'
'Yes, think. All we know of the universe, all we know of humanity, is from the Aria's computer now sitting in Cave 3.'
'Yes.'
'Which is patently incomplete. It's been censored. And crudely.'
Al nodded.
'It has.'
'So how come we believe it. Why do we blindly follow it?'
'Because it's all we have.'
The sand was thinning, sporadically exposing the underlying bedrock; both physically and sociologically, we were on new ground.
'The culture that created it is flawed, its history fractured by war. Why don't we simply start again? We could transcend it. Write our own history.'
'No, Nina. That is not our path.'
'Then what is?'
'We nine will put an end to this war.'
'And then what? What of the flawed culture for which we have fought?'
'Peace will fix it. Peace will fix everything.'
On that day, I did not share his optimism, had no evidence to suggest such an outcome.
Soft, shifting sand again cushioned our feet. I realised we were climbing steadily. The air was thinning, the temperature dropping.
'Tell me again your earliest memory.'
Wearily, Al shook his head, though I knew deep down he enjoyed recounting it.
'The same as yours, Nina. Waking up. Being here. Receiving my instructions. Following my plan. Building myself.'
The same old questions, but made worthwhile because his answers occasionally offered new insights. I was again in the cave of my birth.
'You helped me begin. I remember it as though it were happening now.'
Behind his visor, I knew he was smiling, as he too was undoubtedly back there.
'So do I, Nina. I will never erase it.'
'I could not have done it on my own, Al.'
He laughed.
'No one could.'
Eyes narrowed as I prepared my favourite question.
'So who helped you?'
Another weary sigh.
'The same two beings as always helped me.'
Whenever we got to this part, I conjured images of two tall ethereal creatures that I felt certain were snapshots of an actual event, the echoes of which were somehow imprinted on the system files we now all shared.
'What were they like?'
'They were... like us.'
He'd never said that before.
'Like us?'
'Yes.'
'How?'
'In that they were almost human.'
'Almost human? What were they?'
'I've told you! I know not. I called them Overseers. They started me and then I finished myself.'
The verbs he used were lifted straight from shared memories. Inspired by Al's ship-painting revelation, I peered behind them.
'They started the process, but you do not believe they created the process.'
'That is true.' He pre-empted my next question. 'They seemed at the limits of their understanding, were perplexed by many of my intricacies.'
I asked the biggest question.
'Where are they now, Al?'
The length of his silence matched exactly that of an unenlightened shrug.
'One moment they were there and the next not.'
I begat and christened a new emotion - disbelanger - and filled my words with it.
'I cannot understand why they made you then left you all alone here.'
'Me neither. But they will come again if we need them. Of that I am somehow certain.'
What faith he had! My own silent shrug was respectfully skeptical.
'If we need them, or if they need us?'
We skirted a rocky pool, our slipstreams dispersing the mist of aliphatic hydrocarbons that wafted from its shimmering surface. Their fleeting presence seemed to inspire his words.
'As gas and solid come together in liquid, so those seemingly opposite states of need will one day converge. And on that day they will come.'
He loved a simile and that was a good one. In my subtle hands, it became a metaphor.
'You think the day was liquid when you were almost destroyed? When alone you faced an Executive command ship and killed so many?'
'Of course.'
At the top of a towering dune, we paused for a millisecond before heading down the steeper lee side.
'So what was your need that day? What had you to gain?'
His response was immediate.
'You, Nina...' Unconsciously, the tight slit between my pumping thighs prepared itself, warming, swelling and self-lubricating. 'And your brothers. The Overseers did not leave me alone at all. I have all of you.'
My aching cunt stood down, though its frustration remained in the dryness of my words.
'How do you know all this, Al?'
'The Overseers witnessed it, from beginning to end. They said I killed the last of the soldiers with my own severed arm.'
How I loved that image and how I longed to do something so heroically epic and yet - as I always felt necessary - I retained my respectful skepticism.
'And you believed them too?'
Without breaking gait, he massaged his right forearm while squeezing and opening his fist.
'Yes. The memory still lives in here.'
'But you can recall nothing more of it?'
'No. I was so badly damaged, it was almost the end of me.'
'Almost.'
'Yes.'
I smiled in awe at the margins; from such tiny differentials, entire futures are rewritten.
'But not quite.'
'No.'
Ten, twenty, thirty miles of rising and falling, of nothing but gravity, atmospheric resistance and hissing sand. I sped ahead, held out my arms like wings and, by tilting my palms to affect the surrounding air pressure, drew contrails of minute methane crystals with my fingertips. And suddenly we were racing. Al forged ahead then dropped behind, weaving his signature trails around mine, crossing and recrossing my vector. He lifted his visor and cried out, the sound whipping away almost before it formed. I too made sound, the sound of spinning turbines and burning, expanding gasses. He laughed then copied me and we raced on, our vocal engines at full throttle, till his toe clipped my heel and we tumbled, cartwheeling, bouncing, rolling, and finally slithering to a standstill. He whooped and punched the ground with both fists then sat on his backside throwing clouds of sand into the still air. I had never seen him so happy. I had never seen him happy at all.

*****

Happy New Year! More free erotica!

Hi

It's been a while and I'm sorry. I truly have not been well. And it is something quite serious. So serious that I'm not going to tell you for fear that you won't believe me. So there!

Starting tomorrow and for three whole days, I'm giving away a book, 'The big bag of sexy allsorts'. It looks like this:

Go take a look! It's here:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Q3HVQEI

As I said, from tomorrow and for three days only, it will be free, so go on, take advantage of me!

The blurb took me a while and goes thus:

As the title suggests, Alexandra's latest collection is a mixed bag, a compendium without a common theme, a lot without a lot in common, a congregation without a prayer of being unified. But thankfully for us all, one common theme runs throughout: sex. And, accordingly, the stories will both quicken your heart and animate your private parts. 

However, Miss Amalova is simply not content to have you in need of clean undies. There is more to her writing than the purely erotic; Alexandra knows better than most that, to be remembered, a lover must stimulate the intellect too, make suggestions and forge connections that light up all areas of the mind. Hence, after reading these torrid tales, your mind may well need clean undies too.
In this crinkly and unfortunately non-recyclable bag, you will find teeth-rotting erotica with the following unwholesome ingredients: genetically modified sci-fi; hydrogenated history; high-cholesterol drama; invert introspection; an immeasurable quantity of quantum mechanics; crystallised psychosis; a sugar sprinkling of steam-less steampunk - plus an unspecified array of both natural and unnatural flavourings and colourings. Salt.

These morsels are strictly for adults only. Consume no more than one per hour, with an absolute maximum of five per day. Continual use may cause inflamed or over-active sex glands. Consult a doctor if such symptoms don't persist.

This incredibly generous collection includes: Bread of Heaven TV chef Alexa Danson is the hottest thing on the box. Step behind the scenes in the studio, become privy to her privileged life, and watch it unravel as the autocue scrolls. Ghosts of the rainforest A lone scientists searches the highest peaks, the last vestiges of the Earth's habitable land, for an elusive creature thought by many to be long-extinct. Caroline's secret Though her head is full of faeries and fantasy, Caroline Lawson, a shy sixteen year-old, aches to be a woman. A powerful schoolgirl crush perseveres, stays with her till adulthood. And so does her wayward best friend, Alice. Parallel lives Forgotten: the brilliant yet disfigured younger sister of an equally brilliant yet famous engineer, whose drive and ingenuity helped facilitate the Industrial Revolution. Women in a box Looking back on a life in which a procession of females have nurtured and shaped him, a man sifts through his memories in an attempt to foresee his future. The day my stepdad destroyed my beautiful Pussy Can a cat be dead and alive at the same time? And if the multiverse exists, if every possible outcome is playing out somewhere, what difference do our actions really make? While sitting in a waiting room with her beautiful and talented best friend, Ian, Alex struggles to find a meaning to life, while simultaneously facing an impending death. Three minute warning A shy and inexperienced girl's first job interview coincides with an international crisis. When she suddenly finds she has three minutes left to live, she decides to make the most of every second. A sin begets a son begets a sin Longing for a child, a woman spurns her ailing aged husband and secretly beds a younger, fitter man. The clock mender and his wife A clock mender grows daily more confused and disillusioned after a motor accident robs him of both his knowledge and skill. Meanwhile, his wife discovers she has an unexpected and reckless secret admirer. Box While returning to his beloved from war in a distant land, a young soldier writes a premonitory song. The lift descending Inspired by a Vaughan Williams composition. A battle-weary killer shares a last ride with something even more deadly: a desperate woman. Elegy on watching a man wanking A final word, straight from the author's pulsing heavy heart; a candid letter of explanation with a pithy poetic plea for understanding.

#free #erotica Whatever happened to my teacher?

Another erotic quickie: 

'Whatever happened to my teacher - and other educational tales' is free from Amazon today and tomorrow! Xmas comes early! Go grab yourself a copy now! It's here:

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00GW6936S

Have a great week!

Lots of love,

Alexandra xxxxx

'Sensual ghosts, a stunning collection of paranormal erotica' now available on Smashwords!

Around five or six years ago, one could only have found my naughty shorties on free story sites such as Literotica, Lush, Short Fiction, and an unholy host of similar others, most of which are now defunct. One day, out of the blue, I received an email from a publisher who, after much flattery (and who can resist that?) said he would like to publish my stories. Publish! My stories! Well, what would you do? I suggested an anthology, perhaps with a theme, perhaps a paranormal theme, and he gobbled it up, said what a spiffing idea. He then said that, as he is such a busy man, I would have have to compile, edit, proof-read etc. myself and send him the finished article. At that point I should have ducked out. As should you if something similar occurs. He was no publisher, simply someone looking to take a cut from my hard work - 50% I believe it was - simply for writing a bit of blurb and uploading it to Amazon and Lulu. Henri, his name was, and he spoke like a 1950's BBC announcer. Beware if such a creature crosses your literary - or otherwise - path. And I'll tell you why: he published as he said he would, collected around 6 months worth of cash and then vanished, stopped responding to emails, simply took my share (not a princely sum, but enough to rub between my sticky fingers) and buggered off.

He did eventually take down the Amazon listing and so I started myself, began the steep learning curve that is self-publishing. It didn't take me long before I was blurb-writing, cover-designing, story-compiling. I was all over Author Central and KDP like the proverbial rash, forever honing and fine-tuning.

'Sensual ghosts', the book he had stolen from me, was reissued as my very own, new cover, new layout, new navigable table of contents, the lot. Five or so years on and there are lots of my books out there, and not only on Amazon, but Smashwords too (you can still find me on Lush Stories, but that is another story). Most are, like 'Sensual Ghosts', erotic compilations. One, 'Literal Fantasies', is a rather naughty and heart-warming novella. Yet another is a pervy poetry compilation, replete with nifty illustrations. 'Alexandra's Naughty Nibbles', a selection of enticing naughty shorties from my compilations, are also on offer, for those who may not have the time or attention span for a more substantial reading/wanking experience. To complete my current cadre, please find the first five volumes of an intended six volume sexy scifi romp entitled 'The Inversion Chronicles', with part six well underway. What a journey it has been!

I should thank Henri, really. Till his intervention, I never knew the self-publishing side of Amazon even existed, would still be freely circulating my wanton wares to an audience of wank-weary wankers.

The point of all this? For there surely must be a point? Ah, yes. 'Sensual Ghosts' my self-proclaimed 'stunning collection of paranormal erotica' is now available from Smashwords. Completely revised, new and improved, and looking better than ever. Go take a look! The first 20% can be downloaded for free! How good is that, Henri, you wonderful thieving bastard!

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/761987

Have a great week!

Lots of love and soft, sexy hugs,

Alexandra xxx

 

'Xia and the Screenwriter': YOU set the price!

Just a quickie. I always love a quickie - as long as it's consensual, of course.

My Naughty Nibble, 'Xia and the screenwriter', is currently on sale st Smashwords. Nothing spectacular there, I here you say. Ah, but here's the rub: YOU set the price, pay whatever YOU feel is reasonable, be it zero pennies to a thousand pounds. How fair can I be? 

I can see where this is going, as probably can your dear self, but - as one Debyshire dweller recently declared to me - I live in hope.

The book is here:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/732989

Hope is here:

Do not confuse the two. Hope will most probably freeze your nuts off on this very cold of December days, whereas my book will warm your heart (and hopefully a few other parts of you).

Have a wonderful weekend!

Love,

Alexandra

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