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People call me BC. Big Cat. A nickname I’ve had since I was a boy. However, during my years at art college I was known as ‘Fluffer’. These are the stories of that time. Fluffer’s tales.
“Sorry, but I refuse to be one more sordid, oral Fluffer story.” Charlotte planted herself right beside where I lay (growling) in the tiny hotel’s tiny bed. She was naked and next to me but might as well have been dressed in a hazmat suit a mile away. She pulled on her t-shirt, a fitted black woolen thing with a zip on it, and left me to pine over the plump, pink puckers between her legs, all soapy-fresh from their shower and inches from my kiss. She’d even waxed before our holiday for fuck sake, a promising detail that, now, seemed designed to torture me.
She yanked the sheet off my bobbing erection and frowned at it. “Come on. Up.” She rifled her bag. “I want to see the Venustemple.”
Charlotte was another of Sara’s friends: a polite and neat sculptor with a sixties, Twiggy vibe–a big-eyed Bambi amongst the trustafarian lions in her year. We’d been together one whole week and though we fucked every day of it– even on the plane on the way to our (so called) dirty weekend in Amsterdam–she had a real bee in her bob about the Fluffer thing. She simply would not let me near her vagina with anything other than my cock.
Only meddling, mischievous Sara would have put us together. Worse, we were feeling the pressure of what to tell her. The only thing my lustily satanic little BFF enjoyed more than hooking me up with her lonely friends was grilling us on the gory details after. Half the time it was like she was in the room with us, scrutinising with the expression she reserved for watching porn: Narrowed eyes, chewing the inside of her cheek.
She certainly wouldn’t be interested in the vanilla sex Charlotte and I indulged in. It was sensuous (the lights were off) and sensitive (neither of us said a word) and we came together (both remembered condoms). Don’t get me wrong, it was gorgeous. I loved it. Charlotte loved it. But even she remarked it was nothing that Sara would “squirm over”. Even our quick fuck in the plane’s toilet was just that, no more, no less–Charlotte gripped to me like a baby monkey, gasping into my neck. It was wonderful. But you kind of had to be there.
Meanwhile, right at that moment, Charlotte’s naked bottom was presented to me as she stooped and rummaged. Underneath her bum cheeks, between her thighs and lovely bald lips, was a surprising, but distinct, glistening. It was as if her pussy secretly begged me–begged me–to kiss it. I lunged.
Our ‘lips’ touched and Charlotte screeched and spun, whacking me in the face with her knickers.
“Asshole!” She grabbed her things and darted to the other side of the room where, crimson-faced and jaw grinding, she hurriedly dressed.
“Sorry,” I said.
She flapped at my bouncing cock. “You stay here and have a wank. I’ll see you later.”
Then she was gone and it was my turn to get narky. Embarrassed and sorry eryaman bayan escort for myself, I glowered at my reflection in the ornate mirror above the bed. That was another thing. Charlotte had booked this hotel, famously decorated like a bawdily kitsch Victorian brothel… but why?
This was not working. Sara was going to catch such shit for this. I was going to shower, dress and fuck off. After breakfast.
That’s when the phone rang by my bed.
“BC?” Sara. I hadn’t even said the demon’s name three times.
“I’m not…” Stifled cackle. “Interrupting anything?”
“I’d suggest you call back later if you wanted to hear us at it, but to be honest–“
“Stop talking. I’m in Amsterdam! Just up the road. Rubbish Alan’s got a stag do and he brought me along. Do you and Charlotte want to meet for lunch?”
“Jesus you can’t wait can you?”
“To hear all our dirty doings.”
“OK, you’re in shitty mood. Charlotte there?”
I let my silence scream in her ear.
A long sigh. “Oh BC. Has she dumped you already?”
“She’s gone to some gallery.” Above the bed my still-hard reflection goaded me. “Told me to stay here and have a wank.”
“Yep, too much info. So I guess the hotel didn’t do it for you?”
Aha. “So this place was your idea.”
“A suggestion, that’s all.”
“And her waxing?”
“Oh she did that? What a sweetie. She’s too good for you, dick brain.”
“But– but I don’t get it. Why’s she made all this effort but still won’t let me suck her clit!”
“Fucksake BC I don’t want to know. Stop blabbing every little thing to me. That’s her worst nightmare.”
“Like you’ve never hassled me for ‘juicy bits’ then come on my back!”
“Not over Charlotte. She’s a very private person. I promised I’d never talk about you two with you or anyone else. And if she’s withholding from you it’s obvious she doesn’t trust us not to gossip about her. So thanks for that.” Another raspy sigh. “Anyway, I’ll pop round later.”
“Right. Wait, when–“
“She adores you BC, just give her space.” Click. Buzz.
I slammed the receiver down, then melted. Cock first.
Not even an hour later, I was just coming out of the shower when Charlotte returned. Her cheeks blazed pink as when she left. But now she was biting on a smirk. I covered myself with my towel, half in my new resolve to express unity with her, half to teach her a lesson if our argument continued. I’d shaved my balls too, for the same reasons.
She head-butted my chest. “Don’t do that again.” She pressed her body against mine, her woollen top and jeans rough and cold against my skin.
I held her tight. “Of course. Promise.”
We cuddled. I kissed her neck. Beneath her chilly clothes her skin was feverish against my lips. What’d got her so bothered?
“Venustemple isn’t a sculpture exhibition,” she said to my nipple.
“It’s a museum of erotica.”
“What d’you mean ‘Oh escort etimesgut no’?” She walloped my arse. “You think I’m a prude?”
“Course not. It must’ve been embarrassing, that’s all, being there on your own.”
She sighed. Her breath drifted down my ribs. Something squirmed under my towel, sensing well before my brain where we might be heading.
“I’m sorry I’m not as porno as other girls.” She said this so quietly it broke my heart.
I kept my gob shut, tipped her face to me and kissed her. Her lips were hot, and her tongue bolted into my mouth. Not its usual tentative flicks. Afterwards, her eyes shone from behind her fringe.
“I’ve never seen anything like it, BC,” she whispered. “Pictures going back hundreds of years. People doing all this… stuff. Stuff you think only our twisted generation invented.”
I slid my hands up the back of her top, just to feel some skin, the arch of her spine. She hummed and pulled my towel loose then tossed it. She grasped my naked arse and pressed our hips tighter.
I unzipped the front of her top and she didn’t complain. Her hands petted my bottom like a cat pawing a cushion. “And looking at all these exhibits, with other tourists. Innocently. So strange. So open.” She kissed my chest. “It kind of… went through me. How human we all are. And then…” I pulled her t-shirt up. She lifted her arms. Still talking. “In the sixties section, there was this Italian art film about a model who was so beautiful that wherever she went…” I dragged the top off over her head. “Men just ejaculated!” She tittered, pushed her perky breasts to my skin. Her nipples hardened.
“You liked that?”
She looked up at me. Nodded stiffly. Her cheeks flared and she looked down again, coyly I suppose, except for gazing at my bucking cock. She brushed her fingertips over my length, squeezing my new, bald balls. “Oh I see… Nice.” She tossed another glance at me. “Is that for me?”
I shrugged. Her hot palm cupped me and she hummed again. I wondered why I hadn’t always shaved down there. I have ever since though.
“I loved it. All those men, jetting fountains. For her. Over her.” She squeezed me lightly, addressing my happy, bulbous head. “Imagine being that desirable.”
I unfastened her jeans. “You are.”
She smacked my arse. “Corny.”
I yanked her jeans and knickers over her hips and she writhed out of them. “Anyway,” she continued, “I know you think that. I realised there and then. You really do desire me, don’t you? So much you could just…” She made fireworks of her fingers, flashed doe eyes.
I stood back from her and looked her up and down. She presented herself awkwardly, twisting one ankle. Fingers reached to cover her mound, but faltered. Charlotte had the kind of flawless, smooth body that looked primmer naked than clothed. I bit my knuckle. “Mama Mia!”
She sucked back a grin. Peered at my hips. “I make you want to cum?”
“Everywhere. All the time.”
She sat on the edge of the bed, elvankent escort crossed her legs. She kicked a foot. “Prove it.”
I grasped my cock and rubbed for her.
At first, she flicked embarrassed little smirks at me, curling her toes, and blushing from cheeks to breasts. But soon my fist work mesmerised her and she smouldered. Then all politeness was gone and she settled back, uncrossing her legs and letting her knees sag apart.
I groaned. She smiled, lifted a foot onto the bed beside her. Her slot was shockingly wet.
“F-fuck.” I lunged my hips forward in a performance of being about to cum, then realised I probably could.
Charlotte flopped her knee to the side and sent a fingertip along her groove. “Yes…” she whispered. “Fuck yes.” She itched her clit.
I leant over her busy fingers, jerking my fist hard enough to jiggle my balls for her. I growled, gritted my teeth.
“No don’t cum don’t cum…” she blustered. “Not yet.”
Her big eyes hooded into burning slits and she draped across the edge of the bed, positioning her face under me then wriggling and twisting to lie on her back. She gasped, whether at me or her reflection above us I don’t know. Maybe because she squeezed her cunt, curling a finger knuckle-deep inside. I shuddered over her spread nakedness, her neat curves a delicious contrast to her panting hot up at my balls.
Then her tongue.
A rising surge lifted me onto my toes.
“Hmm!” She lapped my balls and butterflied her knees, plunging two fingers in and out of herself with obscene, sloppy sucking sounds.
I locked solid, cried out, then erupted, spraying her from chin to breasts to mound. Jet after jet after jet. She laughed, scooping cream to aid the flapping between her legs, her tongue running riot under me as I spasmed above her, covering her graceful form in more cum than I ever thought I had.
I quit rubbing to woozily concentrate on staying upright. Charlotte was still in the zone and licking the underside of my pumping head, igniting as if my orgasm’s last drips carried the fire from me into her. She curled her head back and sucked the end of my cock as if she could draw her own climax from it. And somehow, she did. She arched, jerked at her fingers. Stuffed moans swelled into stifled screams.
A round of applause broke out in the room next to us.
Charlotte’s grunting cries softened into laughter, still muffled by a cock that would probably be hard the rest of its life. She released me and glinted up at the mirror.
“Oh dear,” she said. “What a lovely mess we’ve made.”
She sparkled up at me, one hand trapped between her thighs, the other taking hold of my cock and using it to wipe the cum off her cheek, then licking it clean. I juddered and we were both so post-coitally stoned we even giggled at this.
“You’re still so hard,” she cooed. “Wanna try again?” She sucked me back into her anyway.
That’s when the door flew open. “Knock-knock bitches!” Sara declared. “I’m hungry!”
She stopped like she’d walked into a wall, took in the sight of me towering over her shy friend–laid out naked and plastered in cum, my cock in her mouth.
Sara wedged her hands on her hips. “FuckSAKE, BC. What part of ‘give the girl space’ did you not understand?”
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