Wannabe Slut

Hope you enjoy this free bukkake story from German Goo Girls!


Mr Atkins had said the night was still young. That was the way things turned out. Catherine and I didn't walk out the green office door and back to her car until the new day was dawning, pale and grey. The air was still and chill. A rectangle of street was visible through the open door. It was deserted and I had the feeling there was no life anywhere along its length. It was slick, as if there had been drizzle through the night.

My body, too, was still slick. It was sticky, too. The smell of sex and come was in my nostrils.

Catherine was as streaked as me. She reached up to the head of the column beside her car. Her breast pulled strangely, its skin puckered like the glossy tissue of a scar, until its weight pulled it free of the dried ejaculate. She unlocked her door, lent across the front seat and flicked up the door button on my side.

As she pulled back she bundled up the cotton dress and underpants she'd left there hours earlier. She draped the dress over her door. It was a plain blue with a single line of buttons down its front. Lighter fabric and it would have been a sun dress.

I opened my own door. My hipsters and thong sat upon the passenger seat. Under the jeans was the button down blouse I'd worn the night before. I hadn't worn a bra; I didn't need to. My mind was shifting sensibilities. It wasn't that I regretted the night; I was just moving into another space. Part of me, too, was asking what it had been about.

I didn't want the tightness of my jeans across my backside and I didn't want it between my thighs either. I looked across to Catherine. She was bent over, her rear towards me. She straightened. She was wiping the still gooey deposits off with her bundled cottontails. She felt my gaze and looked up. Her face broke into a silly grin and she shrugged her shoulders before dropping the underpants behind her seat.

I held my g-string between my thumb and forefinger and put on a quizzical expression.

Still grinning, she shrugged again. 'Just put your blouse on.'

We faced each other as we each buttoned up. Her breasts were fullish. They fell towards her hips so the skin between them seemed glued to her sternum. There was a little white scar above her navel. Her bush was thick and clotted with dried semen. The smoothness of the buttons between my finger tips brought the memory of the coarseness of her hairs back With it came the smell of sex again.

She was driving for about ten minutes before she spoke. I was inside my thoughts.

'Will I drop you back at the pub for your car?'

'I walked,' I said.

'Your place then?'

The morning clouds were breaking up. Their undersides to the east were sex red. 'Ummm.'

Another minute passed.

'Would you like to come back to my place for a coffee?' She hesitated then added, 'and to clean up.'

I was quiet for a moment. That was exactly what I would like.

After the events of that evening it seemed ridiculous to be coy but I was. I sat with my knees pressed together and my hands squeezed between my thighs. I was unable to choose between a shower or coffee.

Catherine looked at me then said, 'Coffee, then,' but left me alone in her bright Martha Stewart kitchen. A moment later she was back handing me a dress almost identical to the one she wore.

I looked down at my body. Streaks of dried ejaculate hatched my tomboyish chest. Lower, in the folds of my tummy it was still tacky.

'Go on. It will go in the wash later.'

I buttoned up and she made herself busy at a coffee machine. Her back was still to me when she next spoke. 'What about Mr Downer?'

'Which was he?' I asked.

'The piggy one.'

I remembered immediately.

No one pressured me although there were more and more sly glances toward me as the night grew late and they did keep my glass full. Catherine was about to ease her bottom onto the table top for the third time. Around her had gathered maybe fifteen of our hosts, some who had come over her earlier but most not. They were all at the far end of the table.

Mr Atkins was still keeping me company when, without even thinking, I announced, 'My turn.'

He looked at me and, in a quite voice, asked, 'Are you sure?'

I wasn't but I hitched my tush onto the table and rolled onto my back. Mr Downer squealed like an overexcited schoolgirl as he broke away from Catherine's audience and rushed to my side. The others followed leaving her by herself. I was anxious that I might have broke some etiquette rule. Catherine just winked, though, and turned to the drinks trolley.

Mr Downer — I didn't know his name then although we may have been introduced — had breasts larger than me. His nipples were pencil points surrounded by hairless tan disks. Below his boobs his belly folded in rolls just like a skin toned fatty suit. His arms and hands were the same scalded pink color. It appeared that the erection in his right fist should have belonged to a different man. His left hand was occupied in holding back the rolls of his stomach.

The others were grunting and masturbating but I couldn't pull my eyes from Mr Downer. As he tugged at his hard-on his boobs and belly jiggled and rolled and he puffed his cheeks fuller and fuller. His tiny nipples grew red and angry. I had thought his prick was small but the more excited he became the harder his fist pounded back into his blubber and I realized that, in fact, he had a long but banana thin member.

He must have been, a long time before, a beanstalk of a fellow. I tried to imagine him as a skinny young man but the picture wouldn't come.

I felt ejaculate land upon me — the other men's exertions — but was transfixed by him. Sweat bubbled from his red face. His eyes grew piggy. I became concerned he would have a heart attack. If he collapsed over me his bulk would likely break a rib or two. I was unlikely to be able to crawl from under him without the help of the others. They should attend to him first. I'd probably be still trapped beneath him, naked and smeared with seed, when the Ambos arrived.

Suddenly he came. He didn't squirt or ooze. He came in a steady stream as if peeing his pearly cream.

He landed first across my tit and throat and chin. I gasped and tasted him at the corner of his mouth.

He kept the beat of his hand. He swivelled like a gunner on the balls of his feet. His jet raked my tits; my ribs; my tum, my navel. I wondered how he could keep going. His face grew palid; his pupils shrank to pinpricks; the veins of his throat stood out. His jet moved south. It was amongst my bush, across my mound and onto my slit.

It was then that I had the feeling. I tried to describe it to Catherine. It wasn't coming. It was like being a goddess; of having power, the power to drive another person beyond their realistic limits. I wasn't making sense. I tried not to babble.

Catherine planted a coffee mug before me and lent into my face. She kissed me. The aroma of the coffee rose and mixed with the smell of semen and the scent of her and, I guess, me.

When our lips parted she whispered, 'Isn't it.'

I saw myself in her eyes. I kissed her.


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