GIRL 51
THE FABULOUS CORVETTE GIRL
PART I - THE FIRST DOZEN FUCKS
I had just hesitated in calling Girl 50, Naples Bistro Girl. When I came home, I walked into the Snake Ranch, sat down in the command chair, opened my email and there it was. The famous email from Corvette Girl.
"Dear Book Boy, tell me, what is your naughtiest, nastiest, hottest and sweatiest sexual fantasy? I promise you, if you tell me what it is, I will do my UTMOST to fulfill it for you, in a way you will never forget. Here's a kiss that you can put ANYWHERE you want or need it. Love always, Corvette Girl"
I stared at the screen, my mouth hanging open. Is it possible that letters like this arrived in real life? Was this a guy posing as a girl for a guilty thrill, or a joke from one of my friends borrowing a friend's internet dating account? Or even one female cattily attacking another one by hacking into her dating account and writing a slutty email to a guy? And did it matter?
I wrote her back a two pager, which took all of a one minute and thirty seconds to bang out. I filled an email with an orgy fantasy, imagining her naked, on her back, a female mouth on her left breast, a male mouth on the right, a cock in her soaked pussy, an even bigger cock rammed deep in her asshole, a gigantically huge black cock face fucking her while her hands were wrapped around yet two more hardons, and a man sucked the toes on her left foot while a girl sucked the toes of the right, and on command, like firecrackers in a row going off, first one guy would cum, then the next, spigots of hot, sticky, wet cum shooting in her mouth, then her pussy, then deep and hard in her asshole, and then the handjob boys would cum all over face, absolutely soaking her pretty face in gallons of great-smelling semen, all of it so hot it would seem almost feverish, and the room would smell of pussy juice, K-Y Jelly, sweat and cum.
I didn't even proof it. When it's a sexual fantasy, you let it fly and fuck the commas out of place and the misspellings, all of which can be forgiven by the fact that your penis is doing the typing, and it tends to hunt and peck.
Her profile's banner said ONLINE NOW! and her reply came within minutes.
"Dear Perverted But Fuckin' Hot Book Boy,
I really loved your fantasy, but it would take Steven Spielberg to cast the hundreds who would have to show up for that! I was thinking of a lower budget porno! Why don't we try this one - have you ever been in the parking lot where you work with your new girl in the shotgun seat and watch her unbuckle your belt and slowly undo your zipper, and while people walk by your truck, see her head slowly descend toward your crotch? Have you felt her lips teasing your hard cock, her tongue sloooooowly licking it's way down your shaft, until you can't take it and you pull her hair and ram her head down hard on your cock, until her mouth is sucking in every last inch of you, and you roughly pump her head up and down until you can feel the storm coming and then you explosively cum, shooting load after load into her eager, warm, soft, wet sucking mouth? And she slowly lifts her head dreamily from your lap, a stray line of cum on her cheek, and she takes her finger and slowly, while you watch her, puts the cum in her mouth and sucks her finger and swallows it all? And after that, have you tasted her mouth and tongue in the hot kiss that follows, tasting that wonderful, sweet and salty cum you just pumped into her grateful mouth? Honey, if you haven't experienced that, then you haven't lived.
Love always,
Corvette Girl"
I got light-headed reading it. I had to sit down. I went to my room and folded the laundry while thinking of a reply. Here was a woman so sexual that she was fantasizing about sucking my cock in email number two.
Either she was a psycho or my third wife. I smiled to myself. Maybe both!
I decided to see what her sense of humor was like.
"Dear Corvette Girl,
The only trouble is I work from my home office, so there's no work parking lot. Does that mean you'll suck my cock on my 'commute' home, which would be in the hallway leading to my bedroom?
Yours,
Book Boy"
Ten seconds later:
"Dear Book Boy,
You cracked me up! As to your request for a hallway suck job, you've totally got a deal! If your cock is as gorgeous as your face, I may never get around to kissing your face!
Love always,
Corvette Girl"
Of course, I had to send her penis pictures. I waited for her reaction.
"Dear, sweet, luscious Book Boy, all I have to say is...YUMMY!!!!! Love always, Corvette Girl P.S. Now, ask me any question you want! Anything!"
She was still testing me, I thought. That "free shot" question had to be a trap. If I asked her something sexual, she would be controlling the conversation, which would put her in charge. As Arnold Schwarzenegger would say, Beeg Meestake.
So my question was this -
"Have you ever had a near death experience?"
Her reply surprised me. She wrote about the accident on the rainy night as graphically as she had about her lips moving on my cock. The sudden gap in consciousness, from being normal one second, an instant later upside down in a smashed ruined wreck of the car, rain dropping on her forehead, unable to feel below her jaw, the panic as she wondered if she were paralyzed, the police radios, and how all her senses suddenly dimmed and the world went gray and then black and she heard the voice of her long dead mother, who died by her own hand, telling not to make the same mistake of leaving her children, urging her to stay alive so she could care for the kids, the kids, the kids…and the bright light that seemed to reach out for her anyway. Another consciousness gap, and she was back in her body, and now she did feel things below her neck, but it was a firehose stream of pain, pain she never thought she could withstand, and it came in waves. The ambulance ride to the hospital. Seeing herself from the ambulance roof. The hushed conversation of the paramedics, and how they thought she would be dead on arrival.
I stared at the email screen. So Miss Corvette was more than a nymphomaniac. My reply was to tell her to ask me a question.
She wanted to know about my near death experience.
Nothing as dramatic as hers, I typed. 1981. Navy Scuba. "Tank" exercise, in which tank meant the 10 meter deep indoor pool. You toss all your gear into the deep water, take a breath, and jump in after it. Somewhere down there is a tank of air and a regulator. By feel, you fit the regulator to the tank and valve it in, then put the regulator in your mouth and blow out the water. The trouble is, to simulate stress, the Navy dive instructors swim throughout the tank and hit the students. You're in a blurry, dim, watery half-reality, feeling the hose of the regulator and trying to get the end of it onto thescuba tank when suddenly you see a shadow. You flinch but it does no good, you get punched in the face by an instructor. As a simulator of stress, it is surprisingly effective. By the time I valved in my regulator, I was out of air. I tried to blow out the water from the mouthpiece. To use the automatic purge valve is to fail the entire grueling course. So I blew out the water, but I'd been down north of three minutes and I needed air, like, RIGHT FUCKING NOW! I took a fast, deep breath of air, but there was one problem.
It wasn't air.
As the water hit my lungs my brain disconnected and fell away from me. There was nothing left of me but reptilian brain stem and central nervous system, and like a fish flopping on a pier, I shook my body in purposeless panic. During this exercise, to pop your head above water was to be flunked in a sudden death fashion. I watched myself from ten feet away panicking and struggling, flailing and pumping arms and legs everywhere, and then a circular blackness constricted all around me until there was just a point of light, in front of me, bright and white and yellow and the size of a kernel of corn. There was almost nothing left of me, I thought, and I heard voices, and I remember having a conversation that must have lasted hours, and we talked about purpose and hope and love and a hundred philosophical concepts that had nothing to do with drowning at the bottom of the pool. And I saw the Marine Corps dive buddy I'd gone down with struggling with me, and I remember thinking by drowning I would be killing him too, because he was fighting to get his regulator into my mouth, and suddenly drowning my dive buddy seemed like a damned selfish thing to do, and I remember swan diving back into my body, and in an instant I saw the Marine Corps guy's eyes wide, his skin turning blue, and I took a hard pull of air and gave him back his mouthpiece and tried to cough out the water while still ten meters underwater. Later, on the pool deck, the dive instructor who had punched me sank to one knee, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
"You okay?" he asked. I nodded. His look was serious as he asked, "did you see God?"
I shook my head. I heard him, I said. But I was in darkness.
"Darkness. That's not a good sign, sir." He was my instructor, but as an officer I still outranked him, which was the reason for the "sir."
Really?
He nodded. "I don't know what you're life is like, sir, but if I were you, I'd think about changing something."
I stared at him as he walked away, and then he seemed to snap back to reality and his screaming voice came back.
The next day, I met Corvette Girl at the local City Streets restaurant for lunch. She got out of her two tone white and blue convertible 69 Corvette with the Tri-Power 427 and sidepipes. It was a cool car, but it was showing its age. Corvette Girl looked exactly like her photos - she was a hot, pretty girl-next-door type, but there was an incongruous purity about her. There was absolutely nothing slutty about the woman. Had I dreamt the oddness of the sexual exchange? The odd thing was, she was three years older than me, the same age as Naples Bistro Girl, the same age as my sister, and by God, she looked like my sister.
Now, for some reason, her resemblance to my sister made my cock quiver. I don't know what the hell happened to me. For some reason I am either just wired freakishly funny, or there was a major malfunction in my youth, because two thirds of my sexual fantasies are about incest - not with children, always with people older than me. Aunts and older cousins and my sister, but particularly mommy dearest, whom I swear to God never liked me, and the only time she was ever nice to me was when she was doing things to me that she shouldn't have been doing.
I once asked Girl 94, Bat Girl, what was going through her head when I was making her climb the long, steady slope to one of her earth-shattering orgasms, and she smiled shyly and said, all kinds of obscene and unmentionable things. So maybe I'm not all that different. Perhaps it's just that other people don't talk about the things that fly through their minds on the way to a climax.
But the sister resemblance got to me. We could have fun with this, I thought. But then, how long would that take before the fantasy reenactment was done?
I bent down to kiss her on the cheek. She turned her head at the last instant so that her lips were suddenly underneath mine, and her mouth opened and her tongue came swimming into my mouth.
It was Martin Luther King day, and we drank a toast to the man, then went back to the Snake Ranch.
She looked me right in the eye and told me she was a sex-on-the-first-date girl, but apologized profusely that she was on her period. No problem, I said, will you settle for a little anal third base, a couple of fingers in your ass? She smiled and said that would be perfect. We had to hurry up, as she had to get back to work, and so did I. I never did lunch dates, but we were both eager as hell.
A few days later, period or no period, I fucked Corvette Girl practically into a coma, and all the while, my fantasies went into overdrive. When a masturbation fantasy suddenly becomes real, it's like being let loose in Disney World with no crowds. I did Corvette Girl every way a woman can be done. I fucked her pussy. Without asking permission, when she was on her knees, her forehead on the mattress, I pulled my traitorous penis, Tyrannosaurus Rex out of her vagina and slowly rammed it up her ass, and she bit her lip in a momentary pang of pain, and then started moaning so sweetly I wished I'd had a video camera. Suddenly the purity of this woman had flown, and she was a degenerate slut, my cock ramming into her asshole, and I could feel its every quiver. And then I found out the coolest part.
I went to my bathroom and washed the ass off my cock with Dove soap and a washcloth, and I brought myself to her face for her to suck my cock. She relished it, crouching on her knees, her hair falling down and massaging my stomach and thighs. And then it happened. I came in a rush into her wet, willing mouth, and just as I did, Corvette Girl came herself.
Wait a minute. How can that be? I wasn't even touching her. Well, my cock was certainly touching her lips and the inside of her mouth as she sucked me, but a second after cum hit her tongue, she climaxed.
She had taken in every drop and swallowed loudly, and finally sat up straight.
Oh my God, Corvette Girl, that was great, I said.
She smiled. "It was, wasn't it?"
Just a question, I asked. Did you…climax when I came?
She smiled again like a toddler who had just done a successful somersault for her mommy.
"I sure did! It was great too. You taste really good. Really sweet."
It was strange, because when she talked about sex, she used guy words. Like cock and cunt and pussy and buttfucking. And her expression was completely level. She could have been talking about coefficients of drag in the wind tunnel she ran for a university. No more significance to the words than if they were obscure technical terms. I once tried to teach her how to talk dirty the way a woman should, with a hint of naughtiness and a pinch of sultriness. Corvette Girl, you have to raise an eyebrow and say archly, I want to suck…your…cock. Instead, she'd say, iwannasuckyourcock. Like, I want to go for a walk. No, no, no! I'd say. I want, then insert a pause, to suck, emphasize the word by lengthening it, wrap your pretty mouth around the word "suck" and then pause and say, your cock, and again, make the word cock seem naughty. Use the same tongue and lips that do the actual cocksucking to pronounce the word cocksucking. The strange thing is, this deadpan sex talk is exactly the way my sister is. There is some sensitivity that has just been electroshocked out of her, and she can talk about sex as matter-of-factly as she could about money. It had always unnerved me.
I was worried about jumping too soon into a new relationship. I decided to take it "slow" -- as slow as you can go while buttfucking the girl, I suppose. I pledged to myself that we wouldn't be exclusive until way down the road.
So Corvette Girl became a timeshare girlfriend…
(continued in Part II)
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