After Alison posted to the internet a homemade porno of her girlfriend jilling-off to an orgasm, hundreds of women responded asking for help. Who knew so many women don’t know how their lady parts work? They draw up a business plan, and the name of their new enterprise is Come Again. These beautiful women fulfill the American dream: making house calls to teach women how to masturbate.
In ‘China Dragon,’ the team meets its most provocative client: a beautiful and wealthy Asian-American widow with a dark secret—and a smoldering desire for Moriah, the Come Again team’s youngest member.
On the eve of the Civil War, Melanie’s love life sucks, what with her plantation-owning husband away to militia trainings and state’s rights conferences. The house servants are swooning over Big Jim, a black field hand who’s big in every sense. Soon, Melanie’s cornfield trysts are filling her needs—until the Master of Oglethorpe confronts the randy 19-year-old. She confesses, but causes more trouble. “Really, Beau, this ownin’ of other human beings is so…so distasteful. Why not pay them a paltry wage and rent them their hovels?” Outrage! Nearly as outrageous as the hot and humorous ending!
~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~
“Hold it, man. Just hold it,” Stacey said. “What you’re saying—no way. That kind of transformation—trust me on this, I know people who have done it—costs tens of thousands of dollars and takes many surgeries. Come on, Brian. Level with me.”
They had almost polished off a bottle of wine. It wasn’t until the second glass that Brian found the words and told her the reason he had to see her.
Sighing, he got up. “Okay if I slip into something more comfortable?”
Two minutes later, he was back. His flannel sleep shirt came mid-thigh.
“Shaving your legs? Really?”
Brian sat next to Stacey. “There’s no other way but to show you,” he said, and pulled the shirt up to his waist.
Stacey pushed his legs apart, her nose inches away from his genitals.
“This is just incredible,” she said under her breath. “I mean, uncanny.”
“I know. Bob asked me if I was taking hormones.”
“Not just that. I’ll have to show you.”
Stacey wiggled out of her jeans and pushed her thong down. Sliding away from Brian, she spread her legs.
“Look. Look at me.”
Brian had skinny dipped with Stacey a couple times. But, unlike in porn, he discovered that in real life women don’t lie around with their legs spread. Even with their one failed attempt at sex in his parent’s station wagon, he had no idea what Stacey looked like.
Stacey’s girl parts were the mirror image of Brian’s—a classic clamshell capped with a downy brown bush. Brian even had a mole on his left thigh just like hers.
“It’s real?” Stacey asked. “It works?”
“Stacey, I rub myself every day. Three, four times. It is insatiable. It’s a problem, but, jeez, not one that I’m in a big rush to fix. I had no idea chicks had it so good.”
“Did you show Bob?”
“No, please, no—tell me it isn’t so. He’s doing you?"
“Not strictly speaking. Bob’s not gay,” Brian said, blotting the shower incident out of his mind. “Hell, I’m not gay. It’s just, well…”
“At least twice a day.”
“What else? I mean, who else?”
“Hank, the new guy at the shop. He does me every night after we close.”
Stacey slapped her open palm on her forehead. “What if you get pregnant?” She was almost yelling.
“I guess if I get pregnant, I’ll get rich. Think about it. I’ll be on TV. I’d be the first man in history…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
She eyed him critically. “So, why are you here? Sounds like things are going just ducky. God knows, your sex life is better than mine.”
“God, Stacey, I’m still changing. You heard my voice on the phone. Look at my legs. I don’t shave them. Same with my underarms. My butt is round and tight. The more I use it, the more I feminize. And look at this.”
He unbuttoned the sleep shirt.
“Oh, baby,” Stacey cooed, her hands moving across his hairless chest. “Oh, they’re so cute! You’re ready for your first training bra!”
~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~
We were in the middle of nowhere. It was warm, late summer, and putting our clothes back on didn’t make any sense. After we made lunch and I had looked at Dave’s thing for like the five hundredth time, I got urges. It was something about being outdoors and nude. “Ever do a tree?”
“I’ve been horny enough, but never figured out how.”
“Trees are really sexual, don’t you think?” I said. “Always hard, pointy on top, lush and flowing in the wind.”
“You are horny.”
“C’mon,” I said, and he followed me into the surrounding forest. My thing was hard and, surprise, surprise, so was Dave’s. I was looking for a birch tree.
Stepping through the woods, both of us nude, our things bobbing, we picked our way around big rocks and fallen branches. “This is so primordial,” I said as we rock-hopped across a small stream. What I meant was wandering nude, deep in a national forest, no clothes to put on in the unlikely event we encountered anyone. As we stepped across a stream and scrambled up a small bank, I couldn’t get my eyes off Dave’s muscular legs, the way his butt muscles flexed as he pushed up the bank, his fat things swinging between his legs, his manhood bouncing. At the top of the bank was a small clearing with several birch trees at one end.
I found a tree about six inches in diameter and ramrod straight, and I pushed into it. The smooth bark was delicious against my straining thing. I pushed and rubbed and rolled. Wrapping my arms round the narrow trunk, I pushed my nipples against the bark, rubbing up and down. I kicked off my sandals and pushed my feet and toes into the loamy soil as I hung back, my hands gripping the tree, my groin pressed into the trunk, legs wrapped around the tree. I visualized my pale white butt making little circles as I rubbed.
I turned around, put my hands on my knees and pushed back, grinding my butt against the hard, cool bark. The tree trunk was narrow enough that my cheeks enveloped it. In a way, the tree was inside me. Dave watched me fooling around, hefting himself as I churned my cheeks against the birch. Walking nude through the woods with another guy inspired me. “Got the olive oil?”
“Yeah” he said, waving a small nylon bag.
Creeping along, grabbing branches and trunks as we worked our way through the woods, I searched for a branch of a certain size and height off the ground. Dave saw that I was looking for something.
Then I spotted it—a large fallen tree trunk, about four feet in diameter, flat on the ground. It was covered with moss and had probably been there for decades. Centered on top was the nub of an old branch, sticking straight up. It was about half a foot long, the size of my thing, maybe a little thicker, rounded and smooth from years of exposure to the air and weather. Inspecting it for smoothness, I decided it would work.