August 31, 2021

OPD: Chapter Two (The Bavarian)

This entry is part 2 of 3 in the series OPD

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Rated: R

I am staring at her boobs, long with age and flat with use, and I’m thinking it really is true, that old adage about how the only rule in life is that women have tits and men want to see them. I mean, here I am, a middle-aged man transfixed by the ugliest pair of breasts I have ever seen, and I try as I might, I can’t tear my eyes away.

That these grotesque floppers belong to Barbara the Bavarian, a woman who has been ridden more times than a New York taxi during a metro strike is, apparently, of no particular consequence to my fixation. That her nipples look like half-chewed pieces of rawhide regurgitated by a rabid dog on a hot summer day is also, apparently, of no consequence. No, it seems that it is enough that I am a man, and these are boobs, and they are bouncing in my face with each thrust of Barbara’s big hips and thick thighs.

In fairness, Barbara is impaled on me like the last marshmallow at a boy scout campfire jamboree and not looking at her tits would be nearly impossible. Not that she cares. Her eyes are squeezed tight in concentration as she rides my pole like a gymnast working the balance beam, and that means I can stare freely at her boobs as they sway in a steady rhythm that reminds me vaguely of a hypnotist’s watch. We’ve been at this for half an hour, and Barbara has already grunted and squealed her way to two massive orgasms. That’s the thing I’ve come to appreciate about Barbara; despite her generous proportions, she is an extremely energetic partner. She won’t quit until she’s had her fill. No surprise then that that’s how she earned her nickname, Barbara the Bavarian, like the donut, not the country. She loves to be filled.

That might sound disgusting, and I’ll admit I was when I first learned the truth about her and her many suitors. Most modern men claim to be above such prejudices and stereotypes but there is something vaguely unsettling about sticking your dick in a communal well. Not that Barbara was a hooker or a call girl, she’s just a woman who likes sex. But as a man, there’s this unspoken belief that if you have to fuck a woman with more notches on her bedpost than a drunken sailor on a three-week furlough, you must be desperate or pathetic or both.

In my case, I’m not going to lie, life had beaten me down pretty hard when I first met Barbara, and I definitely went with the whole beggars can’t be choosers justification. But after a few drinks and more than a few late-night encounters, I soon realized that Barbara was actually pretty decent company. She wasn’t looking for love, or at least not the kind you find in fairy tales. She just likes to fuck, and she’s not shy about admitting it. And that has suited me just fine because as much I might hope to find the kind of love shared by Janice and Dwight Grimsby, I’m not naive enough to think that I will ever be a hero in some bullshit fairy tale.

Fact is, I’ve come to believe that having a fuck buddy, even one as well worn as Barbara, is so much better than having the soul mate described in fairy tales. Sex without strings is so much easier to enjoy. Without the weight of emotion to drag me down, I’m actually able to just relax and swim in a pool of carnal pleasure. Not to mention that it’s sure as shit better than using my hand. I’ve been doing that all week but after the ass-kicking, I took in court earlier today, I really needed a warm place to nestle myself before facing whatever shit tomorrow brings.

I don’t know how Barbara feels about what we do, but I’m guessing by the way she is gripping me tightly between her legs and mewing softly, she’d agree. We’re both looking for mutual satisfaction, and I’m pretty confident by her facial expression that she is satisfied. In another minute or two, so will I.

Except nothing is ever easy, and no sooner have I closed my eyes on my way to my first release than my damn phone rings, and Barbara’s breasts stop bouncing.

“Fuck, Oz,” Barbara says. “I thought we agreed that you would turn that fucking thing off when you come over?”

Her eyes snap open, and her anger causes her to grip my cock like a vice and, before I can offer an apology, an orgasm hits me, and I erupt inside her with an uncontrolled shudder. Fuck. Absolutely nothing worse in the world than a ruined orgasm.

“Really?” she asks her expression somewhere between annoyance and amusement. “Really?”

Before I can answer, my damn phone rings again.

“Well,” she says, “you may as well answer the fucking thing now.” She heaves her gigantic frame off my body, and my penis flops out like a dead fish. She rolls off the bed, making no attempt to mask her unhappiness or her naked flesh. I’m still staring at her breasts, watching them jiggle as she heads for the washroom. She closes the door cutting off my view. Fuck, I really must be sick. My phone rings again, and I reach to answer it.

“Hello?” I say with annoyance.

“Is this Oscar Donaldson?”

The voice is feminine and sticky-sweet with just a hint of contempt. I don’t recognize it. I’m not sure I want to.

“Depends,” I say “who’s asking?” Since I don’t make a habit of giving out my cell number, the fact that I don’t recognize the voice could be a problem. Then again, she could just be some drunk I met in a bar.

“My name is Emily Fisher. It is imperative that I speak to Mr. Donaldson”.

“Is it now,” I offer. “And why’s that, Ms. Fisher?”

“Are you Mr. Donaldson,” she says again, the contempt having given way to obvious anger. “I really must speak with Mr. Donaldson.”

“You and about a half dozen others,” I say without much enthusiasm. “It’s late, Ms. Fisher. If you give me your number, I’ll be sure to have him call you back in the morning.”

“I’m afraid I can’t wait until morning. I really must speak with Mr. Donaldson.”

“Well, Ms. Fisher,” I say, losing my concentration as Barbara returns from the washroom, kneels down between my legs and begins administering mouth to mouth to my german soldier in an effort to rouse him back to life.

“I’m just…” I can barely hold a thought in my head as Barbara works her magic, “I’m just in the middle of something rather important, so you will just have to call back another time.”

I can’t be bothered to wait for a response and throw my phone on the floor and reach down to grab Barbara’s breasts. The whole time I am fondling her, Barbara’s head is moving up and down in a slow, patient rhythm until I am hard. She eventually looks up at me, swirls her tongue on my cock like she is licking a lollipop and asks, “who was that.”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” I reply. “Ready to go again?”

Barbara smiles, which is a faintly pleasant sight but certainly, no penthouse moment pulls herself off the floor and pushes me back down on her bed. In one smooth movement, she straddles me like a mechanical bull and starts riding me again. We don’t get more than a minute or two into it before my phone rings again.

“Fuck, Oz.” Barbara is really pissed now. “Did you come here to work or fuck.”

“Shit,” I say and grab my phone. Call display tells me it’s the same woman calling back. “Fuck her,” I mutter and silence my phone. “Don’t worry, she’s gone now. Just close your eyes and let me take care of you.”

I push my pelvis up to bury myself deeper in her and withdraw slowly while holding her gaze with my smile. “Relax,” I whisper and thrust again. This time she pushes down to meet me, and before long we are both working up a sweat. I let Barbara go the distance on two more orgasms before I allow myself to release in her again. I close my eyes and let the wave of pleasure wash over me like the warm rush of water on a chilly October night.

When we’re done, I dress and head for the door. Barbara doesn’t cuddle or spoon or anything else, even remotely romantic post-coitus. She is in it for the sex, and she’s out like a light by the time I close her door. As good as the sex is, I barely make it to the elevator before the shame hits me. I tell myself that she isn’t too bad. We’re just having fun. But my brain knows better and shoots me one of those, ‘I can’t believe you let your penis betray us like that’ thoughts that make the shame feel that much worse.

As I step through the doors of Barbara’s building and out into the cool evening air, I can’t help but agree. I’m disgusted with myself. But what’s done is done. I reach for my phone and start cycling through the missed calls for something to do. Aside from my demented father, I see Ms. Fisher has called four more times. Who the fuck was this psycho, and how did she get my number. I hit the speed dial button for my voicemail, and sure enough, the psycho has left me a message.

“Mr. Donaldson, it’s Emily Fisher. I don’t know whether you got the message I left with your assistant, but it is important that we speak. I have a case and I need your help.” Click.

I listen to the message again, trying to decide how this woman got my number and why she would think that I needed to talk to her at 11:00 o’clock at night. I am tempted to hit redial but think better of it. The shame has receded again, and I am surfing on the euphoria of my sexual release. No need to ruin a perfectly good night with some client’s real-world problem. Whatever it was would keep. I’d call her back in the morning. Probably.

By the time I get home, thoughts of Emily Fisher are gone. I’m horny again, and so I lie in bed masturbating to the vision of Barbara’s tits, only it’s not working and soon my frustration mounts as feelings of shame and guilt collide in the darkness until I am too exhausted to think. At some point, I drift off to sleep and find myself haunted by the sight of Janice Grimsby chasing me around with her mechanical penis.

Series Navigation<< OPD: Chapter One (The Jury)OPD: Chapter Three (The Client) >>

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