Pics and Pricks
written by:
Naughty Miranda

It arrived in time for my morning yogurt. I was scrolling through my e-mail, hitting "delete" more often than not, and paying just enough attention to be certain that I wasn't erasing anything important. Like they say in the fairy stories, "some day my Nigerian Prince will come."

Stop.

Freeze.

Oh my God.

When I was younger, penfriends sent me photos of their face. Today, they send me pictures of their cock.

I know which one I prefer. Faces, you can see anywhere. You can walk down the street and there's faces everywhere. And when you read a letter from a friend, you form a vision in your mind of what they probably look like.

Cocks are different, because cocks are different. Every single one of them. And seriously, if someone goes to the trouble of writing a note after they've read one of my stories, explaining in detail the effect that it had on them (and let's face it, that is the best part of the entire process), then some pictorial evidence of what they say is always going to be welcome.

And every time a new one arrives, my response is always the same.

Stop.

Freeze.

Oh my God.

And wow. If that's the effect my words had on you, I can only imagine what my actions could do.

This one, though; this one was a real oh my God-er.

I'm not going to say it was the biggest I'd seen. Not the fattest, not the longest. The Selfie Stick did not need to be telescoped. But it takes a lot of talent to click that shutter (or whatever you call the button on a cellphone) at the precise moment of orgasm. At the precise moment of the height of orgasm. When the cum is shooting through the air, arcing gracefully, white and bright...

...I looked down at my yogurt.

Vanilla.

I love breakfast.

I love getting mail.

A "ding" as another email arrived. Same sender but no attachment this time. Just a smiley face and few words on the screen. "I hope you liked."

Hit reply. "I loved." Then, "sorry, got to run."

A glance at the clock; time for work. I closed down my laptop, finished dressing, fixed my face, and boldly out into a spring Philly morning, with an extra spring in my step and... oh. A certain dampness, too. This was going to be an interesting day.

I make it a point not to check my e-mail at work. Not that account, anyway. I'm too busy, it's too distracting, and the office is way too busy, as well. The last thing I need, as I go about my duties, is the image of a strange man's penis exploding out of my cellphone. If nothing else, it'd give a whole new meaning to the term "set it on ‘vibrate'," and I wasn't going to go there. Not at work, anyway.

Today might have to be an exception.

Bathroom break. Cellphone out, account logged in, scroll through the incomings... ah, there he is.

"Want to see more?"

Reply. "Yes." A smiley of my own. What did we used to do, in the days before we could add emojis to our correspondence? Actually, I'll tell you what we did. We used words, instead. I deleted the smiley. "You brightened up my entire day." Send. Log out. Switch off. Work.

Half an hour later, another bathroom break. "God, the coffee's going straight through me today," I excused myself as Lisa, at the desk beside mine, looked up. She grinned. "That's why I only drink vodka," she said, and to be honest, I wouldn't be surprised.

Cellphone out, account logged in, you know the drill. Open.

"You want to brighten up mine?"

Reply. "That sounds fun." Send... and as if he'd been waiting by his own computer, a reply came back almost instantly.

"Tell me what you'd do to this."

It was a photo of a photo. My photo, up on his screen, the one from my author page that was taken long ago, but which still makes me smile when I see it. Except I couldn't see much because his cock was there too, fully erect, in front of my face. My picture's eyes were fixed on it, my lips were slightly parted. As if...

I felt a pang of jealousy. My old self gets all the fun. I was poised to reply, but I paused as well. What would I do with it? Right here, right now... what would I do?

The outside door banged as someone else came in. "I'd make you wait and see," I wrote quickly, then flushed and exited the stall. My phone vibrated in my hand. I wished it was something else.

Back at my desk. A quick peek? It couldn't hurt.

Shit, a video. "It won't wait too long." I tapped the play button. He was jerking off. Slowly, gently. But firmly. The volume was down, but my mind's eye could hear his excitement rising. And suddenly - splash, another hot arc, another... damn, I almost wrote "mouthful." I thought "mouthful." I wanted a mouthful.

"What you doing?" Lisa again.

"Sale at Penney's," I lied quickly. She pulled a face. Lisa has not been to a mall since she was a teenager hanging out there; if she can't spend a week's pay on a single item of clothing, in a flash boutique with a French-sounding name, then she'd rather go naked.

"What a waste," I typed quickly. "I hope there's more." I logged off and put my phone in my purse. I needed to get on with my work.

Fat chance.

It's odd. When I was young... and actually, for a few years after that, if you wanted to see a picture of an erect prick, you had to draw it. Seriously. The handful of Playgirl style magazines out there were bound by law to avoid even a hint of an erection, and on those very rare occasions when you encountered a harder-core publication (usually purloined from a schoolfriend's older brother), the photography was so fuzzy that you really couldn't make very much out.

Or the color would be completely off the wall, and you'd go through life wondering whether some guys really did have emerald-colored cocks. Which gives a whole new meaning to mom's nightly reminder that you should "eat all your greens," but still wasn't especially appetizing.

Now, they're available (the pictures, not the greens) at the simplest click of a mouse, while a night being creative on your favorite search machine is like window-shopping the biggest cock-mart on the planet.

But even with such a smorgasbord laid out for your approval, nothing eclipses the thrill of receiving a picture in the mail, and knowing... well, like I said before, that something I wrote, and posted on this site, was responsible for the sight that meets my eyes. And I'll be honest; the first time it happened, I was surprised.

I knew my stories turned me on, and yes, I became rather good at typing one handed. At least until I picked up a dildo with a suction cup, fixed it to my favorite chair, and learned to type with my pussy happily stretched around six inches of firm, warm silicone. But it never even crossed my mind that readers might...

...and then I discovered that they did...

...and wow. That's all. Wow.

I was a good girl. I didn't go to the bathroom again until I was on my way to lunch. And I thought about not checking my emails while I was there. But of course I did, and of course a response awaited me, picking up on my "what a waste" remark and asking simply, "where would you prefer it went?"

On my tits, across my face, down my throat, in my tum... someone once wrote and asked why almost all of my stories are about blowjobs. Ummm - because I like them? I like writing about them, I like thinking about them, I like giving them.

"Why do you never let the men in your stories pleasure you?" is another one, and my response is often the same. "What do you think they're doing?" I've cum more times with a cock in my mouth than anywhere else you could name, so while I appreciate your concern, please don't worry about me. My pleasure is well looked after.

"Everywhere," I wrote back. "I want it to go everywhere."

I'm not sure where I read it, but apparently the average male ejaculation measures somewhere between a teaspoon and a table spoon. No, don't write in to argue; the whole point of averages is that some are a lot bigger, and some a lot smaller.

My point is, it doesn't sound much, but it goes a long way. I'm talking in pure cosmetic terms here, but some of the most effective facials I've ever had have been derived from that simple teaspoonful, and the applicator is a lot more fun too. Because sucking cock isn't all about the sucking, after all. It's the licking, it's the biting, it's the slurping, it's the nuzzling, it's the entire all-my-birthdays, supersized-ice-cream, lollipop-banana and-it's-all-mine delight that accompanies the sucking that really makes it magical.

Incoming: "I'd like that."

Reply: "I want that."

Lunch.

And so on and so forth... all afternoon, up and down to the bathroom, back and forth with the e-mails. I told him what I wanted, and he made me want it more. I told him my panties were damp, and he made me soak them through.

That guy on the bus home who kept inching closer? Yeah, maybe he was a weirdo. But I'd prefer to think he was just a normal guy, doing what any normal guy would do when there's standing room only on a rush hour SEPTA, and the smell of hot pussy is so thick in the air that you could almost kneel down and taste it. Which may be why he dropped his briefcase when a few more people squeezed onto the bus, and why I completed my ride with him pressed up so close that I could feel his erection against my thigh.

I was almost sorry when my stop came in sight. I was even sorrier as I stepped off the bus, without giving him a farewell squeeze with my hand. Instead, I didn't even make eye contact with him.

Gerry, my boyfriend, was waiting at the stop, his vintage convertible fresh out of the shop, and purring up an absolute storm. I knew how it felt.

Dusk was falling. "Let's just drive," I told him. "Let's get out of the city." My hand was on his leg. "In fact, I don't want you to stop until I tell you to."

He grinned. "Good job I filled her up," he said, and I resisted the obvious answer, although the words were dancing on the tip of my tongue. "And now you can fill me up as well." Out into the countryside, heading down towards Lancaster. My hand stroked his inner thigh, and he parted his legs just a little, encouraging me to go deeper. I ran a finger across his ball bag and heard him catch his breath; then I fumbled with his buttons for a moment, till my hand could slip inside.

Of course he was hard, but his voice was uncertain. "Err... and if anyone should drive by and see us?"

"It's dark. And we're in Amish Country. I don't think there'll be any supercharged buggies overtaking us."

He was in my hand, and I gently stroked, making him harder, making him slicker. A thumb across his helmet smeared his precum into our flesh, and I raised my hand to my lips, licked at the fluid, then considered my options.

I wished he had a larger car.

I squirmed in my seat and undid my safety belt. I could feel him watching out of the corner of his eye. I shifted some more, then leaned forward.

"Watch the wheel," he said, and I felt him slow a little.

"Keep driving," I told him. "And suck in your stomach."

He obeyed both commands and my tongue touched torrid heat. For a moment he leaned away from me, but then there was a sudden clunk as he pushed his seat back all the way.

That's better.

The wind in my hair, his helmet in my mouth. It's funny, when we first started dating, six months ago, I could barely fit it into my mouth. "Thick and meaty," that's the term. Now... well, it's still a bit of a strain, but damn, it's worth it.

Not tonight, though. Tonight I wanted to relax. Tonight I wanted to have fun. Tonight, I wanted my super-sized ice cream. And I got it. There was not a pore in his skin that I did not taste, not a ridge or vein that I didn't follow with my tongue.

Even in the darkness, with my neck beginning to ache, every thought, every image, every single urge that had flooded through my mind all day long was played out by my greedy mouth, and when I knew, from his breathing, that it was finally time, I murmured "you may want to find some place to park," as I spread my jaw out and took him deep.

He slowed, and I felt the car gently leave the road, bumping to a halt on the grassy verge - as Gerry bumped to a climax inside my waiting mouth. One teaspoon, two teaspoons... it felt like he'd been waiting as long as I had for this moment, and I couldn't even swallow it all. Instead, I let it dribble from my lips to his shaft, to be swept up by my tongue. Then I sat up, breathing deeply as my neck and back relaxed back in to place, listening to the last groans of his gorgeous, delicious orgasm.

"Stay here. I really need to stretch," I told him. "And pee."

"There's plenty of bushes," he laughed, and I punched him. "You take me to the classiest places."

But of course I didn't really need to pee. I wanted to check my messages. In fact, I felt my phone vibrate as soon as I took it out of my purse.

"As good as you expected?" I read, and I was about to type my reply when a second one came through. "Sadly, it's too dark to take another photo."

I turned back towards the car. "That's okay," I said, as I kissed him. "I got a pretty good look at it already." Then, as I belted myself back into my seat, "so you really liked this morning's story?"

He laughed. "It was one of your best," he assured me, softly. "But the real thing is even better."