Sex with Rachel
- 4 years ago
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Finding Rachel free porn video
Author’s Note.
I first published this about a year ago under a different title but I wasn’t happy with it so pulled it for a rewrite. The storyline is much the same but the ending significantly different.
If you are after a quick stroke story this is not it: rather, it’s a tale for those who like a bit of a build up and some romance, and – dare I say it – a little humour too. It is a lighthearted tale with a touch of fantasy and fairytale about it, so please don’t take it too seriously (unless you happen to believe in Genies!). There is sex in it, of course, but it is secondary to the main theme of the story. If you don’t like it then move on to richer pickings, but if you do, please leave a comment or a score (or both!).
None of the characters or names within it are based on any particular person, living or dead and all are over the age of 18 – although Tony Wilson, the main character, sometimes displays an immaturity that defies his years…
H_S May 2014.
Finding Rachel. Chapter 1
‘And another thing!’ Rebecca Armitage’s voice cut through the hubbub of conversation like a paring knife though the soft, wrinkled flesh of a scrotum. ‘You have a tiny, weeny dick!’
An instant hush settled over the room and I gaped at her, completely lost for words.
Bec looked around the bar and smiled. It was not a nice smile, by any means: rather, it was a malicious, mean-spirited, below-the-belt smirk that never touched her eyes.
‘It’s like a fucking little worm,’ she explained to the listening crowd. Her voice was getting louder, reaching through the open doors into the street. ‘Small and useless,’ she shrilled, ‘and….’ she drew in a breath and I could see her mind racing to capture the right adjective. I braced myself.
‘…miniscule!’ she said triumphantly.
Now, there was a time not long ago when I would have seriously questioned whether Bec would even know a word like ‘miniscule’. There’s no doubt about the quality of her physical attributes, but it’s fair to say her intellect isn’t up to the same standard. It isn’t just my assessment either – the general feeling amongst everyone who has fucked her, and there are many, is that the mass of each of her tits is at least twice that of her brain – and she is only a 34 C cup on a good day. But hey, she was clearly on a roll and you could have heard a pin drop. I could see everyone feasting their eyes on this feisty little blond who was happy to share her view on my noodle.
‘It’s a pathetic, shriveled, microscopic ugly little worm!’ she screeched, ‘and I never want to pick my teeth with it again!’ And with that she turned on one shapely heel and stormed out of the room.
You know the old adage – if you throw enough shit some of it will stick? Well, she’d just flung a complete fucking sewage works at me and I was covered in piles of ordure. Jesus! I looked around the room and was met with a sea of gleeful faces, and my heart sank. I knew that tomorrow some smartarse would christen me Tiny Tony or Wormy Wilson and the name would stick, and the story of Bec trumpeting my tiny, weeny little tool to the world would grace dinner tables and be the butt of jokes at my expense for years to come.
The bar was silent and I saw they were all looking at me. God, if only I was clever with words. I needed someone to defuse the situation, to turn the tables on pox-arse Bec – but I just didn’t have that gift and so I waited for some knight in shining armour to defend me.
The silence stretched out. I could hear the grandfather clock in the hall ticking.
‘I say,’ said Phil, who was standing next to me. He was my best mate and I knew I could count on him. ‘That was a bit unkind -‘
A sense of overwhelming gratitude surged though me. ‘Thanks Phil,’ I murmured.
‘- to worms,’ he finished.
The room erupted in laughter and I shrank back from him. Fuck! Tiny Tony it would be then, and I wouldn’t have minded if not for one stark fact.
My cock really was tiny.
*
As I stood there I reflected on the short story of my member. It was small – three inches or so, and that was when it was really angry. And there was nothing I could do about it. The bottom drawer in my cupboard was full of stuff that absolutely, positively guaranteed a longer dick: creams and lotions, pumps and weights and suction gizmos and stretchy bands. Over the years I’d tried everything but all it had done was empty my bank balance and give me a sore – and still small – prick.
I’d sought advice, too, and they’d all said the same thing – not to worry about it. In different ways, of course, like my G.P. ‘It’s still functional, Teeny – er, Tony,’ he’d said. I’d stolen a surreptitious look at his crutch and seen the outline of an elephant’s trunk in his pants. Condescending bastard. Or my shrink: he’d steepled his fingers and stared at the ceiling. ‘It’s not the size of your pecker, but how you use it’ he’d said, with all the sincerity of an undertaker explaining he could bring a body back to life (I’d reflected later on the irony of seeing a shrink about a small appendage). And then the young female doctor in the sexual health clinic with the sexy overbite and big nipples: ‘It’s not the meat, it’s the motion,’ she’d breathed in a little-girl voice. I’d hoped she’d show me how, but apparently she had much bigger things on her mind.
The worst was from my sister, though – a spontaneous comment as she saw me coming out of the bathroom one day when I thought the house was empty. ‘Oh, Tony,’ she’d shrilled. ‘What a beautifullittle willie!’ I’d scurried to my room, red-faced and humiliated, thinking that although my member might be compact, her twat was probably the size of the channel tunnel.
There was nothing to be gained by staying in the bar so I slunk out and started walking home, hoping that Bec was under a car somewhere and wondering where my sex might come from, now that she was gone. She might have been a first class bitch but her pussy was exceptional, and it wasn’t like I had a lot of other options. Perhaps I could find a midget somewhere who would be happy with the size of my equipment.
There’s an old junk shop in Morris Street not far from where I live and I often stop and look in the window. Passers by might think I’m interested in the bric-a-brac that fills its window: old books and pots and vases and bits of allegedly antique brass that probably come from Taiwan – but frankly, that shit leaves me cold.
No. The reason I stop to peer in through the grimy window is because there’s a little brunette who works there. She’s lovely: a shade over five six, I reckon, with a face as sweet as a baby rabbit, tits like honeydew melons and a shapely little arse that is just begging to be licked all over, preferably drizzled in golden syrup. She can be seen in the shop window from time to time – apparently rearranging the crap there – and she invariably wears a pussy-pelmet skirt…you know, one of those micro things made out of half a handkerchief that barely covers the hairs on her minge. And the thing is, she doesn’t seem to mind that most of the male neighbourhood stand with their dribbling lips stuck to the glass, ogling her spectacular derriere and the pubes peeping from the elastic of her little white panties. I don’t know what she gets paid, but it isn’t enough – half the sales must be to guys buying shit they don’t want, just to get a closer look at her.
The window-dressing thing doesn’t happen often, though, so I wasn’t expecting too much as I rounded the corner just down from the shop but – fuck me! – there she was, bending down setting up a box of crappy old vases in the corner of the window…and the street was empty. She was mine to ogle, all by myself. And so I hurried over and pretended to study a pile of old books in the window with my eyes swiveled sideways so I could see up her skirt. It was even shorter than the others and her panties had been pulled
up so tight I could see the complete outline of her pussy: the dark lips pressing against the fabric and the material folded in between, jammed in her crack and translucent with her juice. She hadn’t shaved recently, and little wisps of dark silky hair curled around the elastic in contrast to the white creamy flesh of the top of her tights. Fuck! And her legs were perfect, too: slim and shapely with the glossy flesh as firm as a ripe peach, leading up to that arresting little crack and the spectacular globes of her tight little butt either side of it.
The pretense of studying the books was forgotten. I mean, if you had the choice to examine a tattered copy of Ripley’s Believe it or Not or a delicious little snatch not two feet away in a pair of microscopic knickers clearly not up to the job, which would you choose? No contest! And so I stood there with my tongue hanging out and my dick like a paddle pop stick in my pants, gazing at syrup-arse’s delicious little cheeks with lust on my mind. I could almost smell her: the lovely, warm odour of a healthy young woman, and my mouth watered at the thought of how she might taste.
Christ knows how long I stood there with my tongue pressed against the window, but all too soon she stood up and the object of my desire disappeared under the hem of her little black skirt. She turned and saw me with my nose pressed to the saliva-stained glass and her face lit up in a smile you could have powered a thousand homes with. I mean, I’m not much to look at but that smile was just as if George Clooney was standing there with his dick out: a genuine, thousand-watt welcome that I just couldn’t resist.
So I found my feet taking me into the shop…into that den of dust and debris and musty old books, not to buy anything but because I just had to see her close up. To gaze into those clear blue eyes and look upon face – or, better still, to peer down the top of her blouse at her magnificent melons. Who knows, I thought, as I stumbled in over the step, I might even get a head job. There was more chance of Pluto colliding with the Earth, but hey, I’m an optimist.
And fifteen minutes later I lurched out into the street twenty quid poorer and in love. Fuck! Rachel Pudney (as I discovered her name to be) was really something! She’d treated me like I was the only guy in the world. She’d ignored my stuttering and my stumbling and the drool on my chin. She’d touched my arm (which I now wasn’t going to wash for a week), and smiled into my face and asked who I was and what I liked, and then sold me some piece of junk that I didn’t need and didn’t want other than she’d been the last one to touch it. It was worth twenty quid just for that.
I watched as she wrapped my purchase in tissue paper, her fingers dexterous and slim and her alluring breasts heaving with every breath into her lovely body. ‘You come back soon, Tony,’ she’d breathed in her soft west country lilt that made my little member crank up another millimetre. ‘And tell me all about it.’
‘About what?’ I’d asked, perplexed.
She’d handed me the change with a knowing little smile, her eyes taking apart my soul as if she could see right through me. ‘You’ll see,’ she said, and she laughed a few tinkling notes as sweet as honey as I lurched from the shop in a daze, clutching my purchase.
*
I live with my parents and sister in a house in Mort Street, which is well named as it must be the most fucking dead-end place in the entire universe – but it’s free and Mum does my cooking and washing, so I can’t complain. My old folks have one end of the house and I share the other with Cassie, my sister, who is two years older than me. Cassie has a steady boyfriend and she likes to sneak him into her room when she thinks no one else is home.
I’ve set up a webcam in a shoebox on the top of her wardrobe, and I watch as he fucks seven bells of shit out of her on her bed, the floor, the carpet and, on one memorable occasion, balanced on top of the dressing table so he could watch his dick going in an out in the mirror. Despite the fact that Cassie is getting it regularly she is a complete pain in the left nut so we try not to have much to do with each other.
I hurried home and shut myself in the bathroom, thinking of Rachel Pudney’s fine round tits and tight little snatch, and in no time my little soldier was stood to attention. I dragged him out into the light of day and stroked him, thinking of how good she would feel and which of her delicious little orifices I’d do first. God damn, she was hot! I imagined how tight she would be and how my cock would look as it pumped in and out, and how she would grunt and groan under me as I fucked her. Holy shit, it was good!
In no time at all I felt the familiar urge and I shuffled my feet forward to the edge of the third tile and pointed Percy at the mirror while my orgasm built in my brain, spinning upwards in a tight little spiral of pleasure until, with a groan, I spurted. A jet of jism sizzled upwards and splattered on the mirror about a foot above my head – Bingo! A new record! A few others followed, gradually trailing down the glass until the final dribbles splattered on the floor next to my feet. No doubt about it, Rachel Pudney had won this round – better than Mila Kunis, whom I tossed over a lot, and even Charlize, by a good head’s width.
As I contemplated the milky product of my balls dribbling over the glass there was a furious hammering on the door and a female voice boomed through the keyhole. ‘Tony! Are you in there!? Let me in!’
‘Fuck, Cassie! I’m busy!’
‘I’m busting! Let me in.’
‘Go to the other loo.’
‘It’s busy! Jesus, Tony, I’m going to pee myself. Let me in, please!’ She hammered on the door again, the timber creaking with the force of her blows. She’s a strong girl, my sister.
‘Christ…OK, OK.’ I fumbled Percy back into my pants and unlocked the door.
‘Jesus, Cass- ‘ but she darted past me and was already crouching on the bog with her pants around her ankles, so I shut the door and went back to my room before remembering that my sperm was still splattered over the mirror. Shit, shit. Now she’d have something else to hold over me.
The parcel Rachel had wrapped was on my bed and I picked it up and sniffed it carefully, hoping it would retain a trace of her perfume. Bec used a similar product – two pound fifty from Boots – but somehow it didn’t seem as alluring on her as it did on the devine Ms Pudney. Anyway, there was no trace of it so I tore open the paper to remind myself what she had sold me.
It was an old fashioned oil lamp, I think – you know, one shaped like a gravy boat with the wick poking out of the lid. The metal was dark with age and the spout was blocked by what appeared to be cement. The lid was similarly fastened with some sort of silicon (which inexplicably made me think of Rachel again), and the whole thing was tarnished and dirty.
I remembered her enthusiasm as she pressed it into my hands. ‘Look at this, Tony,’ she’d warbled. ‘A genuine antique!’
‘But I don’t collect antiques.’ I protested.
‘Of course you do, silly! It’s just that you haven’t started yet!’ She regarded me with eyes as big and blue as wedgewood saucers. ‘Don’t you want to start?’ Her smile lit up the room. ‘I’d be here whenever you wanted help! I could come round to your place and help catalogue them.’
She probably said the same thing to every guy who bought something, but it didn’t matter. I was captivated by the vision of her being here, on my bed, observing my meagre collection of antique artifacts and making little grunting noises as I explored the tightness of her tube.
‘Um, how much?’
‘For you, twenty.’
‘You mean twenty pence?’
‘Twenty pounds, silly!’ She glanced at the back of the shop to ensure we were alone and her voice dropped. ‘You won’t regret it, I promise.’
‘But I -‘
Rachel put her hand on my arm. ‘Please, Tony! I haven’t sold a thing al
l day. Just for me? Please?’
If she’d offered me a plastic statue of Adolf Hitler at that moment I’d have bought it, so I paid my twenty quid – and here it was. A ratty, battered, fugly, expensive jug: my very first antique. I picked it up and turned it over and examined the bottom. There were words etched there, probably some sort of hallmark, and I rubbed the warm metal to remove the grime and held it up to the light to read the fine print.
Made in China.
And at that moment it happened. The jug shook violently in my hand and became instantly hot to the touch. I dropped it like a hot potato and stared with eyes like Rachel’s tits (round and bulging) as it bounced on the floor and came to rest on its side. The lid was flung off violently to strike the skirting board with a dull clang, and a spume of grey dust shot out from the open top like someone had just stamped on a vacuum cleaner bag. But it wasn’t dust – it was a cloud of…something, whirling and spinning in a little spiral of granular particles that turned blue and then silver and shimmered and teased the eyes, forming one shape and then another before finally coalescing into…the shape of a man.
For a few moments there was silence in the room as we observed each other, and then I reacted with customary finesse.
‘Fuck!’ I shouted.
‘Is that a command, master?’ His dark eyes regarded me without blinking.
‘Holy shit!’
‘What about that?’ He smiled, his teeth a dazzling white in the dark skin of his face. ‘Is that a command? I need a command.’
‘Who – the – fuck -are – you?’
‘Me? Oh, sorry.’ He did one of those ornate bows, you know, where you sort of wave your arm around at the same time as bending forward at the waist and bobbing your head.’ Let me introduce myself,’ he said, ‘Ali Akbar Khan the -‘ he closed his eyes for a moment, as if counting, ‘- twenty third.’
I stood there like a landed fish, my mouth opening and closing with no sounds.
‘And you are?’ he asked quietly.
‘Um – T-T-Tony Wilson.’
He smiled again. In time I was to grow to hate that smile for its utter insincerity, but for the moment at least it reassured me that he wasn’t inclined to violence. ‘T-T-Tony Wilson,’ he repeated. ‘Well, T-T-Tony, you look surprised to see me.’
‘Fuck yes!’ I tried to gather my thoughts. These two word conversations weren’t useful. ‘Where in hell’s name did you come from, and what the fuck are you doing in my room?’ I asked. Better.
‘I was in there,’ he said, and touched the gravy jug with the toe of his shoe, ‘ and I’m here because that’s where the lamp was when I got out.’
I studied him for a moment. He was a big guy – I mean, probably six-six and broad across the chest. The diameter of the jug’s top was about an inch I guess, so that didn’t compute. Not only that, but if you’ve just been reconstituted from a bunch of dust particles you’d expect to look like a hobo but this guy was smart…I mean, we’re talking a thousand guinea suit here, with a crisp white shirt and an Armani tie, and shoes like polished glass. His face was long and lean and sort of olive in complexion, but it was freshly shaved and I could smell a pint or so of eau de cologne even from where I stood. I figured the jug didn’t have a bathroom inside so he was clearly bullshitting.
‘Yeah? I asked. ‘Well, if that’s true then I’m Jessica Alba – how about you piss off out of the house before I call the fuzz?’
‘Is that a command?’
‘Fuck! What is it with this command thing? Well, if it makes you so frickin’ happy then y-‘
‘Stop!’ He held up his hand. ‘I’m sure you know the routine, Tony. A genie pops out of the bottle and offers three commands to his rescuer. Well, that’s me and you. You’ve got three, my friend, so don’t waste them.’
My lip curled. ‘Why don’t you just get back in the jug, you loony.’
‘Is that -‘
‘No, it’s not a fucking command! It’s a little test to show me that I’m right – that you’re speaking out of your arse…and if you can’t get back into that -‘ I gestured at the little jug, ‘- then you’re a certified nut and I need to call the cops.’
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