It Takes All Types

Big girls, small girls.
Short girls, tall girls.
Thin girls, fat girls.
Old girls, brat girls.
What’s the difference? Who cares what they look like,
just as long as they cook right!

What a load of rubbish! All women are not ‘girls’, and
all women are not the same. There are only two things
that really matter to me in a woman, and they aren’t
on her chest or between her legs. Heart and soul –
they are what makes a woman. Don’t get me wrong, I
like women’s more female attributes as much as the
next guy, except perhaps that time when I was the next
guy. As for cooking, well, I spend as much time at the
stove as my partner.

Yes, I have a partner. You didn’t think I was single
did you? Of course, she’s eighteen, got a perfect
body. She works out every day and I just love to slip
her sweat sodden kit off and slip deep into her there
in the changing room, pumping away as she climbs up
me. We nearly got banned the other day when her
screams of passion could be heard in the pool at the
other side of the squash courts. Yeah, right, of
course they were.

So, she’s not a California-fit super-babe…
thankfully. Anyway, our local leisure centre wouldn’t
look kindly on men lurking and humping in the female
changing rooms. No, she’s got a great body all right –
she modelled in Paris. She can turn me on with just
her supermodel glare and a twist of her Cinderella
foot on an Eiffel tower heel.

She walks out there with nothing on but a paper-thin
lace skirt the price of Cuba’s GNP. How wonderful her
breasts look as they pout firmly under the lights that
caress her golden-tanned skin. They almost pulsate to
the music as they swagger up and down. Ok, so she’s
not a model really.

She looks great in her leathers. The seat of her GSX
950 gets a real good seeing too every time she
straddles it. I’d love to be that seat, but I don’t do
130 mph, and I don’t kick her in the backside every
time she twists my grip. She’s a real wild child, her
long shining tresses streaming behind her in the wind.
As she gets off she unzips her leather jacket
revealing… nothing, nothing but her breasts and
nipples. She never bothers to wear much else, it’s too
much hassle to keep on taking on and off.

Before she’s had a chance to tell me how busy the
roads were she’s lying with her breasts astride the
tank and her legs beside the warm engine being filled
by me. If only that seat could talk – but of course it
can’t and the nearest she’s ever been to a motorbike
is watching Easy Rider on TV. She used to be an air
hostess, but she had to give it up and she spent much
too much time servicing my needs in the air rather
than those of her passengers.

The Mile High club? Club, First class – even in
economy. No matter where we were we were flying high,
and flying united. Then she became a nurse. Oh, those
uniforms! All crisp creases, starch and black
stockings. We’d thrust the night away in the linen
cupboard, she come over and over in the nurse’s
station yet her creases would always stay put, and her
stockings would never ladder.

She always cared for me as well as for her patients.
Ok, they had to be patient as they listened to her
fifth orgasm of the hour, but at least she always
looked great as she gave them the benefit of her
bedside manner – she always looked great when I got an
eyeful of it.

No? Well, at least she did start early. I had her for
the first time on the morning of her sixteenth
birthday. I was just fourteen. It happened on a
camping holiday in Italy. She was moaning about how
she still had to go along with her parents on lame
holidays. She said she hated Venice – took wet she
said. It may have been but she wasn’t, she was just
right as I slipped into her.

I had never had a girl before, though I’d seen
pictures in magazines. I’d been looking at better
stuff on the net for ages so I knew what to do. I
first met her outside the showers. We talked, she
seemed to like me. She told me about how uncool all
this camping stuff was, and about how much she missed
her boyfriend back home. Actually she told me how much
she missed his eight inch cock.

She stood there, bold as can be, and told me straight
how straight and thick it was and how no man could
ever match up. She said they had been at it for over a
year. She said she loved it best when he forget to buy
condoms, she said she got an extra-special thrill when
he came right up inside her. Then she told me it was
her going to be her birthday, and that she’d die
without him there to give her one, or two, or, as she
wanted, four or five. I did the gallant thing. I
offered my services. She laughed and walked off.

So there I was, the next morning, standing naked in
front of her as she lay half-asleep in her tent. She
woke and saw my erection. She soon forgot her
boyfriend as I repeatedly stuck her with my nine-inch
love pole. We must have woken her parents; as I licked
her out we heard them at it too. They didn’t go for
long and he can’t have been much good as after I came
inside her for the second time her mother came in and
pulled me outside and sucked me off before getting me
to do her doggie fashion on the still damp grass.

Maybe it was Clacton, and maybe I just tossed off in
the washrooms after saying hello just the once. I
never met her parents, and I’ve no idea if she had a
boyfriend, or whether the only love of her life was a
picture of the cute blond one from East Boyz.

No, to be honest she chatted me up in a bar. She
walked in and came up to me and sat down on the stool
next to me. She ordered a beer, and taking it by the
neck swilled down a mouthful. Looking intently at me
she licked the froth from her lips. She liked to ride
horses so that she could use the whip. She loved the
feel of leather wrapped round her, and reined me in
good and proper.

She loved the feel of my firmness wrapped up in hide
as she stuffed me into her. She never let me come. If
I did she chained me up in the basement for a couple
of days to teach me a lesson. She brought home a
couple of black dudes one night after I’d been
naughty. She made me suck them hard for her, then she
drained them dry three times each, covering herself in
their come.

She yelled at me that I didn’t deserve her, and that
I’d have to bring up these stud’s kids if I wanted to
have touch her again. She didn’t get pregnant so she
got the studs round to serve her again. I had to pay
her stud fees for her. Eventually she got her baby –
twins in fact – and I soon got used to the laughs as I
pushed her half-casts through the park.

She was really shorter than me. I really mean shorter.
On stage, as an unknown understudy on for the lead for
the very first time, she ate the audience. They loved
her, and she loved them, but I was the first to LOVE
her. I met her backstage. She bumped into me as she
was returning to the dressing room. She dropped all
the flowers her adoring audience had thrown to her.
Her dancing was exquisite, her body flowed flawlessly.
She became the music, moving with delicate grace
hiding all of the immense strength and fitness that
the demanding role required.

I offered to carry her flowers for her, handing her
just a single red rose. She giggled as she opened the
door of the changing room for me. She stepped in
without hesitation, I baulked at the threshold. Inside
her colleagues, the other female dancers of the corps,
sat, chatted in various states of undress, seemingly
oblivious that a male was watching. She beckoned me
in. I tentatively put a foot through the door. She
slid off thin the shoulder straps that held up her
costume, she began to peel it away from her chest.

I closed the door quietly behind me and then went over
to her. She kissed me, pressing her partly exposed
breasts to me. I reached down to her hands and pulled
her up from the chair. She didn’t resist as I pulled
her buttocks to me. She had to stand en pointe to
reach my lips, but that was no problem to her.

The soft pink silk fabric of the crotch of her costume
yielded to my firm hand, revealing her soft pink. She
said nothing, heaving in my arms, one leg twined
around me in a vice-like embrace. No one looked as I
yanked my zipper down. No one saw as I exposed myself
to her pink. No one saw, but everyone heard her cry
out for me to stop as she felt the ripping of her
delicate flower of flesh as I roughly impaled her pas
de deux.

Honest? Really honest? Ok, she took my virginity, or
did I give it to her? We’d been dating for over four
months. We’d spend all evening on the sofa, her head
in my lap as I fondled her nipples. But she never let
me touch her ‘down there’. On night she said she’s
been to the doctor, so that it was ‘all right’ now.
She led me to my bedroom, turning down the light to
the barest glow. Stripping in the near darkness I saw
her nakedness for the first time. I didn’t see much,
her bush was just a darker patch in the night.

She got into my bed, slipping under the duvet. She
asked me if I was going to stand there all night. I
asked what she wanted me to do. She told me to do
whatever came naturally. She told me it was ok to take
my clothes off too. I had touched her once, it was
after an office dinner. She wore this soft dress and
in our passionate kissing she didn’t notice, or mind
too much, my hand pulling it up, exposing her bare
thigh, smooth above her stocking tops.

I fumbled around, she didn’t seem to mind much, not
even when I pushed my fingers under her panties and
felt her bush. She stopped kissing me and drawing her
head back looked at me. She said nothing as I squirmed
my fingers between her tightly clasped pussy lips. She
kissed me again and pressed her breasts closer, our
whole bodies coming together.

She was not a slip of a lass, she was a big girl: a
large woman. She had a lot of flesh on her and we were
so close that I couldn’t turn my hand to feel her
properly. She held her thighs together tightly, not
opening to let me go further. When we parted from the
kiss she drew away from me, straightened her dress up
and left.

That had been six weeks before and those weeks had
grown increasing frustrating for me. As I slipped into
bed beside her she got comfortable, her back flat on
the bed. She reached for me. She had not often touched
me there. She had occasionally stroked me. Just
stroked me, delicately and never so that I came. She
never looked at me there. She remarked how big I felt,
and I told her how much I wanted to fill her with it.
Once or twice she’s let me feel her pussy, opening her
legs just enough for me to slip a finger over her
moistened folds. I think she came once, I wasn’t
really sure and she wouldn’t say.

I felt a movement lower down the bed, I felt sure it
was her legs parting. My heart pounded. I asked what
she wanted me to do. She just said she was on the
pill. I still wondered if what I wanted to happen
really was about to happen. I asked her if she really
wanted me to make love to her. She replied that she
hadn’t gone on the pill for nothing.

I positioned myself as bed I could but all I could do
was thrust my tip into her hairs. She grasped me
again, pressing my head lower. It slipped over her
flowering folds. They were open and moist, even I
could tell the difference between them and her hairy
mound. She held me at her opening. She told me to kiss
her. As I dropped my head to hers she pressed firmly
on my buttocks. Still with her other hand around my
shaft she engulfed my head. We stopped kissing and I
closed my eyes to feel every pulse of my heart. She
pressed on my buttocks again.

My mind rushed back to the night, many years before at
the age of thirteen and a half, I’d first come. It was
one cold November night. I’d been to the theatre with
my parents. They wanted to educate me about the arts,
so they’d taken me to a dance show. It was serious
contemporary dance, great stuff or so I was told. I
don’t know about the dance itself, all I can remember
was the skimpy costumes and thigh-hugging, pussy-
lining bodysuits.

I’d played with myself often enough, but I’d never had
the guts to carry on past the pleasant firmness-in-my-
cock stage. That night in bed, as silently as
possible, I thought about those dancers, laying on my
side, stroking my cock strongly.

As the feelings built I nearly chickened out. They
were so strange and powerful that I didn’t know what
was happening. I knew what was meant to happen,
‘spunking up’ as we boys called it, but I had no idea
of what that would feel like. No one said much about
what it felt like – ‘great!’, ‘best feeling in the
world!’, ‘frigging mindblowing!’. What was happening
was so intense I was almost afraid I would injure
myself.

Was this, this feeling of being pulled inside out over
a hot poker, really what they said was the best thing
in the whole world? The immensity of the sensation so
consumed me that I feared it would drive me mad. It
had better be right; it had better happen, or else I’d
die trying. Yet through it all I pumped on, knowing
that I too might be able to ‘spunk up’, and join the
real boys. When ‘it’ finally did happen it was, to use
a well-worn clich , truly earth-shattering.

When I came down to earth I feared that I might have
brought up blood and not spunk, the feelings had been
so intense. Shaking, I reached for the bedside light
and, flipping the covers back, turned it on and looked
down to my groin. There on the sheet was not blood but
something quite new and unexpected yet desperately
hoped for. It was there. Not much, a few drops maybe,
and it was surprisingly yellow, but it was undoubtedly
come – I was a big boy.

In the days, weeks and months that followed I took
every opportunity to repeat the experience; twice or
three times a day. The fluid soon turned to the more
expected white, or at least very light grey. I looked
at it, smelt it, and tasted it even – marvelling that
this was all that was needed to make a new life. Each
drop could make many, many lives, yet each drop made
none, it was all spilled and quickly wiped away. Each
time I did ‘it’ I hoped it would feel as mind-
blowingly powerful as that first time. Each time I was
a little bit more disappointed.

A few times on camping holidays I did hang around the
shower blocks waiting in case some desperate young
girl needed what I innocently thought was a man. They
never did of course. As the days turned to weeks and
eventually into years I began to wonder if I would
ever experience as wonderful an orgasm as on that
lonely bed. In those years my thoughts turned more and
more to how it would feel with a woman. I knew how it
felt by myself, by my own hand. I knew that only too
well, but with a woman…? Would it be different? How
different?

There was only one way to find out, but somehow the
opportunity never seemed to present itself. The only
time a stewardess took me by the hand to somewhere
quiet was when I’d had a few too many before a long
flight to Canada. I even took up weight training at
one time, partly hoping that some toned beauty might
take a fancy to me. None ever did of course. I look
stupid in leathers, and motorbikes and I never seemed
to see eye to eye.

I’ve never actually found what the media say is
beautiful to be beautiful. Models remind me more of
anorexia and then look sexy. Call me old fashioned,
but I like a bit of flesh on a woman. I like something
to snuggle up to. I love to think I can enter a woman
and really get inside her; not tear her apart or blow
her away. That’s what I was about to do, enter a
woman. Not just once either.

We had been together for many months now, and slowly
but surely we’d been leading up to this moment, the
moment when we’d join together physically in love.
It’d be a while before we’d be joined officially, but
for now what was about to happen, indeed was actually
happening, would be more than enough.

I felt her pulling me to her. I felt her tilt her hips
to give me easier passage into her. I felt her special
lips open around me. I felt her heat on my engorged
head. With another pull she had me in her half-way. It
was different, very, very different, but in ways I
couldn’t put into words. It was the best feeling in
the world. It was great. It was mind-blowing. I didn’t
thrust, I didn’t move; I just lay there, supporting
myself on my knees and outstretched arms and filled
her with my come.

I didn’t so much as come, as it came over me. I was so
amazed at everything – that it was happening at all
was enough, that it was in my own bed was too much to
bear – that I didn’t feel any of the familiar build up
that normally foretold my coming. I just closed my
eyes and came, or more correctly I just ejaculated
into her, warm and gentle. It felt the most perfectly
natural thing to do.

She lay quietly underneath me as my come suffused her,
filling the tiny voids between us, making us one. My
continuing hardness must have surprised her. She
asked, in a quiet almost apologetic tone, if I still
wanted her. I replied with the first, very tentative,
thrust I had ever made inside a woman. She reached
down, I caught her hand in mine and held her to the
bed. My thrusts steadily grew in firmness, the bed
beginning to rock slightly with my movements.

We kissed, her lips on mine, our tongues together,
thrusting, thrusting and thrusting. Her lips tight
around me, moulded to me, holding me. Her hips moving
with mine, our bodies together, firmly together,
sweaty chest on sweaty breast, hair in hair, bone
pushing against bone over and over, over and over.
Head held back, stress flowing through tight bodies,
ever straining, buttock clenching, pelvis thrusting,
glans aching, clit pulsing, shaft pushing, cunt
taking, sweat raining on to virgin white sheets.
Harder and harder, vagina-stretching, cervix-
pummelling, labia-curling, clitoris-clubbing, glans-
pulling, foreskin-rubbing, thigh-tearing, head-
wrenching.

With a cry mistakable for terror she grabbed at me and
held me to her. With three shakes of her body she took
her long earned release. I felt her pleasure throes on
my shaft, a soft throbbing barely detectable over my
pounding heartbeat. She arched her hips high, bringing
her thighs together, cutting me out. I struck down to
her thighs, pushing them apart.

With a thud of the bed on the wall, she dropped back
to the bed and protesting silently with her legs, I
took her. No delicacy now, all her pleasure was spent.
I thrust heavily, as fast as I could, taking her,
having her… fucking her. She was almost limp when I,
every muscle in my body drum-tight, felt those
sensations again. As I dreamed of a boy and body
contoured dancers a few drops streamed out of me and
with them finally went our innocence.

Another time, in another place and another bed, she
straddled me, towering above me naked in the
moonlight. She was heavier now, laden with the joining
of my sperm to her egg. It was soon, very, very soon
yet she still offered her lubricant jewelled lips to
mine, waiting for me to slip my tongue between them
and taste her private nectar.

She didn’t have to wait long. Nor did I when she later
slipped back down the bed, folding her now gaping
flesh on to my eager pole. With carefully measured
strokes she helped herself to my body, apparently
unhindered by the nine-month weight within her. She
didn’t take herself there, still, after all this time,
she felt it felt best with her on her back.

After delicious thrusts she slipped off me and rolled
on to her back beside me. Taking my hand she drew me
on to her, opening her legs wide to accommodate mine.
Almost on fully outstretched arms to avoid the massive
full-term bump, I took her once again. It wasn’t
difficult, and the tight roundness of her belly rolled
down all the way to her groin, the two seemingly as
connected on the outside as we knew them to be inside.
I entered her, holding my shaft in well-practiced
motion to her labia, drawing my tip over her frilled
lips, tantalising her clit, and spreading her juices
over her gaping vulva.

With a push I penetrated, thrusting deep and strong,
mercilessly taking my pleasure and hers. That’s what
she wanted, and my semen, when it flooded her cervix,
gave her exactly what she needed. Pounding and
probing, pulsing and pushing; I explored her well-
charted depths and conquered her long-since mapped
lands once more. Her powerful muscle dam, bathed in my
prostaglandin rich come, surely must soon break.

I did, I emptied myself into her, as I had to give
her, her now almost-newborn. Side by side, the three
of us, all quiet, the kicks long since subsiding in
those cramped confines, slept for a few all too short
hours. At five the remnants of my semen were swept
aside. By seven-twenty, and in that same bed, I held
our daughter in my arms, I wondered what type she
would grow up to be….

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