(This chapter, you may notice, owes much to that wonderful piece of cinemato-pornography,
I've Never Done This Before
[1985], directed by Lawrence T Cole, and starring Nina Hartley and Kimberly Carson.)
The name's Ouettecunte: Carl Ouettecunte. You've met my slut of a wife already, I believe. And my two wonderful fuck-brained children, Jack and Claire, of whom I am very proud.
I am a small businessman. That is, my business is small, not me. And nor is my cock, as I think Jane has already mentioned. I run an agency providing fuckers to local businesses -- a small but personalised service, highly respected locally, including a contract with the local council. I get several applications a week from local sluts wanting to get their cunts in the door of the fucking business. In the Olden Days, they would have been derided as whores, and I as a pimp -- and the entire scenario as pornographic. But what was once porn is now the height of respectability -- even worthy of the Ouettecunte family name. Isn't the Enlightenment marvellous?
As you can imagine, I was delighted when our daughter told us she wanted to apply to the Royal Academy of Fucking -- an ambitious path for a fucker, but potentially a route to great things. Some of their alumni go on to suck cock for top City executives! Truly -- and I know I've said this before --isn't the Enlightenment marvellous, providing not only liberation for us all, but opportunities my parents' generation could never had dreamt of?
It's been a while since Claire submitted her application. Autumn has passed, winter is waning, and now the firstfruits of spring are in the air. On one such balmy Saturday morning, I am lying in bed, having my customary pre-breakfast vintage mag-wank, whilst intermittently half-listening to the sound of slurping, moaning and squelching through the wall from the kids' bedroom -- when the doorbell rings.
"Oh, Jane, could you get that?" I call out. I am concentrating on a double-spread featuring a mixed-race teenage slut grinning ear-to-ear at the double load of cum she has just received from two men standing over her: not the sort of wank one should interrupt unnecessarily, don't you agree? On the other hand, my wife is already up, clad in a see-through dressing-gown, her hair still wet from her shower.
"Of course, dear," she says, and pads down the stairs to the front door.
"M' cock. Miss Claire Ouettecunte?" I hear the postman ask.
"That's my daughter," she replies. "She can't come to the door right now: she's sixty-nining her brother. Can I sign for her?"
Curious, I reluctantly abandon my fuck-mag, heave myself out of bed and stand, my erection still waggling before me, on the landing at the top of the stairs, whence I can see what's going on. "Ouettecunte -- that's an interesting name," says the postman, as he proffers the docket for Jane's signature. "Is that her real name?"
"It's not just her name; it's what she's like," Jane replies. "She takes after me," she adds, parting the front of her gown and reaching down to spread her pink fuck-lips with two fingers. "See?"
The postman gulps. "Are you trying to seduce me, ma'am?" he asks.
"Of course," replies Jane, beckoning him in and shutting the front door behind him. "We live in Enlightenment times. What was once pornographic cliché is now the height of chic. And there's nothing more clichéd, or chic, than seducing the postman."
"Agreed," says the postman, as he follows her into the living room, crouches down, and begins lapping at her vulva. "Oh, you
are
a Ouettecunte -- and you have one too."
"Just fucking spell it right, stud," Jane mutters.
The doorbell rings again. "Carl!" Jane calls out. "Can you get that? I'm a bit... wet."
I must admit, I'm getting hungry for breakfast, but I guess after a performance like that, I can hardly refuse. I jog down the stairs, past Jane and the postman, my cock erect and glistening, to answer the front door.
"Good morning, m' pussy, Mister Ouettecunte," says the young lady on the front doorstep. Her hair is up, her makeup is perfect, her lipstick is bright red, and her glasses are perched just a touch too low on her fine nose. Her white bow blouse is tight around her large tits, her grey pencil skirt is slightly too short to entirely cover her ass, and she grips a pen and notebook in her arms. "You ordered a locum pornographic secretary? I've come to take some dick--"
"Ah yes, of course! Come in, come in, Miss, er...?"
"--tation. And: Coxucca."
"Miss Coxucca -- that's an interesting name," I say to the newcomer. "Is that your real name?"
"It's not just my name, Mr Ouettecunte," replies the secretary, sucking the end of her pen thoughtfully. "It's what I do..."
"And are you good at it, Miss Coxucca?"
"Of course, Mr Ouettecunte. I am a secretary -- and this is the Enlightenment." She kneels on the carpet in front of me.
"Oh, Miss Coxuccca," I moan, "you are very good at dick--"
"--tation," nods the secretary, as she swallows my erect shaft.
There is a peremptory series of knocks at the door:
shave and an assfuck
, to be precise. "Who's this now?" I wonder aloud, as my cock slides gloriously in and out of the secretary's full red lips. "Jane, can you get that?" Jane tears her cunt away from the postman's increasingly slobbery ministrations to open the front door -- where there stands, of course, a plumber, wearing overalls and brandishing a large spanner.
"I didn't ring for a plumber," she remonstrates.
"You didn't," agrees the plumber. "But this is the Enlightenment: every pornographic cliché applies. And I need to fix your leak," he adds, indicating her cunt, which is already dripping with fuck-juice and postman-saliva, a slimy mixture of which is dribbling down her thigh.
"I see you have brought a very large tool with you," says Jane, pointing at his spanner.
"Oh, this tool is nowhere near big enough to fix that leak," the plumber explains. "For that, you need
this
!" He unzips the front of his overalls, and his cock -- which, I will admit, is very large -- springs out.
Jane is clearly delighted. "Oh, come in, come in, Mister Plumber," she says, lying on her back on the carpet so that he can feed his massive tool into her leaking cunt, whilst the postman switches to fucking her face. "Mmmf'ck," she mumbles through a mouthful of cock.
"Your turn, darlingmfff," she insists when the doorbell rings again. This time, unaccountably, it is the district nurse, in a short-skirted red-and-white leather outfit, with a red cross over each of her very large tits.
"We weren't expecting you today!" Jane and I exclaim simultaneously -- though my wife's words are largely incomprehensible, muffled as they are by the increasingly enthusiastic facefucking of the postman.
