The Erotic Adventures of Peyton X

by Peyton Brown


The Erotic Adventures of Peyton X By: Peyton Brown 

Dear NaughtyBoySoggyPants.com, 

You’ll never believe what happened to me. 

To begin with, I’ve emailed most of the more reputable pornography websites, and none of them have (so far) published my letter. The few responses I’ve received to my hundreds of inquiries have mostly focused on the shortsighted fact that these websites specialize in photographic and video material rather than on the immense erotic possibilities of publishing my letter. I hope that the good people at NaughtyBoySoggyPants.com don’t make the same mistake. Anyway, I’ve been dating this incredible full-grown human woman for a little over three years, and we’ve only ever made out and done a little hand stuff (strictly hand-on-hand.) We met at a coffee shop in the Opal District after I tried to touch her hair and she slapped me in the fucking face. I later learned that the shirt she had, printed with the words “Touch My Hair” on the back, was what she called a “Slap Trap.” It worked. And she slapped me good. 

But after that, she asked me out, and three years later things were going just the amazing side of great. Then, the other night, we took it to the next level. 

Usually, after a date, I just dropped her off in an alley, and she’d make me close my eyes and count to a thousand while she ran away. Like I said: she’s incredible. But this night was different. She asked me to come up to her place, and told me to leave the car parked in the alley, and to burn it. I didn’t even hesitate, and the trunk full of model airplane fuel made the whole thing an easy job. 

We ran, and the whole thing was a blur until I found us entering her apartment. She took me by the hand and led me through the rooms, each one more gutted and water stained than the last until, finally, we entered her sleeping chambers. 

It was a beautiful room, lit by candles, with lush Burgundy carpeting and polished mahogany trim, and every wall was covered floor-to-ceiling with alcoves, each one containing a different dildo. Oh, reader, what a collection! She had them all: Big purple ones, little yellow ones, Spooky Danglers, Master Chiefs, Floppy Griswalds, Bumguzzlers, Fancy Lads, Cincinnati Tricksters, The Ivory Archduke...all the common dildos you’ve heard about, and more. And every single one was already perfectly dripping with lubricant. 

I asked her how she managed to keep her dildos so well-lubricated and, in response, she opened her nightstand drawer and began pawing through a thick stack of business cards, each one more elaborate than the last, the fonts increasingly delicate and baroque. Finally, she pulled one out and handed it to me. It was encased in a lucite holder filled with water-based lubricant, and it was for a company called “Lube Maids,” and she told me they come in once a day to keep her dildos lubed — and lubed good. 

Oh reader, I fear I would’ve ruined my pants just then if I hadn’t had the forethought to strap my weinie to my leg with 3/4” copper bandirons before I came out that night. Luckily, I had. 

She grabbed a Big Rainbow-Colored Eliot Gould with the optional lamprey head from one of the alcoves and said, “I hate pants. Take them off.” 

Well you’d better believe she barely even needed to ask before I had those pants off and was struggling to get them off over my shoes, my ass down on the floor, wriggling like a dog with worms. Finally...yeah...they were completely off. She retrieved a pair of durable tin snips and cut the copper bandirons from my thigh. She had the firm but gentle touch of a dentist who’s been cautioned a few times. 

My weinie was bruised but ready, and it dripped out to its full foot-and-a-half corkscrew length. I was so excited by now that I barely noticed when she hog-tied me and stuck that Elliot Gould up my ass. 

“Let’s open this baby up and see how fast she goes,” she said, and began stacking fistfuls of the things inside of me until I could see, in her standing mirror, my asshole looked like a cartoon mouth trying to smoke a whole carton of cigarettes at once. 

I couldn’t wait to get this thing started. 

“I’m gonna go get more comfortable,” she purred, emphasizing the syllable “Come” which was hot, because the hottest thing is a sense of humor. She ran out. She loves to run. I heard her in the other room watching Frasier re-runs for what must have been about three hours. 

Eventually I heard the tv shut off and she came running back in, scattering the rats that had gathered in the dimming candlelight attracted by the smell of so much meat-scented edible lube. 

“Thanks. I just needed to loosen up. I see you’ve been loosening up, too,” and she kicked some of the dildos the has slipped from my happy backdoor shame-hole. 

Finally, dear reader, finally! She reached up and removed her customary poncho in one swift movement, and I saw it all. And it was exactly like I imagined. 

Her breasts were rough and weathered like the palms of an experienced stevedore, and her pussy which was the same rich reddish-brown color as the room’s mahogany trim, had the longest, floppiest inner labia I’d ever dreamt of. It looked like an old leather aviator cap, which was exactly what I’d masturbated into as a kid...and still do. 

“I didn’t know you had kids,” I said, noticing her faded c-section scar. 

“It was stillborn,” she whispered in my ear. There was nothing erotic about that. But the privacy and the intimacy was electric. 

“I just need to warm this thing up,” she said, and plugged in a rickety space heater which rattled and cranked to life, blasting hot air straight in my face and she straddled it. The room was filled with the brackish musk of her sex. It was like someone had set up a bonito factory in the middle of the Morrocan spice district. 

If I hadn’t been completely hard before, dear reader, I wasn’t completely hard now, but only because my long, thin weinie never gets completely hard, which I’m not ashamed about because body differences are sexy and I respect myself. But I was as hard as I ever get, and another dildo fell out of my asshole, landing with an erotic plop on the ground and rolling over to the wall where it was immediately grabbed by a greedy rat and pulled into a nearby hole in the baseboard. 

My love, her pussy now perspiring deeply, moved away from the space heater and crab-ran over to where I still lay, bound on the floor. She squatted over me and began coiling my weinie in her hand and then, with the swift subtle movement of a professional thief, bundled the whole thing into her rumpled cooze. Her insides were so hot from the space heater that I couldn’t imagine how she was still alive. I could barely stand it myself. But stand it I did. 

They say, reader, that since the creation of the world there have been seven perfect fucks. This was better than all of them put together. 

Up and down, up and down, up and down she moved my weinie inside or her. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen times. Finally, I couldn’t help myself, and my weinie retched up an average amount of normal-colored seed and all the remaining dildos shot from my ass at once, allowing my spent and coiled member to fall to the ground where it lay like a deflated ballon animal abandoned in the rain after a child’s birthday party. Incredible. 

She kissed me then, stroked my cheek and said, “You’re so beautiful,” and I’m not exaggerating when I say that I felt pretty for the first time in my life just then. 

After that she untied me and we had an open and meaningful conversation about what she needs to get off, and then we did that too. And I’d tell you all about it, but a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. 

When we were done, we watched a few more episodes of Frasier, and I said goodnight. 

I never saw her again because she died the next day in that bus crash that’s in the news right now. She loved to run. But there are some things you just can’t run from. 

So, anyway, I’m just writing because I don’t want the world to forget her, because she was pretty cool. 

Erotically Yours, 

Peyton X