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.
“You don’t have to expect me,” explains the district nurse. “After all, everyone likes fucking nurses – almost as much as secretaries, plumbers and postmen. This is the Enlightenment, after all!”
I need no further invitation. I push the nurse down onto all fours, lift her skirt, and feed my cock into her bald cunt from behind. Miss Coxucca lies below her and begins licking my balls, as the nurse buries her face in the secretary’s tight slit. “Mmmfuck,” I mutter.
“Is that with two ‘m’s or three?” asks the secretary, reaching for her notebook.
“Actually,” explains the nurse, lifting her face out of the secretary’s cunt, “as I am a district nurse, I need to examine all members of your household. Very closely. Are there any other family members at home?”
“Oh yes,” I reply, “but they’re doing a sixty-nine upstairs. Would you like me to call them?”
“If you don’t mind, Mr Ouettecunte.”
“CLAIRE! JACK!”
Claire and Jack come running down the stairs, hand-in-hand. “Yes, Daddy?” Both their faces glisten, and ropes of saliva dribble and dangle off Jack’s cock and Claire’s chin.
“The district nurse would like to examine you,” I explain, as my cock alternates back and forth between the nurse’s shaven cunt and the secretary’s red lips. “Very closely.” Meanwhile, the plumber and the postman swap positions, so that Jane is now sitting on the postman’s dick while the plumber stands, plundering her throat with his tool.
“I like being examined closely, Daddy,” Claire reassures me, as she sits on the sofa, her legs spread wide, her sloppy half-eaten cunt on display. “What do you think, nurse?” she asks. “Am I all right?”
The nurse wriggles her cunt off my dick, so as to inspect Claire’s gash more closely. My annoyance is temporary: I merely plunge my cock back into the recumbent Miss Coxucca’s face.
“It is certainly a Ouettecunte,” says the nurse, before taking a long slow lick upwards from Claire’s perineum to her clit, which she circles repeatedly with the tip of her tongue.
“You misspelt that, nurse,” insists Claire. “Ouettecunte is who I am: wet cunt is what I have.”
“I need to examine your brother too, Claire,” says the nurse. “Is he a Ouettecunte too?”
“Oh yes, and he can give you one very easily, nurse.”
“Oh, really? How might he do that, Claire?”
Claire signals to Jack, who positions himself behind the nurse, lifts up her short latex skirt, and slides his cock into her pussy from behind. “Oh yes!” squeals the nurse. “I think you will give me a very ouette cunte if you keep that up, Jack!”
“You can’t… fucking… spell,” complains Jack, as his cock slides in and out of the nurse’s fuck-gash, which, true to Claire’s promise, is dribbling juice down her thigh.
The nurse doesn’t care: “It’s French,” she lies, before plunging her face into Claire’s crotch to slobber maniacally at both her holes.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” says a voice. “On behalf of Easyfuck, it is my pleasure to welcome you aboard. Please stow your cocks in your trouser compartment when not required.”
“Now I’ve got an airline stewardess in my living room!” I sigh – but fairly soon decide that it really doesn’t matter. After all, everybody loves fucking airline stewardesses…
The stewardess, who appears to have sneaked in after the nurse, is wearing long white gloves, thigh-high stockings, a very short pencil skirt, and a dark blue forage cap. To everyone’s delight, she has forgotten her jacket, and her tits jiggle seductively as she announces: “Ladies and gentlemen, all vibrators, fleshlights and other portable electronic devices must be turned off and stowed for departure. Thank you.” She perches on the arm of the sofa and leans back so that her cunt and asshole are tastefully displayed to all the assembled.
Now, I think Jane may have implied to you in the previous chapter that we’re not really an anal family. Well, that’s perhaps overstating the case: Claire and Jane aren’t so keen on the passive variety, for obvious reasons – but Jack and I love it. Er, the active kind, I mean – and not with each other, I hasten to add: Jane is right to think that if I had to take a cock in my asshole, I might think differently about the practice. But as it is, my cock is always happy to take advantage of any willing female dirtpipe.
And so is Jack’s. He pauses fucking the nurse to gawp at the stewardess’ asshole, which is now winking open and shut as she announces: “Please familiarise yourselves with your emergency exits. Female passengers should have three; males, sadly, only two.” Obediently, Jack abandons the nurse’s cunt, walks over to the stewardess, and nudges his slimy cockhead up against her winking anus. She continues her announcement: “Keep in mind that the closest usable exit may be located behind you. It is a called an asshole.”
Jack loses it. Can’t blame him, really. “Mfffuck!” he exclaims, and plunges his dick right where the girl shits.
“Is that with one ‘f’ or two?” asks the secretary, reaching for her pen. In response, I signal to her to turn over and round, so I can worship her ass. And what an ass! Her buttocks are round and jiggly, and from the cleft between rises one of the finest anal fragrances I have ever smelt in my life. I spit on her brown hole and begin probing at it with one finger, in anticipation of the heavenly-tight pleasure to come.
“I say ‘Ouette’, you say ‘Cunte’! Ouette! Cunte! Ouette! Cunte! Gooooo Ouettecuntes!” comes a cheer from outside the front door.
“What the fuck?” I exclaim. I mean, I like fucking random pornographic clichés as much as the next man – but can’t a self-respecting well-born sex-maniac small businessman get some peace at least some of the time, especially before breakfast? “Claire, answer the fucking door, please!” I call out. Actually, Jane might have said the same too, except for the fact that her mouth is still stuffed with the plumber’s very large tool. The plumber is clearly working very hard at fixing her leak, but spit and slime continue to dribble from Jane’s lips and down onto her tits. Maybe he’s not a very good plumber.
“I SAY ‘FUCK’, YOU SAY ‘ME’! shouts the cheerleader Claire has just admitted to the house. “FUCK!”
“ME!” responds Claire.
“FUCK!”
“ME!”
“GOOOOO FUCKERS!” screeches the cheerleader, leaping into the air and shaking her pompoms with idiotic enthusiasm.
I have just about had enough. “What the fuck – now there’s a cheerleader in my living room!” I groan. “I didn’t even know we had cheerleaders in this country…” I could throw her out, of course, but instead I wearily slide my cock into the secretary’s tight shitter. It’s a hard life being a respectable local small businessman with a big dick…
“Nor do we have American football in this country, Daddy – but look!” exclaims Claire, as a team of burly black men follow the cheerleader in through the front door, sporting helmets, face masks, shoulder pads, number “69” jerseys, and cleated boots. Claire claps her hands in delight at the fact that all eleven of them appear to have forgotten their pants: instead eleven jet-black erect penises protrude from their crotches, all of them pointing at my daughter.
“Ooh, boys, forward pass or backward?” giggles Claire, as she spins her body around, alternately displaying tight pussy and pert arse to them. “Or just a fumble?”
The cheerleader is overjoyed, tearing off her top so she can jiggle her tits around enthusiastically, as she screeches:
“Ouettecuntes, what are we gonna do?
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Ouettecuntes, what are we gonna do?
We’re gonna fuck tonight!”
Soon Claire is sitting on top of one of the football players, her cunt speared by his big black cock while she sucks off two others at the same time. The cheerleader shakes her pompoms and starts another cheer:
“F-U-C-K fuck ‘em!
F-U-C-K fuck ‘em!
Fuck ‘em, fuck ‘em, that’s our custom!
GOOOOO FUCKERS!”
before leaping into the air and landing in the splits on the lap of another football player, her cunt engulfing his cock in one go. “Touchdown!” shouts Claire in encouragement, as two more black cocks fill the cheerleader’s mouth.
Now three footballers are fucking my daughter, another three the cheerleader – soon to be four, as yet another player approaches her and squeezes his dick into her tight asshole. The remaining four players stand stroking their cocks, ready to substitute in case of injury.
“In case of unexpected penile decompression, dildos will be released overhead,” announces the stewardess, as Jack continues to pound his cock in and out of her gaping brown emergency exit. “Reach up and pull the dildo toward you. Place the dildo in your cunt and masturbate normally.” She does so, of course – as my son withdraws from her ass and rams his shithole-flavoured dick into her pretty throat.
I am still doggy-fucking the secretary’s ass. Jane is being energetically facefucked by the plumber who, despite his best efforts, is still singularly failing to stop any of her orifices leaking. The nurse, perched on the end of the sofa, and has lifted her ass high into the air whilst she dildos her cunt, so that Jack can alternate back and forth between fucking her shit-gape and her lovely drooling mouth. The cheerleader is on her hands and knees, airtight, four or five big black cocks pounding in and out of all her orifices. (I think the only hole which has just one cock in it is her cunt – but don’t quote me on that: the sight lines are not the greatest.) Finally, Claire is still bouncing her pussy up and down on a footballer’s dick while deepthroating two others.
But then the postman reaches into his sack, exclaiming, “Oops – I’ve forgotten to give Miss Ouettecunte her letter!”
“I’m busy!” shouts Claire, momentarily removing the cocks from her mouth. “Mummy, will you read it for mmmfff?” before her pretty face is re-stuffed with a double serving of male fuck-meat. The plumber kindly ceases fucking Jane’s skull so she can tear open the envelope and read aloud:
to:
Miss Claire Ouettecunte
The Old Whorehouse
Little Dicking
Wankshire
My daughter largely ignores what Jane is saying, instead squealing, “Mmmfuck my face with those big black dicks, you motherfuckers!” But my wife gamely continues to read:
Dear Miss Ouettecunte,
Thank you for your letter dated 19th November 2049, and for your application to the National Diploma in Fucking course. I am delighted to be able to offer you an audition and interview, at 10.00 a.m. on Monday 14th March 2050, at the Royal Academy of Fucking, London.
“Fasten your fucking seatbelts!” calls the stewardess, as Jack’s cock continues to alternate between her asshole and her throat, while she massacres her own cunt with her emergency dildo. Jane continues to read:
You are asked to prepare one presentation from each of the two following categories:
Category One:
a. blowjob
b. cunt-eating (active, not passive)
Category Two:
c. cunt-fucking
d. arse-fucking
(N.B. One of your two presentations may, optionally, have a fetish theme. But whether or not it does will not affect your assessment.)
“Oh, yes, fuck my ass, Mr Ouettecunte, that’s so fucking good!” screams the secretary. My balls are slapping against Miss Coxucca’s cunt as I drive my cock in and out of her rectum. But Jane keeps reading:
You are asked to bring your own fuck-partner. If that partner is female (necessary for option b above), she may use a strap-on (or auto-dildo, if available) for Category Two.
Do not hesitate to contact me...
