“Yes, but I’m here now to play your leg like the keys of a piano keyboard,” he said.
Chuck kissed her forehead. “Just enjoy it.”
“Okay, carry on,” Luna said.
Alexander began to play. He was up and down her leg, her thigh, trilling away on her kneecap, glissandoing down her calf. She leaned back and sighed a soft, murfling sigh, allowing her head to fall into Chuck’s lap. “Oh, sorry,” she said, feeling a large lump there.
“May I unpin this bauble from your hair?” Chuck asked.
Luna’s eyes were closed. She nodded. Chuck took out the barrette and leaned and kissed her on her ear. Then, when Luna was almost swept away by the music on her right leg — she could hear it perfectly — suddenly she felt another man’s hands on her left leg.
“Wait, who are you?” she asked.
The hands held her leg very firmly and confidently. “I am Nikolai.”
“Nikolai who?”
“Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov, the very famous Russian com-poser,” the voice said. “I will be playing a piano transcription of my very famous Scheherazade.”
“Where?”
“On your nude left leg. Starting now.”
The two composers began fingering and squeezing her legs with great intensity, and then, as if by mutual agreement, they both seized her legs and gave a strong but gentle pull, sliding her farther down in her chair. “Woopsie,” said Luna.
“Don’t worry,” said Chuck softly. “They’re just pulling you down so that you’re fully seated in the pussy cradle.”
“Of course, the pussy cradle,” said Luna, as her pussy made firm and not unpleasant contact with a curved item covered in black leather and shaped a little like a bicycle seat. It fit her just right, and the two composers now began pulling and stroking with a soft sort of insistent rhythm.
Luna rocked herself into it and she heard Chuck make a slight growling sound as he traced his fingertips over her neck.
“Chuck,” she said, “seriously, what’s going on here? This is getting down to the nitty-gritty.”
Chuck laughed. “It’s what happens at the House of Holes.”
Luna thought, Why not? She let her head fall back again till she could feel some of Chuck’s interesting groin bundle through his black pants. It pushed against the side of her head. Just then her attention was diverted by something stiff and warm tracing the curve of the arch of her foot.
“Mr. Borodin, is that you?” she said.
“Yes, that is my cock,” said Alexander Borodin. “It is very hard and very famous.”
“I see,” she said. “It tickles a little. And you, Mr. Rimsky-Korsakov?”
“One moment!” said Rimsky. “And now, my cock, too!”
There was another resilient stiffness against her toes. Luna pushed back with both feet and felt both cocks standing hard against the composers’ taut bellies. They both seemed surprisingly fit for musicians.
“How’s the music going for you?” Chuck murmured into her hair.
“It feels good to have two stiff Russians pushing against the soles of my feet,” said Luna, smiling up at him.
“Good,” said Chuck. Then convulsively he whispered some-thing in her hair that she didn’t catch.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“No, Chuck, please tell me what you said.”
“I said, ‘I wish I could fuck you in the mouth with my cock and come all over your pretty lips.’”
“Woo, Chucky.” Luna got a melty feeling in her shoulders. She turned and squashed her face against his lap, inhaling his warm cocoa-bean smell through his dress pants. The smell went right to her head. “Hurry, because this pussy cradle is feeling way too good.”
Out flopped the enormity of Chuck’s dick, poking stiffly between his white shirttails. It came to rest on her lips.
“Jesus, that’s a nice dick, Chuck. My god. Rimsky, Alex, don’t stop!” She bucked against the pussy cup. “Nnnnnng! This is way too good!”
She threw her head back and opened her mouth for Chuck’s cockness. “Fuck my mouth!” she said.
Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov were squeezing her calves and doing mad cocky things at her toes. “My penis is coming right now!” moaned Borodin. “My penis is coming, too!” said Rimsky-Korsakov. “Oh god, Chuck, I can’t hold back much longer,” said Luna. “Stuff my mouth with that fucking beast!” She ground her pussytwat against the crotchy holder, lifting her hips high to hold the moment in suspense. “Nnnnng-aaaaa!” She let her orgasm wave crash down just as she felt two hot blasts of white Russian semen drizzle against her toes.
“Phew,” she said, breathing deeply, but she wanted more. She pulled her legs from the holes. “Now really fuck me, Chuck. No pussy cradle. I want to feel you inside.”
Chuck turned the chair around. “You ready?” She nodded, feeling the Russian sperm cooling on her feet. Chuck’s thundertube of dickmeat started sliding in. It pushed her frilly doilies of labial flesh aside, and it kept on going till it couldn’t go any farther. She grabbed his hips and pulled him in, and then he pulled out, leaving her empty and waiting, and then he slammed into her train station again. His cock train was commuting in and out of her pussyhole, filling and emptying it by turns, and she loved it.
She heard him say, “Here it comes, oh, here it comes,” almost in a whimper, and then he made a strange guttural cry that sounded like a tree cracking before it fell, and then a sound like a monster in a Japanese monster movie, and she felt a flowering of deep warmth inside her, and the sense of hot sperm that surrounded the prow of his still thrusting peckerdickcock.
“Thank you for the lovely concert of Russian piano music,” Luna said.
Pendle Interviews for a Job
Pendle read about nuclear waste in The Rooster while he was waiting for the woman at the burrito store to make his burrito and wrap it in foil and put it in a paper bag so that he could go home and eat it while listening to the rest of a Scientific American podcast on the physiology of romance. In the Rooster personals an ad caught his eye. It said, “ARE YOU able to enter an alternative universe? ARE YOU friendly? CAN YOU interview people about their sexual experiences? Good money, pleasant living quarters, must like naked people and be willing to relocate.” There was a small round black circle at the bottom of the ad — no address or phone given.
Pendle peered closely at the ad, and suddenly he felt a powerful air current pulling his hair and the whole of his head downward. He was vacuumed down into the black circle. He lost consciousness for a moment, and when he came to he was in Lila’s office. Lila was the director of the House of Holes. She was large and pretty in bifocals, about fifty, with lots of loose light-brown hair. Pendle told her that he was there about the job in The Rooster.
“Ah, we filled that position yesterday,” said Lila. “But just for the heck of it, why don’t you give me a sample of your interview technique.”
“I’d probably just say, ‘So tell me what happened.’ People seem to open up to me. It’s been true my whole life. I don’t know why, exactly.”
“It’s your eyebrows, I think,” said Lila. “I see a forgivingness and a directness there. Now what if you were a client and I interviewed you? What if I said, ‘Be honest, why are you here?’ ”
“I guess I’m here to see women naked.”
“This is an unusual place, and it’ll cost you a lot of money,” said Lila. “I mean a lot, lot, lot of money.”
“That’s too bad,” said Pendle, “because right now I don’t have a lot of money.”