The Biographer

A number of years ago, I placed an ad in the local paper as a free-lance writer offering to write heirloom biographies for a reasonable fee. The idea came to mind after my mother passed away, and I realized how little I really knew of her life. I simply knew her as 'Mom,' and my kids only knew what I passed along to them.

My intent was to help families capture the essence of their lives to share with the generations to follow. It was a way to show their children, mom or dad's life before they were conceived. The idea caught on, and soon I had plenty of work.

The method used a series of personal interviews, a couple of biographical fill-in-the-blank sheets, and tape recordings of the interviews to gather the information required. The final product was a handsome, leather bound manuscript, about 100 to 150 pages in length, ideal to pass down from generation to generation.

Life was going pretty well, as I was able to pick and choose my other free-lance jobs as the 'heirloom biography business,' paid my bills. This allowed me to take the select high-profile jobs gaining the reputation as a solid writer. The best thing about these two paths was they never crossed—until recently.

My name, Emily Doer, helped sell magazines. I won awards for my article on Kenyan game hunting, as well as for the cloistered life of Tibetan monks and the sex industry of Amsterdam.

The only thing missing from my life was a full time partner---and for very good reasons I am about to explain.

Chuck, my husband of ten years, died a sudden and tragic death. While on vacation to the family lake house, he suffered a massive heart attack while swimming in the cold lake water. Saying he was going to swim across the lake and back (a bit over a mile), we thought nothing of his whereabouts for a good hour or so.

Tom, Chuck's brother, was the first to notice, taking the boat out for a 'look around.' There was no sign of him. We notified the authorities, and two days later, they found his body. The autopsy showed no foul play and ruled it a heart attack.

That left me, at the age of 32, to raise our twins, Sarah and David, by myself. At the time, they were 11 years old. Chuck and I got married during college. We were each other's first, we loved sex, and made love all the time. For some reason getting pregnant was a foregone conclusion.

Things didn't slow down once the kids arrived. We would fuck every chance we could, or I'd give him a quick blowjob while the kids watched TV. This is when I developed a taste for cum. There was something about its warmth and thickness which turned me on.

It was also the same time I learned the fine art of masturbation. Although Chuck was a great father and social partner, sex was all about his satisfaction. Over the years, I slowly built an impressive cache of marital aids. So when Chuck was at work, and the kids were at school, I usually had clips on my nipples, a plug in my ass, and one or more devices working my pussy and clit.

Being a stay a home mom/wife drove me nuts. Becoming a free-lance writer was the perfect outlet for my needs. Chuck had no problem with me hitting the road for a week, followed a month at home to write the article. We had a great network of after-school/summer nannies, and Chuck was home each night so one of us was always around.

To be truthful, I suspected and later found out Chuck was banging one of the nannies, Kimberly, a pert 18-year-old red head that simply oozed sex. I can't say it didn't bother me, but who was I to call him out on it. While I was on the road, I explored my sexual needs and developed a rather wide range of interests, which I never shared with Chuck. Trust me when I say, he simply wouldn't understand.

It was on the road when I unleashed my bi-sexuality. I always loved women, but not in the dyke type of way. Making love to a woman is so erotic. The smooth softness of their skin, the tenderness of their kisses, their curves, ass and nipples. I get horny just thinking about women.

I love cock, too. I love sucking cock. I love cock in my ass. I love to fuck. I love cum. But I don't love the insensitive gorilla to which it's attached. I want my man to make love like a woman. This means no body hair, and passionate sensuality.

There is one other thing I discovered during my travels; I am very kinky. I am as comfortable with a cuddling romantic evening, by the fireplace, as I am with a hot, latex clad session. I crave being before dominate men and women, violating every inch of my being, in any way they wish. This side came out during my trip to Amsterdam, five years after Chuck had passed.

I love to be flogged, cum upon, pissed on, fucked by dildos and strapped to fucking machines. Having my nipples twisted and tortured sends me into another dimension. I crave having all my holes filled, and hunger for anal play in any form.

Being fisted or having my tongue up someone's asshole is incredible. The feel of a sphincter puckering and opening produces a yearning inside me unlike any other. The first time I experienced scat play my orgasms were explosive.

I find it to be the highest (or lowest) level of lust. To be so wanton that you crave everything possible is unreal. Scat isn't an every time occurrence. I need to be taken to the proper heights (or depths) of arousal, but when I am.....Wow. The ultimate is when there is another person involved that has the same wants.

That first scat experience is also when I found out I was a squirter. Now I squirt every time. I AM a cum and piss freak; anytime, anywhere. I could be in the middle of a parent-teacher conference and if some brought me their cock or pussy, I wouldn't flinch at sucking their juices. For the record, this hasn't happened, nor do I expect it, but you should get my point.

Back home, things were very vanilla. Chuck and I did our thing, went to parties and to our kids functions. We were a typical suburban family. Once he passed, things at home didn't change much routine-wise. Chuck was well insured, so money wasn't an issue. The only real change came was when I traveled. Because we had a solid network of kid-care providers, finding a live-in wasn't an issue.

For the record, Kim left after Chuck died. She told me there were too many memories in our house for her to live with. This was when my suspicion was confirmed.

The number of suitors coming my way was flattering. I was able to keep them at bay with my career. The reality however, was my sexual interests. Imagine telling a would be partner who went to the same church, that I want the two of us to be tied together and be receptacles for everyone's fluids, juices, slaps, fucks, twists, pulls, fists, cocks, and cunts.

Imagine his look when I told him I want him to lick the cum and piss from my body and snowball it with me. Or that I want him to fuck me in ass followed by me licking the shit from his cock while he blows his load in my mouth. How about telling him that I want him to suck a cock, inches from my open mouth, forcing it to explode, and the oozing the cum from his mouth to mine.

No, that simply wasn't going to happen.

The years flew by. At first the kids were devastated and to some extent so was I. My sadness grew into relief, as I no longer had to harbor my secrets from Chuck. I made a vow to myself never to hide my interests from a suitor, even if it meant years of single life.

The kids grew, headed to college, and now they are on their own. I am 45. My house is sold. I'm in a condo, and doing well. But, as I wrote earlier, without a partner.

I was still attractive enough to get second looks. My five foot seven inch frame, with long legs, a tight ass, and firm 34-Bs is still in shape from my daily jogs. My black hair is a stylish shag, which brings natural attention to my blue eyes.

As my skin is milky white, I use dark eyeliner and mascara, rose pink blush, and ruby red lipstick. I allow my eye shadows to go from mild to wild, depending on my mood. When I go with the wilder look, I become a bit vampish, ideal for the road, but not at home.

So my life was toys and masturbation at home, kink and the wild life on the road. It was somewhat satisfying, but if only I could find a partner with similar needs. I just couldn't imagine finding a decent man who would have the same filthy desires.

Last week I received a rather unusual message from man wishing to speak with me about an heirloom biography. What made it odd was the nature of his message.

"Hi Emily, my name is Ron Davidson. I am a 61-year-old man with two kids in college. I understand you right biographies and I would like to discuss writing my memoirs from a bit different perspective. Please call me."

He left his number.

Now most people leave a long drawn out message about their marital status, number of kids, careers, etc. But this message was simple and direct. I was curious.

When I called Mr. Davidson, he seemed pleased to hear from me. When I probed for details about the different perspective he wanted, he simply said we would discuss those details in person. I explained my procedure: first fill out the biographical data sheets, and then we would have a series of personal interviews.

Mr. Davidson, or Ron---as he insisted I call him, told me to email him the forms and he'd get them back to me within the hour. This way we could start the interviews immediately. I told him I needed to see the data first, but he said it wouldn't take long to review his biographical material, and that we could probably start tonight.

Although he was a bit pushy, there was something pleasant about his voice. He seemed to be a good-natured man and I was a bit intrigued by his mysterious 'different perspective.' I ended our conversation by telling him the forms were on their way to him.

Ron gave me a pleasant and lighthearted response of "Sounds Good. See you tonight then. Say 6pm at my place?"

Feeling myself smile, I answered with a smug, but affirming, "If all of the paper work is in order, then tonight at 6 will work for me."

Somehow, I knew this was going to be different.

The day was beautiful and I decided to take advantage of it with a long bike ride. Riding the trails always gives me time to think and make plans. I had to finish two articles by the end of the week, and also do some work on the bios I started. Since it was quite hot outside, I decided to do my work by my condo's pool.

When I got home from the ride, I was soaked. Peeling off my biking top and pants, the cool breeze from air conditioner against my warm wet skin instantly covered me goose bumps. My nipples were huge and I couldn't resist playing with them. I adore nipple play.

Standing naked in front of the full length closet mirror, I fanned out my fingers and watched them flick over my jutting buds---right hand, right nipple; left hand, left nipple. The feeling stirred me and after a couple of passes, the wetness between my loins was turning from sweat to arousal.

Switching my tactics from flicks to pulls, my desire rose dramatically. I went from arousal to need. One hand kept working my nipples, as the other went to my pussy.

I wasn't in a gentle mood. My fingers ground roughly against my pussy lips while my thumb attacked my swelling clit. Juice was flowing freely from my cunt. The harder I rubbed the wetter I became.

The light-headedness of lust overpowered me. I wanted to fuck...no I needed to be filled. Yes, that was it. I needed something inside me...something needed to be in my cunt. With one thrust I pushed my hand deep into the wetness of my vagina.

It was too much. I collapsed onto my knees while turning my fist wildly inside my soaked snatch. The feeling of consumption was all I could sense; nothing else mattered---just my cunt. It needed more. My free hand began slapping my bald mons.

Each stinging slap triggered animal like grunts from my soul, and each slap was harder than the last. I rolled onto my back and pushed my feet against glass on the mirrored door. I was no longer watching myself, the door became a brace for my legs to push against.

With bent knees, I pounded my cunt and mound. My fist turned, pushing and pulling in and out of my soaked twat. My head thrashed back and forth on the carpeted floor while I recklessly slapped my clit. I hit it from every direction; each one landing directly onto it. I could feel it swell from the stinging impact. I was delirious and started spewing obscenities.

"You Filthy Whore! You Bitch! You Fucking Cunt! You Need This! You Want This! Do More You Nympho! Slap Your Pussy. Fuck Yourself...Harder...Harder...Fuck Your Nasty Box."

My eruption was volcanic. Piss mixed with pussy juice sprayed over my arms and legs. I could hear it splash onto the mirror. I yanked my hand from my cunt releasing another torrent of cum and piss.

Instinctively, I shoved my cream covered hand into my mouth, using my tongue to snake the essence from each finger. The slapping switched to rapid frigging, causing minor orgasms to rip through me. Cream, juice and piss were flying everywhere.

I'm not sure how long I abused myself, but it was intense. I finally just stopped. It took a couple of minutes for thought to return.

The first was my surprise at how all this just happened. I could still feel my clit throbbing. The carpet I was lying on was quite wet from all of my juices. My hands went to my face and started massaging life into my head. I could smell my secretions on my hands.

Slowly I rose and stretched. I just did a number on my body and I was a little stiff. Ironically, the stretching and cool air caused my nipples to harden again. I just had to flick them, and the feeling was arousing.

God was I horny, but this time I controlled myself. I had work to do and my clit was too sensitive at the moment for any additional play. After drying from a quick shower, I pulled on a black one-piece swimsuit, gathered my laptop, cell- phone and writing case and headed out to the pool area.

The weather was hot but gorgeous. Being fair skinned, I took shelter at an umbrella table. While my computer booted up, I walked over to the food area and bought a large iced tea. My start-up screen said there were six new emails. Most were junk, but I saw one from Ron Davidson.

The man works quickly. Opening his attachments, I saw that he had filled much of the basic info such as name, address, phone, hometown, etc. But in the areas requesting details about his childhood, and other stages of life, he wrote, "Everyone already knows this stuff. This bio will be different. We'll talk tonight."

His message asked me to call him at 4 pm to confirm I was coming. He left me his address. As it turns out, Ron lived right in the heart of our little town in one of the new town houses.

I gave his info one more glance to see if perhaps I missed something. He had the same answer for everything. I was intrigued. What was his different perspective for a biography?

The afternoon was all work. I poured myself into my writings and before I knew it, it was 5:30 pm. I had completely forgotten to call Ron. On top of this my phone was dead too.

I made the decision to just show up at Ron's place at 6 pm. With only a half hour to spare, I needed to hurry. Gathering my stuff, I raced back to my condo and started getting ready. Thank god it was summer, dressing was so much easier in hot weather.

Freshening my make-up, I kept it simple. Light pink shadow and blush, black liner and mascara, and ruby red lipstick.

I grabbed a white bra from the drawer; took a half sleeve, white polo shirt from the closet, and a pair of navy khaki shorts from the shelf. My clit was still tender, so I decided to wear a pair of white cotton panties—nothing fancy, just a pair of hipsters with a soft cotton panel to cover my area.

Throwing them on, I slipped into a pair of black leather flip-flops and went back to the bathroom for a quick up-do on my hair. Since it was a shag, it was easy to work with. Despite the rush, I was pleased with my look.

After packing up my lap-top, tape recorder, blank forms, and a few pens, I located my purse, car keys, and cell phone.

"Damn," I said out loud. I had forgotten to charge it. "Oh well," I thought. I plugged it in and headed out with Ron's address in hand.

Ron's town house was very cute, a narrow, four storied middle unit. The small patch of front lawn had wrought iron fencing around it and connected with the fences of the other units. Large pots of mixed color flowers brought sparkle to the entry.

Passing through the front gate, I made my way up the stairs to the second floor entrance and rang the bell. I waited a bit and rang it again. There was no answer. I surmised that since I didn't call, Ron assumed I wasn't going to make it tonight.

Closing the gate behind me as I left, I heard somehow hollering from down the street. Looking up, I saw a person on a bike riding towards me, waving and hollering my name. It was safe to bet it was Ron.

I gave a little wave back in acknowledgement. I could see Ron hunker down and peddle faster. He pulled up next to me slightly out of breath.

"Emily?"

I nodded yes.

"Great," he added. "I'm glad I decided to check back to see if you were here. When I didn't hear from you around 4, I gave you a call. It went right to voice mail message saying your phone was off or that you were out of the calling area. I figured your phone went dead."

Ron was a handsome man, even dripping with sweat. He was a bit over six feet tall. His face was very youthful. If his message didn't say he was 61, I would have guessed him to be in his mid-forties. He was a larger man, not fat, but athletically built.

When he took off his helmet, a full head of beautiful, charcoal grey hair adorned his head. It was a bit mussed, but I could see it was stylishly cut. There was a sense of life in his blue eyes, which I found attractive as well as alluring.

There was something else that caught my attention; his biking clothes. Although I wear the tight fitting biking apparel, I also have the body for it. So many people try for the Lance Armstrong style, and look hideous.

Ron was wearing a pair of loose fitting, dual-purpose, brown biking shorts with pockets for a wallet, keys etc. They were perfect for stopping at a bistro while on a ride. His shirt was a loose fitting white polo, made from wick away material. His look was appropriate and unpretentious.

Another thing I noticed about Ron, no body hair.

Responding to his assessment, I told him my phone did die on me, but I also worked right thru the 4pm call time and had to hurry up to get there on time. He gave me a quick, non-sexual once over with his eyes. I could tell he wanted to say something, but he just glanced at the ground with a little smile.

"Let me put my bike away and I'll meet at the front door. You are more than welcome to follow me around back, but it would be faster and easier to just meet me at the front door."

He was smiling as he spoke. It was natural, not the nervous one typical of first meetings. I liked the man standing before me.

"I'll meet you at the front. This will give me a few minutes to admire your flowers more. Your arrangement or your wife's?"

A premonition told me Ron wasn't married. The embarrassment flushing his face told me I was correct.

"I'm not married anymore, so those are my arrangements." Ron seemed somewhat apologetic.

"I'm sorry," came my truthful response. "I hope I didn't upset you. It's just that men with older kids aren't usually into flowers. I must say they are beautiful."

Ron smiled again as he looked at them. "Thanks. I guess I'm just the type of guy that likes flowers. I'll be back in a minute or two. Now don't run away."

"Don't worry, I won't. I don't bite either."

Ron chuckled as he hopped on his bike saying, "Well, sometimes I do."