The Lost Sexual Course

We had finally purchased our first house. It was full of character and overlooking the ocean. Each room felt different. We both agreed about that. In the master bedroom — I called it the fucking bedroom since everything in it was asking to fuck you or be fucked — the furniture was protruding like a pleasing pussy and a pretty prick. I was the pussy. He was the prick. We loved each other so much that we fucked whenever and wherever we felt like it. For me, it was the heart. For him, the heart was surely involved, but it was the prick. Don’t get me wrong! I felt it in my pussy too, but my heart stole my inner show.

The house had five bedrooms, two bathrooms, and the usual variety of corners and nooks. One last garret was missing on our house’s diagram. We had an attic. I discovered it on the second day when I was checking out each room and space to see where we could master or manage to fuck. My list was full. We could have fourteen independent copulations. One in each room. That’s five. One in each bathroom. That’s two more. Kitchen, laundry room, dining room, living room, garage, attic. That’s six more. And front hall. I could type a sonnet. One line per fuck locale.

Where do we fuck first? I asked him.

“The master bedroom, of course! It looks like a room made for fucking.”

Exactly! I replied. Did you read the story I’m working on?

“No! What story?”

This one.

“Which one?”

About fucking around the house.

“That’s your story?”

Of course, not! It’s part of it, though. Every story needs fucking and fucking-related details. Some publications won’t publish a story — even if it’s decent — if it doesn’t describe some type of penetration between two or more protagonists. Solo may be acceptable as long as the sot can describe his fantasies while shaking his trunk. A woman by herself is a work of art.

“I could watch you masturbating for hours except that at some point I would want to join in. You’re too hot,” he said.

I know. You’ve mentioned it before. The master bedroom first, then. Let’s fuck there now.

“I’m already there,” he replied, holding my breasts from behind, rubbing against my ass, and leading us to our bedroom. His tongue was in me before I could count to three. We were on the canopy bed. My feet were in the air as he was savouring every part of my pussy. He even licked my urethral opening. You know. Where the pee comes out from. I also remember that he eyed my asshole. He prefers to call it anus. He rarely penetrates me there. He says that it’s not fair to the pussy. But only if I agree. He often asks me if I want him there, that he would gladly do it if I wanted. I always say no. He seems relieved. I did say yes a couple of times. It was alright but he’s right. The pussy is my might.

Looking around the room during our short rest, we contemplated where we could fuck next. He came up with three. I added five. A pussy has nine lives. He considered the obvious window seat, walk-in closet, and long chair. I imagined each of the bed’s four lower posts as well as the specially designed inside handle of the door. Of course, his prick was the best. The master bedroom thus offered at least nine different and similar fucks. Alleluia for that!

My sonnet of places to fuck was premature. We’ve just added eight. Twenty-two fucking scenarios. Don’t expect me to include all of them. None of them, really, except for the main fuck above. Sexual Tendencies would have to provide me with my own column where I could diligently describe every fucking fuck. It’s premature again. To think that it’s always attributed to pricks. Sorry guys! Life sucks. Life is a cocksucker.

“Which room is next,” he asked.

We might as well stay naked for the rest of the week. Thank you, COVID! I hate you, invisible bit-bug! At least we can make most of it. And what’s better than a file of fucks? We should leave a crumb of some kind where we fucked until we’ve achieved all the feasible fucks.

“Perhaps we could post a sign,” he said. We Fucked Here. And if we ever sell the house, we’ll add the clause that they can’t remove the signs for one year,” he added with a smile.

That’s a good one. You’re in form. I guess that we need to fuck some more. God! The number of possible places must be much higher. Hopefully, they’ll find an optimal vaccine before we’re done with our following of different field-friendly fucks. I love to fuck. Him, too. I think that sometimes he fucks me with his eyes. They become wet. He’s not crying but his eyes are ejaculating. It must be the ocean. All that water must affect us somehow. We came from there. That’s why we look at it with fondness. It’s in our genes.

It wasn’t like that before. It started as soon as we moved into this house. Sometimes I feel that it’s haunted. Of course, it’s not! That’s good for the movies and certain circles. I mean that I feel as if there’s something special in this house. Something good. It must be a fucking energy of some kind.

It can’t be all the fucking. We’d just started fucking here. A few fucks — we had a couple in the car — can’t change someone so quickly. It’s unseemly, in the archaic sense. There’s something in this house. Time will tell. I will type. He types sometimes.

Room after room, corner after corner, nook after nook, we’ll fuck in all of them. The fucking stork could get us if we’re not careful. Condoms break and we don’t use them all the time. Pill-form birth control is dangerous in the long run. To fuck or not to fuck should never be considered. It’s like wondering To eat or not to eat. To eat we must, especially when he eats my pussy and I manipulate his trunk.

My legs were up in the air on every bedroom bed. Yes! We fucked there. He made the We Fucked Here signs with love. So it looked when I saw the sign. Here’s one. You can judge it for yourself. He saw our fucks in the stars. He affixed it on the closest wall, writing on the back the place, date, and time of where and when we fucked.

Each of the other four bedrooms had a closet and the same specially designed inside door handle, adding two more fucks to the bed one, which in these rooms had no fucking posts. We couldn’t fuck on the dressers. They were too high. I don’t know if you’re keeping count, but two extra fucks per other room plus the previous twenty-two add up to thirty. Dirty thirty as dear Robin Williams said in the movie The World According to Garp. We miss him a lot. We would have given him each a couple of years to still have him around. Just a minute from each fan would have made him almost immortal, which he already is on some ephemeral level.

Each bathroom was a dream come true. We should have had a few to spare. Two is the minimum but four would have offered so much more. Each bathroom was ready for five fucks: one on the sink, one in the tub, one under the shower, one on the toilet where I could piss at the same time, and one by the blessed inside door handle. It offers double penetration for two. I take the handle and he takes my ass. We’re up to forty fantastic fucks. And it didn’t take us forty days and forty nights. About a dozen full days hit the spot.

The kitchen, according to some, maybe many, is the most important area of any abode. I think that the bathroom offers more. You can always order food. But washing and numbers one and two require a bathroom. Number one, however, is easily managed or attained almost anywhere. He sometimes likes to watch me piss. The kitchen — yes — was out of this world. On the sink, and twice if it’s a double. We overlaid it two times. Once on each counter. We had three. A threesome three times. If two counters are close enough, it can become a foursome. We never have enough counters. Once against the cool stainless-steel fridge. That’s a total of six instances of pricking in the kitchen. That is unless you add each prick-cut cutlery and such. But that would be cheating since you could also keep them in a hall closet, within the TV cabinet, or next to the remote. Current total: thirty-six fucks!

The dining room was next. It’s not really a room, except that ours had a sliding door and a fucking door at that. You know. The one with the dildo-like inside door handle. On both sides for this one. We decided to attribute the other side to the living room. Fair is fair. The rest of the dining room comprised six chairs for six fucks, a pretty long table for one fuck, and a dining hutch for a final dining-related fuck. It’s a great room where you can eat and fuck. Apartments suck unless it’s a penthouse with endless rooms. Current total: forty-five fucks.

The living room beckoned to us next. The L-shaped sofa stole that show with two easy fucks. The coffee table was strong enough to handle a fuck. The TV was like a picture on the wall. A few decades earlier, we could have fucked on it too. We still didn’t miss those dinosaur TVs. The longish cabinet, though, under the picture TV, easily accepted one of our fucks. With the door handle from the sliding door, this living room sported five fucks for a current total of fifty fucks.

The laundry room put out three spaces for our fucks: on top of the washer, on top of the dryer, and on top of the sturdy table. The washer was best. We did a wash when we fucked on it. It felt like he had two pricks. The dryer was too hot and thus it was quick. Current total: fifty-three fucks.

The front hall has a nice table but it didn’t look strong enough to support both of us. I’m petite. He’s tall. We fucked against the wall. Current total: fifty-four fucks. But you knew that.

The garage included two cars and thus already four fucks: front seats and back seats twice. A little work table concluded the tally to five. Current total: fifty-nine fucks.

The attic was last. We never imagined that it would offer the best fucks. Except that here, there was no place where we could actually fuck. Fucking on the many boxes that filled it would have been ridiculous. We decided instead to discover their contents. Some clothes. Some books. Some unknowns. He was pleased to find a copy of VALIS.

“I told you they were nice people,” he said, referring to the couple who had sold us the house. “Anyone who read VALIS can’t be bad,” he added and kissed me for a while.

I love the prick. Why do you think that we fuck so much? Where were we? Looking for fuck number sixty. One book caught my eyes. The Lost Sexual Course - The Long Congress. Both the title and subtitle seemed intriguing. I sat on one of the boxes and started to read. Oh my God! I said. It’s a book about fucking positions. We should have started the fucking here. It lists ten positions. A chapter for each one. Ten long fucks. However, given the sensitivity of the subject and our later discovery that the book didn’t exist anywhere where Google could reach, we decided to keep it a secret until we could surmise what’s to be done.

We fucked, though, ten fucking times. Those were the best fucks of our lives. We both screamed. Each time. I repeat again. Apartments suck and a penthouse isn’t a house.

Of course, all ten fucks were amplified since we effected them in the master bedroom, but we decided to crown the attic as the master fuck room. Final total: sixty-nine fucks. How quaint!

We-Fucked-Here signs were everywhere. Even the blue ocean lost the fight to the black star-studded sky. But all that water was more precious than any firmament. It was also a quasi-metaphor for semen. He prefers to call it sperm. Maybe because of the sperm whale. I’m not sure. I asked but he said that he didn’t know why. Perhaps it’s the p in sperm. Pussy, prick, piss, pensive. He likes the letter P. He likes many things about me. He even wrote me a couple of haikus.

Babe you’re beautiful

everywhere. I want to fuck

your toes; suck them too.

...

It was tight. It was

right. It was out of sight. Let’s

fuck again tonight!