How to Have an Affair and Other Instructions. Michael Hemmingson
“You will do this to yourself, at the show, and then I will come to you like this, I will touch you like this, and I will do this,” and he reached down and gave her a kiss. It was just a peck. He gave her another kiss, his tongue in her mouth. They kissed and he reached down and slid a finger into her.…
“Okay?” he said.
“Okay,” she said.
“I’m going to eat your pussy now,” he said.
“That sounds…okay,” she said.
“I’m very good at it,” Kaff said, and this was no boast. When he got between her legs, and licked her pussy and her asshole for half an hour, she came three times. No boast at all. The man knew what to do with his tongue and two fingers.
He stood up and took his pants off. His cock stood up straight, was long and thick and veined. She said she wanted to suck on it but he told her that wasn’t necessary; he told her it was time to fuck. “I’m going to fuck that cunny of yours for a very long time,” he said, “and you’re going to love it.”
V.
Did she love it? Well, she enjoyed it—she got off—the old man was a great fuck, and let’s face it: he was probably the best fuck she’d ever had. He kept going and going and she wondered how he was able to do that, what this “Tantric” stuff was all about. Maybe it was Viagra®. But he fucked her for a good three hours and after her twentieth orgasm, she stopped counting. They did take a break, when they drank some water and moved from the couch to the upstairs bedroom.
“Suck my cock now,” he said, and she did, tasting the strong taste of her cunt juice all over that fat dick.
And then he came.
He came a lot.
He came so much she coughed, almost choked on all that semen going into her mouth and down her throat.
“Oh, oh,” she said, spitting the stuff out.
“Yeah,” he said, touching her hair.
“That’s a lot.”
“Lick it up.”
She licked some of the sperm off the bed sheets and his flesh. He scooped a glob of it onto a finger and inserted the finger in her mouth and she sucked on his finger until all the semen was gone from it.
“Wow,” she said.
“Did you have a good time?” Kaff asked her.
Kathleen admitted that she did.
“Good.”
“Did you?” she asked him.
He said: “I always enjoy fucking women…especially young women like you.”
“I bet you do,” she said and smiled.
“So…I think we should rehearse this at least two or three more times before the show.”
“Yeah,” said Kathleen, “me too.”
VI.
Kathleen went home that night feeling freshly, wonderfully fucked and even a little bit sore. She couldn’t help herself and she masturbated, thinking of Kaff and his man meat and his impressive stamina. In the morning, she wanted to see him again, she wanted to “rehearse.”
She went to the bank and deposited the check.
Her pussy was wounded so she knew she’d have to wait a day or two before more action. She didn’t want to call him; she didn’t want to appear over-anxious, eager, or horny—this whole matter was wrong, illicit, odd, not the sort of thing normal people engaged in when it came to sex, money, and the refuge of art.
She paid all her bills, paid rent for two months in advance, bought a lot of groceries and rented some movies to watch.
Three days later, Kaff called.
“You should come over,” he said.
“Okay,” Kathleen said.
VII.
And who was Edward Kaff? He was born not long after World War II, his father came home from the war (where he saw no action, he was a supply clerk) and married a girl he saw walking down the street one day. She was as pretty as sunshine. “Sweet one, some day I will marry you,” the father said, and the mother said: “What’s stopping you today, handsome?” They were wed a month later. Edward Kaff came along a year or so after that. He had an okay childhood, as far as childhoods go; nothing major happened until he was nineteen was his father shot himself in the head, in shame and fear, after his mother ran away with a woman. “My mom, the lesbian,” mused Kaff; he never saw her again after that. He didn’t even know if she knew her husband committed suicide. These are things that made Kaff a very cynical and angry young man. So he joined the Royal Marines and was shipped off to Northern Ireland to help keep the peace. He took some shrapnel in his leg from a poorly-made bomb that exploded 100 feet away from him. In the hospital, he befriended another soldier, Lance Williams. Williams had a semi-famous father who wrote pulp novels in the 1940s, a lot of science-fiction, mysteries, true confession, soft-core erotica, you name it, the man did it. The pulp days were over but Lance’s dad, Luke, was writing the occasional space yarn or private dick tale under pen names as well as publishing some low-grade skin magazines out of a small office in Liverpool. “I’m going to go work for him, and so should you,” Lance said. Kaff figured what the hell, why not, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do with his life. Instead of working there, Kaff became an investor; he had some money in the bank left over by his father and this girly magazine business looked like it had potential—if nothing else, it provided an atmosphere for him to score plenty of pussy. Girls—beautiful, pretty, so-so and ugly—waltzed in every day wanting money for their nude shots, ideas in their silly heads that this one day might lead to Hollywood and some kind of stardom on the screen. They were all hippy chicks, of course; at first Kaff didn’t care much for this drug-and-sex culture, mainly because they all seemed to hate soldiers…but what did it matter if he fucked them? So he fucked them, and he smoked pot with them, and he went to orgies and did a lot of acid and let his hair grow long and started wearing bell-bottom jeans and beads and granny glasses and saying the usual shit like, “heavy, man” and “I can grok that.” He read Richard Brautigan and Jack Kerouac and Robert Heinlein and Kurt Vonnegut. What he did around the office was dubious; the outfit was called The Beck Consulting Group but that was just a shell to keep the cops away; they were putting out half a dozen girly magazines with revolving names like Twat and Public Pubic and Beach Gal, etc. What Kaff mostly did was interview potential models, take some photos, and fuck them. Lance Williams was doing editorial work, and dealing with distributors, while his father also did editorial and a lot of the writing, using up to twenty pen names. Luke had an idea about starting a line of soft-core sleaze novels—the genre was hot, others were making money off it, and Luke knew plenty of starving sci-fi and hardboiled detective writers who could churn these things out. Kaff figured why not, and took the money he’d made so far and re-invested it into this paperback line, dubbed Moonlight in Lace Editions. Moonlight started with six titles a month and graduated to twenty. They paid the writers $1,000 a pop, no royalties, and sold an average of 100,000 each, pocketing the profits. The more books they published, the more money they made. Kaff sat down and penned one himself. It was awful, but it sold. It was a lesbian novel called Housewives of Sin, and he imagined his mother the whole time he sat behind the typewriter. It was a grueling, two-month task that he had the occasional hippy chick fuck bunny sit behind the typewriter (naked, of course) and write some scenes. “I love eating pussy,” one would say, and Kaff would say, “Go write about it.” Anyway, they moved this operation out to San Diego—better real estate, better weather, and no more cops coming around looking for handouts. Once in San Diego, they published more books and magazines and made more money. They became millionaires. Kaff invested his money to make more money to insure he would grow old in comfort. He knew this business would never last. Eventually they sold the business off. Kaff traveled around Europe for a while, enjoying his money, and moved three years later to Los Angeles, thinking