Copyright © 2017, Surt, ALL Rights Reserved.
This is the ‘safe’ version of this collection of stories. The links to the full uncut tales can be found in my profile. Anyone involved in anything sexual is at least eighteen-years-old. Thanks for reading and enjoy! 🙂
***
A game show where the audience gets to have sex with the contestant. Everyday moments of a family who views orgies as a fun weekend activity. A daily show which recaps the action in the high school girls’ shower. These are just some of the thousand shows available in Tabootopia, a secret island nation where all perversions are practiced and celebrated. Here are just a few snippets from some of those programs…
Incredibly Inappropriate Ways To Meet Women — UN-PC TV
Night, a plush hotel lobby. A hidden camera gives us a side-view of a tall black woman, big frizzy hair and ruby red lips, wearing a purple lacy dress shirt and dark slacks which accentuate the roundness of her buttocks. She is on the latest-model IPhone, animatedly describing how she wants the tables to be arranged, waving her hands around as she speaks.
“Teal dollies. Teal. You got that?”
From the left, the man. The man. Erik is white, tall, heavy but solid, hairline receding, wearing a grey dress shirt with dark pants. Erik calmly moves towards his target, flexes his large right hand and — whack! Erik’s palm makes contact with the woman’s polyester-covered rear. The woman slowly turns her head, looks at Erik’s wide impassive face, furrows her brow, still not quite comprehending what’s just happened. Erik pushes his fingers into her buttocks. She shivers, stares at the huge paw gripping her backside. Her eyelids pullback, the whites of her eyes bright, hot, burning.
She clenches her fists, her long nails digging into her palms. “Excuse me?” she says with a bubbling undercurrent of red-hot indignant rage.
“Tara, yes?” Erik leans in, lays a kiss on her juicy red lips. “Wow, you’re incredibly firm.” Erik’s mitt-sized hand slides between her cheeks.
“You,” Tara says through gritted teeth. “What do you –“
Erik quiets her with another kiss on the lips. He pulls a card from his pant pocket and slips it into Tara’s hand. Erik pats the side of her breast, kisses her cheek, walks past, leaves. Tara holds the card… and uses it to fan herself.
*
Scenic beach, golden sand, orange sky. On her knees, her hands on her slim hips, her skin sun-kissed, bronzed, her gold-blonde hair blowing in the wind, world-famous model Fiona Jasmine. Clad in a string bikini, the instantly recognizable other-worldly beauty pouts for the photographer, her impossibly perfect body revered by millions around the globe, her name increasing web traffic, her visage raising the price of the few magazines still in publication.
And I know what’s next.
Coming up behind her, making deep footprints in the wet sand, Erik, clad only in what look like plain white boxer shorts, his sizable gut hanging over the waistband, his chest covered in curly grey and black hairs. He walks up to Fiona, and with all the casualness of a man clocking in for work, unties the knots on Fiona’s bikini bottoms. Fiona turns, gasps, clutches the front of her bottoms, the back portion open, perfectly circular butt on show.
“Good lord.” Erik’s gently squeezes one of her round cheeks. “Magnificent.” His left hand rests on her buttocks, his right on her flat stomach. His fat hairy gut pushes up against her toned back muscles.
“Oh my god, what the fuck are you doing!?” she says with her Model European accent. She goes through several expressions — shock, anger, disgust, horror, fear — in under a second.
Erik lays a wet open-mouth kiss on Fiona’s shoulder, his right hand moving up to her perky breasts. Fiona’s straight white teeth push into her quivering lower lip.
“What’s only within my rights…”. A loud kiss to her cheek, his chin on her shoulder, his stubble scraping against her velvety soft skin. “I can’t count the number of times you made me blow my load.” Both his hands go over her breasts. The bikini vanishes in his massive hands. “This was never a one-way relationship.” His grip tightens. Fiona shudders. “Now, let’s see if we can find a place where I can show you the depths of my love.”
*
Small indoor arena, volleyball court in the centre. Talking into the camera, a tall Chinese woman, sweat gleaming off her beige skin, wearing a tight sleeveless red-shirt — no.8: Choi — nipples protruding through the polyester, puffy vagina lips pushing through her tight shorts. A microphone is placed before her, Chinese letters scrolling on the bottom of the screen, a logo of a red phoenix in the corner. She is being asked a question in Mandarin. Over her shoulder, the score on the big screen reads CHN: 3, USA: 0. Spectators with American flags draped over their shoulders shuffle through the arena’s staircases, their heads down, their marsbahis güvenilirmi shoulders slumped. Other members of the Chinese team sign autographs, most of their fans teenage girls. Choi places a towel over her shoulders and dabs the end of it at her shiny forehead. The underarms of her shirt are crimson, soaked with sweat.
While Choi answers the question — her voice demure, ladylike — coming from behind her, like a grisly emerging from the woods, Man Mountain Erik, wearing a dress shirt buttoned down to his navel, his thick grey pubes poking out the top of his baggy e shorts, finishing the casual look with flip-flops. He strides towards Choi with what I could only describe as absolute confidence. As if he’s not approaching a possible mate, more as if he’s going to claim what is already his. He stands right behind Choi. She turns, and as quick as lighting, he’s gone. Choi gasps, and then levitates, her feet dangling off the ground. Erik walks the way he’d come, Choi over his shoulder, his right hand patting her spandex-covered rear.
*
A dressing room, a black couch, A3 posters of pop and rock acts adorning the grey brick walls. In the corner, a small end table stacked with energy drinks and bowls of red M&M’s. Coming in from the door on the left, in matching sequined one-piece leotards, sweaty and red-cheeked, a well-known girl group. The girls are speaking over each other, the four of them giving different takes on the night’s performance.
The door shuts behind them.
The girls walk towards the centre of the room, multiple conversations happening at once. “I think I popped something during the twerk. I didn’t get that key change again. Half the crowd still thinks it’s ‘more in love’ instead of ‘fall in love.’ We should move rehearsal to earlier in the day –“
A loud collective gasp. The girls stop dead in their tracks, grab each other’s slender arms. They tremble at the sight of…
A large heavy towel is tossed on the couch. Erik commands half the screen. He’s fully nude and wet to the bone, leaving huge puddles on the tiled floor, his large pipe-thick penis framed by a grey and black nest, his testicles the size of tennis balls.
“Glad to finally meet you. He strolls towards the girls. The first he greets is the one with the killer curves, a torrid of sweat cascading down her heavily made-up face. Erik places a hand on her hip, leans down and lays a hard kiss on her small wine-red lips. “You look amazing,” he says as he gropes her round rear-end. Next, to the band’s most prominently featured member, a leggy blonde with pearly white skin. Erik pecks her lips, and moves swiftly onto ‘the cute one,’ dyed red hair in pigtails, built like a Barbie, big head, small waist, and greeted with a firm, hard kiss. Finally, to the sexy one, the frizzy-haired mocha-skinned temptress who has millions of followers on Instagram, gallons of semen lost to her bikini snapshots. Erik squares up to her, looks deep into her hazelnut eyes, leans in and goes for a deep, probing kiss, one long arm wrapping around her back, his erect member slapping against her flat stomach.
“Hmm.” Erik takes another kiss from Frizzy and steps back, his massive privates swaying, slapping against his fleshy thighs. “I’ll give you a few to get all those clothes off,” he says as he walks back into the shower, his footsteps reverberating in the well-sealed room.
He’s gone. Frizzy turns around, shows her back to the stunned, stupefied girls. She turns her head.
“Well, someone has to unzip me.”
*
A small dressing room. In a form-fitting black cocktail dress, Sunita Basu, a gorgeous Indian actress who’s just made inroads into the US. Her thick dark locks go down to her bare shoulders, her sensual heart-shaped lips pink and glossy, her dusky skin glowing under the bright lights, her piercing auburn eyes on her assistant.
“I won’t be answering questions about my love life,” she says with her arousing foreign accent. “I won’t be answering questions about –” Sunita places her palm on her assistant’s slim shoulder, lifts one foot, reaches around and adjusts her high-heel’s strap.
“Yes, ma’am.” The assistant is a petite blonde with a pixie cut, wearing a loose sleeveless blue shirt and tiny shorts which just about cover her butt.
Sunita places her foot down — but before she could recollect her thoughts, a large dark shadow envelops her and the assistant. Striding out from an unseen corner, wearing an unbuttoned grey dress shirt, his fleshy hairy belly overwhelming the waistband of his cargo shorts…
“My goodness,” Erik stands an inch away from Sunita, leans down and places his lips on hers. “Hmmm…” Erik enjoys a long wet kiss with India’s hottest export. “You truly are a living goddess,” he says as he leans out. He steals another quick taste, his large thick forearm snaked around her waist.
“Umm, ah, ah.” The usually-loquacious marsbahis yeni giriş Sunita is speechless, blinks rapidly. If Erik didn’t have such a firm hold of his prize, she’d most likely collapse.
Erik turns to the assistant. “Cancel any plans she has for the week — no, two. Thanks, babe.” With his right arm still wrapped around Sunita’s waist, Erik moves his lips toward the small pixie’s face. His lips cover the assistant’s whole mouth, leaving saliva on both cheeks. Erik and his hypnotized beauty take two steps forward, and then two steps back.
“Actually.” Erik places his large paw on the assistant’s back. “We can use your support.”
Erik walks off-screen with both ladies.
***
Hold On, I’m Coming: Pre-show shower
Inside a wide glassed-encased running shower, two figures face one another. On the left is a short Puerto Rican woman with a fitness model figure, long straight black hair, large succulent breasts and muscular butt. On the right is a teen boy who barely reaches 5’0, his dark hair neatly trimmed, the rest of his body completely hairless, smooth, his frame chubby, soft.
The woman and boy converse in Spanish, subtitles put at the bottom of the screen.
“You look so much better with the dye washed out of your hair, Mama,” the boy says while he rubs a bar of soap over his chest.
The woman — Marcela Wellspring, model/actress/host — rinses her hair, her impressive biceps flexing as the dye circles the little drains on the shower floor. Her voice is high, squeaky. “I’m not of the opinion this will make me look much better. Really, Mario, no makeup? Who will recognize me?”
The boy grins. “Mama, I need not tell you how gorgeous you are. You do not need cosmetic additions — cosmetics need you, Mama, to sell them.” Mario’s tiny penis grows to the size of a pinkie.
“Thank you, darling.” Marcela blows a kiss. She grabs a bar of soap from the corner and vigorously scrubs her underarms. “Your opinion means more to me than anyone else’s, yet you’d love me if I wore a garbage bag. What will the audience think of me without any makeup?”
“You must be practicing a new comedy routine.” Mario grips the bar of soap, points it at his mother, and without taking a breath, says, “The most gorgeous form of the woman is without any additions– without any additions whatsoever, none, no, none, because that is the truth, the way the man likes his woman to be, in the form which signals sex. No clothes, bare, no additions, it is… is the true expression, the sign that you are his, whole and simply. You are not Marcela Wellspring, sponsored by Good Sexy Lingerie, perfumed by Chanel No.5, no you are just you, and your fully naked form is more desirable, the most.”
Marcella rinses the soap from her breasts, glances at her vagina. “I’m so glad I went for fully bare.”
Mario grins. “I think it’ll be received warmly.”
Marcella smiles. She turns the shower off, steps outside. The camera shifts to the bathroom. white tiles on floor and ceiling, a whole wall taken up by a mirror. The two stand side-by-side. Mario dries himself off with a pink towel. Marcela sits on a stool, grabs a blow-dryer, uses it on her hair.
“What we want is clean and naked,” he says. “No makeup, yet so squeaky clean he could eat his dinner off of you.” Mario rubs a thin white cream over his chest.
Marcella lifts her arm, her large breasts jiggling with the motion. She sprays her underarms and chest with a pink spray. “You assume he — or she — will care about this all while they slobber all over me?”
Mario chuckles. “I see your point, Mama. To be so clean and come out of it so…filthy.” Mario turns to his mom, stands by her arm, put his hand out, looks expectantly at the pink spray. He raises an eyebrow. “Consistency.”
Marcella hands him the spray and gets a quick peck on the lips from her son. “Hold it,” she snatches the spray back. “I’m your mother, not your grandma.”
Mario puckers up, holds his mother’s bicep, leans in and gives his mother a long wet kiss. The kiss lingers, her full lips on his, both knowing it’s crossed the threshold of paternal love, and neither caring, the two enjoying this deeply bonding — erotic — moment.
“Hmmmmm…pwah!” he says as he lets go. Mario holds the spray, shoots it at his privates, reaches over to the counter and holds up a small blue pair of briefs. He slips them on, a satisfying ‘whack’ as the waistband smacks his smooth clean skin. He places his left hand on his crotch, feels himself, mildly jerks.
“Save some for the taping,” Marcella says.
“Oh I’ll try,” he says as he looks at his mother, her toned body glistening under the bathroom’s lights. “I’ll like to try.”
***
Full Swap — Pre-show
“Simply put, I love dick,” she — name flashes on screen: Carol — says with a soft Scottish accent.
A bedroom, early afternoon, drapes fluttering marsbahis giriş with the breeze. Sitting by a dresser, Carol, a mature blonde woman, hair cropped to her chin, wearing a light pink bra with matching panties, stockings and heels. Carol applies blush to her cheeks. Reflected in the mirror, a teen boy, vest, shorts, holding a GoPro in his left hand, aiming it at his mother.
She brushes her hair while delivering her monologue. “I love big thick dicks — though, saying that, I don’t just love dicks. I mean, if I was just into having a big phallic dilly inside me, I’d be into anyone giving me a fuck. No, no, me, I love men. You know? Real men. Big hairy men. You know what I’m talking about, Tom. You’ve peeked in. You know just the kind of men I’m into.”
We hear Tom rub his cloth-covered penis, his micro-camera shaking ever-so-slightly.
“Builders, working men. Just blokes, basically.”
“Yeah.” Carol grabs a sheer pink robe and slips it on. “You got it.” Pause. “See, we’re not the norm. We’re chatting freely about cocks, and you’re my son. I don’t see any problem with that, just like I was so relaxed when I saw you peeking during my many shags. To me — to us — that’s as normal as a lad climbing a tree or running after a ball.”
“Part of growing up,” he says as he continues to jack off.
“That you’re having a wank while I’m in my knickers,” she says as she adjusts her robe, “I take it as a compliment.”
“No need for psychoanalysis,” says Tom.
“Ai, it is what it is. Boys like ladies, and it just so happens you, my son, don’t mind me with me kit off.”
“Not in the slightest. Not. At. All.”
Carol turns, smirks at the camera. “Now don’t be trying to get saucy with me, Son. As you are well aware, I ain’t into boys.”
“Ouch,” Tom says jokingly.
“So anyway.” Carol stands. Tom focuses on his mother’s ample derriere. She walks out the door, into a busy hallway. Men and women in plain black underwear are rushing back and forth, holding platters of finger food, pillows, lotions, dildos. Carol leans over the barrister. In the lobby, a woman lectures a group of underwear-clad teens, a stack of crates by their feet.
“So when one of my regular fellas took me to a swingers’ club, well, it was like a whole new world had opened up. Cocks, cocks everywhere. More cocks than I could get through in a week!” Carol takes a right, comes to a room with an n-shaped sofa, a pile of cushions in the centre. Beyond, the open screen doors and the setting sun.
Carol places her finger on her chin, takes a sharp left to the drinks area, plastic cups set aside on the marble counter. She peeks into the fridge, giving viewers — and her son — another view of her round derrière. “So what turned me off, eventually, was the structure of these events. ‘No kissing. No alone time without the consent of the partner. No two people having private time in a bedroom.’ God.” She turns, hands on hips, breasts curtained by open robe. This is the figure of a woman whose most regular workout happens on a mattress, her body soft yet firm, healthy and feminine. “There was more negotiating than shagging at these dos.”
“‘Let’s get wild — within clearly defined parameters.'”
“Ai, Son. Trust me, nothing kills a buzz more than having to go over the rules and regulations before anyone even gets their kits off. Anyway. Forget the old world. Here, I can do the kind of event I want.” She raises her arms. “The Swap Meet. No rules, no restrictions. You come in with a partner, don’t expect to be leaving with them. Closed doors, proper shagging, no one peeking in if you want to make it intimate.” Carol pauses, raises an eyebrow. “Right, expect for you when I’m with a fella.” She chuckles. “There’s no ‘exclusivity,’ just full-on shagging, no-condoms, full kissing, proper cumming.”
“And…” the camera is rattling.
Carol raises an eyebrow. “You’re just here to assist, not join in. Not because you’re not allowed to — come on now, I’m really going to stop you here, right? I’m saying you can’t because I know you, and, Tom, the level of shagging going on tonight… Son, you’re not going to be able to get up the next morning. Trust me. Mother knows best.”
***
Hold on, I’m Coming! — SexualGameShowTV
The camera pans to the audience. There are five rows of tiered seats, close to 100 in the studio. The cam takes a swift left to the stage, a glimpse of a plush leather seat and a pink bed.
“Helllooo, Tabootopians!” The host is a peppy, pretty tanned Asian woman wearing a loose black tank top with tight tiny jean shorts. She is holding a long skinny mic. “Welcome to ‘Hold On –” She cups her ear.
“I’m Coming!” the audience says in unison.
“All right. I’m your host Trudy Ho, and this is the show where one of you!” Puts her hand above her forehead, scans the audience. “Could be having sex with our guest! Yeah! Are we all excited?”
Crowd says, “Yeah!”
“Great! So tonight one of you could be having intimate relations with… Marcella Wellspring!” Out from the back, completely nude, bronzed, gorgeous, and free of any makeup and pubic hair, Marcella. She smiles and waves with both hands, her dimples ever-present.