The Autumn Diaries Read online

  So this was what it took to get off in the Internet age.

  After a minute or two of afterglow, Autumn wiggled out of the tub and Vick began moving forward to extricate himself, shortly declaring himself stuck.

  “How can I be stuck?” he said.

  Autumn, thinking of that little knob on the top of the faucet and how hard it had been to get past it, said, “How can you not be stuck?”

  “You’ve got to get me off,” said Vick.

  Autumn pointed at his flagging and still-dripping cock. “I just got you off. Twice.”

  “Off the faucet.” He seemed extremely nervous all of a sudden. Autumn found it hard to believe this was the first time he’d gotten stuck on something, but it sounded that way.

  “Oh. Sure.” So she tried, using her fingers, but it was nothing doing. His ass had closed for business, except that there was a faucet in the way.

  “This is like a band of metal,” she said, tugging at his asshole. “Like Iron Maiden.”

  Vick’s demeanor shifted 180 degrees. “Don’t fucking make jokes!”

  “All right, I’m sorry. But seriously, you’re like, distorting the shape of this thing, you’re clenching it so hard. Nothing’s budging.”

  “Oh shit. Oh shit.” Vick started to panic, which made his ass tighter. Autumn tried squeezing lube along the edges, but nothing worked. Vick’s ass had gone on strike.

  “Hang on,” Autumn said, then ran to fetch something, returning a few seconds later.

  He screamed, “YOU CAN’T USE A SHOEHORN ON MY ASSHOLE!”

  “Would you rather stay there forever? My friend has this thing on her faucet that looks like an alligator head, so her kids can laugh at how the water comes out of an alligator’s mouth. Maybe you want to be like that? I could send the kids over to see where the water comes out of you?”

  “Fine. Use the shoehorn,” he spat. Vick sounded angry, turning into the asshole version Autumn couldn’t stand, as if this were all her fault. She tried shoving the shoehorn around the edges, and managed to get in, but there was no way she was going to get it over that knob.

  “It’s almost as if this faucet wasn’t meant to be shoved up a human ass,” Autumn said after fifteen minutes of surprisingly strenuous work. She was still naked but they’d both worked up a thin sweater of sweat from all the labor.

  Autumn retrieved more tools, each more aggressive than the first. She felt like Bob Vila if Bob Vila were an ass doctor.

  “GET ME OFF HERE, GODDAMMIT!” Vick shouted, still acting as if Autumn had gotten him into this situation.

  “I can’t. You’re locked in. Maybe you need to be more turned on.”

  Autumn realized that in a way, maybe it was her fault. She was the one who’d robbed him of two rather large loads of cum, after all. So she reached down and started stroking his dick, making it hard.

  “I’m not in the mood for a fucking handjob!”

  Vick’s cock was rock hard.

  “Seriously!”

  “Hey, I’m doing this for your own good,” Autumn said, stroking him harder and faster. She wiggled her head between the visible arm and leg and licked the tip, her tits squishing against the side of the tub.

  Vick started to swat at her, pushing her away.

  “Hey! Trying to help you here!” Autumn said.

  “You got me into this! Get me out of this!”

  “Hey, this is your fetish,” said Autumn, standing up and putting her hands on her hips.

  “Get back down here and get me off this faucet, you fucking bitch!” he screamed.

  Autumn cocked her head. “Really?” she said.

  “GET ME OFF THIS FAUCET! GET DOWN HERE AND GET THIS OUT OF MY ASS, YOU CUNT!”

  Autumn nodded. “Okay, I’ll get it out,” she said.

  Autumn went to the front room, made a phone call, then returned to the bathroom and started putting her clothes back on.

  “You called 911?” said Vick.

  Autumn began to feel bad. Poor guy was stuck. She should be more understanding.

  “I’M TALKING TO YOU, BITCH!” he yelled.

  Nah, she understood plenty.

  “They’ll be here soon,” she said.

  On her way out, Autumn passed a van that had just pulled into the driveway. On the side in large red letters was “A1 Plumbing.” An advertisement on the van’s side offered ten-minute emergency plumbing, for those who had a sink spraying the kitchen, or maybe a faucet up their asses.

  Two men got out of the truck and looked at Autumn, who hooked a thumb back toward the house.

  “In the bathroom,” she said. “He’s having trouble getting off the tub faucet.”

  As Autumn drove home, she found herself wondering if Vick would drive himself to the hospital or not, and whether he’d manage to get pants on.

  Either way, the plumbing bill would surely be a bitch.

  APRIL 8

  SAM INVITED ME TO HIS parents’ house for Easter. We went to church because they’re the kind of family that goes twice a year to keep God from getting pissed. It was fine. There was a lot of singing and I managed to keep my hands out from under my skirt for an hour, and nobody threw holy water on me or made the sign of the cross.

  This was only the second time I’ve met Sam’s parents, and the first time didn’t count because they were leaving Applebee’s when we were arriving. He’s been telling them about me, which is really flattering, but I he’s telling them any of the stuff I’m telling my family. Well, Celeste, anyway, who is hardly fazed since she sells pussy.

  Short version here is that I found myself getting pleased by the fact that my guy would take me home for Easter and, because I don’t seem to have a normal woman’s biology, found myself immediately wet. There’s pretty much nothing that doesn’t get me wet, I’ve realized. I seem to have conditioned myself to get wet at just about anything. If we were going to a football game, I’d think of those guys on the field with tight bodies in tight pants and get wet. If we went to a physics lecture, I’d start thinking about the dynamics of Sam’s hard, straight vector inside of my dripping wet trajectory. If we went to a toy store, I’d start thinking of furries. And I don’t even really like furries.

  When Sam asked me to come over for Easter, I told him yes by bending over the bathroom sink and dropping my pants. Sam is a good boy. He didn’t comment; he just dropped his own pants and shoved his cock up into my eyeballs through my pussy, then fucked me so hard I shattered that little cup thing he keeps his toothbrush in. Because I was feeling both super cock-hungry and apologetic, I was sure to be a good girl and turned around fast when he was about to cum so that I could finish the job with my mouth, and Sam painted my tongue and the roof of my mouth with his man batter.

  Then, after getting back from the Easter service (where, again, remember, I managed to refrain from diddling myself because Jesus doesn’t like it when you do that in church), I was so horny that I shoved Sam into the attached garage and into his mother’s Buick and rode him in the back seat. I kept my top on because this was Easter and there are ways a lady shouldn’t behave. But I made the mistake of making that joke to Sam later, and he laughed, but the joke rebounded at me and I started getting all turned on again, and so right before the ham was finished, I pushed Sam into the basement, tore off my Easter blouse and the bra I’d worn because nice ladies wear bras in church, and told him to fuck my tits. He did, standing up, and then coated me in Easter gravy, which I then rubbed all over my nipples.

  Sam’s mother then called him to help make salads, so he tucked in and ran up the stairs. I had to stay downstairs and rub one out. I got a handful of Sam’s spunk first, and rubbed that in while I got myself off. What the hell, I’m on the pill.

  I guess we ate a meal after that or something. I think there was pie.

  APRIL 10

  I’M STARTING TO GET MORE and more reader mail from people who’ve read my stuff. It’s pretty gratifying. I write back with my smutty thoughts and filthy mouth and these ladies just
keep coming back for more. The funny thing is that the tone of the conversations — pussies and cum and cocks aside — is still mostly about enhancement and freedom. It’s as if they’ve wanted to discuss this stuff and to think about this stuff and maybe to tell the other people in their lives about their own feelings and lust and desires, but have never felt like they could. Until now. Until Lexi Maxxwell showed them that it was okay — that you could be a smart, real woman and be a slut at the same time.

  I can’t believe it looks like I’ll be able to do this full time eventually — writing smut as my full-time fucking job.

  I can’t believe that while I’m doing that — while I’m doing my best (and succeeding) at getting a lot of hands rubbing wet pussies and jerking hard cocks — I seem to actually be making a positive difference in the world.

  APRIL 15

  TO CELEBRATE THE “1 WEEK after Easter” holiday, I dressed up in a schoolgirl outfit and surprised Sam in his apartment. Sam wasn’t aware that there was a “1 week after Easter” holiday or that it was celebrated with a slutty schoolgirl outfit. I unzipped his fly and got out his cock, then sat on it. Sam continued to feign ignorance. So after fucking his cock for a few minutes and cumming twice, drenching Sam’s pants, I got down on my knees, took off my shirt, and jerked him off onto my tits. Then he hardened back to what we’d done in the basement and looked at all of the sticky, gooey cum between my boobs and dripping from my nipples and said, “Oh yeah, now I remember.”

  APRIL 27

  I HAVE THE BEST JOB in the world. Or at least, I’m slowly building up to it.

  So here’s what happened today: I went to the post office. For a normal girl, this is just a by-the-way sort of a thing — the sort of errand you handle between getting a few Xeroxes at Kinko’s and picking up a gallon of milk at the Quickie Mart. But for me, it’s a powderkeg situation.

  The line at the post office is never short. There are always at least a few people in line, and the workers are walking cliches. They don’t give the slightest of shits about you or what you might be up to, or that normal people have places they’d rather be than the post office. Thus, they are always intolerably slow. They aren’t paid by the customer. They’re paid by the hour. And they work for the fucking government.

  If I walked into a supermarket and saw three people in front of me, I would think nothing of it, confident that it would only be a few minutes before I was out of there. Not so at our post office. I have to mentally prepare for at least twenty minutes, even if there are only two people in line.

  Right in front of me in line was this guy with a shaved head and blue eyes. I know he had blue eyes because when I came up behind him, he glanced at me in the casual way anyone will glance back at someone approaching them. Then after that, he turned and took a much better, much longer second look. Because here’s the thing — and I can be immodest here because this is MY diary, dammit — even when I’m casual, I look really fucking hot. I had my light pulled back in a loose knot, with a few wavy strands hanging down and sticking out from the top. I was wearing my reading glasses, which I only do when I’m super tired — cute little black cat’s eye frames. I wasn’t wearing makeup. But because I’m a girl, I of course checked myself out in the mirror even though I was in a rush, and totally thought that, yeah, I’d fuck me. I look way cute when disheveled, and honestly, the glasses are awesome enough that I should probably wear them more. I had on a strappy top without a bra and jeans, and everything was tight. I was carrying my shoulder bag with me, and I learned a little trick — if you wear a bag (or even a purse) across your body instead of hanging at your side so that the strap is between your tits, guys love it. It’s like drawing a giant arrow pointing at your fun bags.

  Anyway, this guy in front of me takes this nice, long look. Totally unashamed. Then he smiles. It wasn’t a lecherous look or smile, but it was the kind of thing where he was waving a flag letting me know I’d raised his dick, and it would be up to me whether or not I responded. He turned back to the front, probably because he didn’t want to seem like a creep, but there was something about his look that turned me on, and so even though I’m with Sam, I couldn’t resist initiating conversation. I wanted to see those baby blues some more.

  “It’s always like this in here,” I said to him. Very casually, I shifted my weight so my tits would stick out more, and nudged my sexy secretary glasses into place.

  The bald guy turned, and there were those eyes again. My jeans felt too tight, and my panties too confining. Blue eyes wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I could totally nail him. We could go behind the post office — I’d driven around the building dozens of times and even mentally had a spot picked out. I do that all the time. It would be quick and dirty and anonymous. We’d have just enough time beforehand, posting our packages, to build up plenty of nasty anticipation. I’d whisper to him where to meet me, then I’d find him and he’d pull my pants and panties down to my ankles and fuck me against a wall. Five minutes tops, and everyone goes home from the post office happy (and sticky) for a change.

  But that couldn’t happen. Because I love Sam.

  He smiled. “Are you in a hurry? You can go ahead of me.”

  Oh holy shit, he had the sexiest Australian accent. I’m a sucker for accents. I wanted him to plow me down under. NOW.

  “Oh, no, that’s fine. It’s just so…” I didn’t finish the sentence. We both knew this was small talk, and that the real talking was happening with our bodies. I shifted my weight again. Ass out. Chest out. Don’t worry; I made that contortion look sexy.

  He turned fully toward me. He was mailing a single small package that was long and narrow. I found myself wondering if he were mailing someone a dildo. My mind saw him ripping it open and using it on me right then and there, with the post office watching.

  Then the clerk called to him, the line moving uncharacteristically fast. His eyes asked again if I wanted to go, but I demurred with a smile. He did his business, I was called, and we exchanged looks as he left. And that was it; he wasn’t waiting for me outside and I didn’t track him down to fuck him.

  It was just a random encounter, and in the past, before Sam, I might have taken full advantage of it if he’d been interested, which he certainly seemed to be.

  But I’m with Sam now.

  Which doesn’t stop me, in my new profession as a smut writer, from fucking him in my head.

  So I wrote a story about the sexy blue-eyed Australian fucking me right then, right there, in front of the whole post office. And in the middle of writing and at the end, I shoved my hand down my pants and rubbed my clit until I came.

  Writing this shit lets me keep fantasy-fucking hot guys while only touching Sam’s cock for real. Best of both worlds.

  FUCKING IN THE POST OFFICE

  NOTE: COULDN’T RESIST WRITING THIS one in first person. Might change it to third person later.

  +++

  There was a smoking hot guy standing in front of me at the post office, with a shaved head and bright blue eyes.

  I know he had blue eyes because when I came up behind him, he glanced at me in the casual way anyone will glance back at someone approaching them. After that, he turned and took a better, much longer look. Because here’s the thing — even when I’m casual, I look fantastic. I had my hair back in a loose knot. I hadn’t had time to put my contacts in, so I was wearing my glasses. I wasn’t wearing makeup. But because I’m a girl, I of course checked myself out in the mirror even though I was in a rush, and I totally thought that I’d fuck me. I look way cute when disheveled, and honestly, the glasses are awesome enough that I should probably wear them more. I was wearing a strappy little top and a nothing-fancy skirt. I was carrying my shoulder bag, with the strap pressing down between my tits.

  The guy in front of me turned and stared, totally unashamed. He let me know with a smile that I’d tickled his dick and that he would love to tickle me back.

  “It’s always like this in here,” I said, casually shifting my weight
so my tits would stick out more, nudging my sexy glasses into place.

  The bald guy turned and gave me his bright blue eyes again. He was looking at me as if he was already putting his hands all over me, rubbing my tits through my shirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra. I almost never do.

  He smiled, and I read a thousand dirty words into his grin.

  “Are you in a hurry? You could go ahead of me,” he said in a holy shit of an Australian accent. I’m a sucker for accents and wanted him to plow me down under. NOW.

  “Oh, no, that’s fine. It’s just so…” I didn’t finish the sentence. We both knew this was small talk, and that the real dialogue was there between our hot bodies. I shifted my weight again. Ass out and chest both out.

  He turned fully toward me. He was mailing a single small package that was long and narrow. “You seem awfully prettied up for a jaunt to the post office,” he said.

  “Sometimes I meet hot guys in line.”

  The woman behind me heard me — a frumpy lady with scraggly blonde hair. She probably needed a good fucking to loosen her juices, but I doubted anyone was looking to toss her a bone. The way she looked at me when I said the “hot guys” thing, it was almost like I’d spit in her face.