Stuffing The Dolly
"You don't call it 'stuffing' when it’s on the outside. When it’s on the outside, you call it 'dressing' " I told my date, Jimmy McSomething. Okay, not his real last name. I do remember there was a "Mc" at the start of it.
But getting back to our discussion of Thanksgiving food nomenclature:
"But Dolly," Jimmy replied, still breathing more heavily than usual as his cock was drooping down and heading for a spell of rest and reloading that I hoped would not be too long in duration, "how can we talk about dressing when you're undressed?"
"Ha-ha, Jimmy, I'm only naked because you took my clothes off and said it would turn you on to strip me completely but for you to still be wearing your sweaty running singlet, and for your shorts to be more or less "on" but pushed down low enough to release your dick to fuck me doggy style while I was bent over this desk." I was looking back over my shoulder at Jimmy, as I was bent over, ass pointed toward where his cock had been pounding me, lightly coated in perspiration from my own participation of pushing back and meeting his thrusts and skillfully tensing various intimate muscles to heighten his pleasure. Oh, and bracing myself using my yoga-toned arms to hold my position when Jimmy slammed his body forward into me, And yes, still some leftover perspiration from the Turkey Trot 10K that Jimmy and I had just run.
Jimmy blushed. His cock twitched, a momentarily upward blip as a brief detour from its slow but steady downward, post ejaculatory droop. "I love when you say the word, 'Fuck', Dolly."
"And I love when you fuck me, Jimmy dear (another though lesser twitch when I said it again), but your joke about cum being the stuffing and me being your Thanksgiving turkey dinner isn't right--your cum is pooling on the small of my back, having oozed down from where my ass meets my back, so it’s on the outside, and if I'm the turkey then you have call me your turkey with dressing because the splooge is not stuffed inside me. Where of course your man sauce is never going to be, that wouldn't be safe after all. I mean, even if you hadn't pulled out and had cum inside me, I'd have only been stuffed while your cock remained in my pussy, or even in my ass, but since you were wearing a condom the stuffing would have been out as soon as you withdrew your nice cock from me."
Jimmy was silent, he looked like he was thinking. If I'd known him better, I might have known what he was thinking. But I'd never met Jimmy before the race.
And I'd just fucked him in the race director's makeshift office in a mobile trailer at the fairgrounds where the race began and ended.
Finally, Jimmy ended the mystery of what he was thinking.
"Dolly, you need to make up your mind whether you are the sexiest, horniest best fuck I've ever met with an ass I could lick and fuck forever and a pussy that grips a cock like none other, or are you Martha Stewart giving lectures on turkey and stuffing."
"I just told you, Jimmy, it’s not stuffing, it is dressing when it is outside the bird."
He smacked my ass. Pretty well, too, for a stranger, not too hard, but firm enough to send a chill down my sweaty, post-race, post-impromptu fuck lean toned back. Thank God he had a wedding ring so I could count on him leaving pretty soon, though, I remember thinking. I'd broken up with a boyfriend maybe a month earlier and didn't want to get attached, I just wanted to have fun for a while.
And fucking Jimmy had been pretty fun, he'd lasted a decent amount of time, worked it nice so it felt good for me, wasn't insulted when I reached back down between my legs to frig myself off with my skilled, fire-engine red manicured fingers while he pumped me, and hadn't tried to object when I produced a condom from the little pocket in my running bottom that is designed more to hold a key or a card but since I'm Dolly and always open to the possibility of pleasure, I always pack protection. But when I heard him say he could fuck me forever....well, the forever word, yeah, not so much excitement there.
So how did I end up fucking Jimmy the stranger at the end of the turkey trot?
The day had not started too well, though it had started early. Race time was 7:30 a.m., so back up to the 6:00 a.m. sign in time, getting there, and I'd been awake since about 4:30 a.m. My daughter was spending the weekend with her father, for the sake of not disturbing her with my early race, and for an ex-husband he was being really friendly and flexible swapping weekends with me so I could race. And why shouldn't he be nice to me, I'd really treated him pretty well considering he was a guy who'd been fucking the nanny I hired in the apartment I was paying for her to live in. Not that I can totally blame him for wanting her. Norwegian girl living in the U.S. on an au pair visa, young, slender, looked like the even hotter sister of Tiger's Woods' ex-wife, if Elin had had a better looking sister. I was trying to figure out a way to not freak her out and get her into our bed for a threesome, when I remembered leaving my phone at her apartment the day before when I'd helped her carry some things inside. So I couldn't call to ask her to look for it and bring it when she came to the house. My name was on the lease, so I figured no harm in just going by, I wouldn't be disturbing her since she was at my house with my daughter.
And then I saw my husband's car. I didn't even have to wonder, instantly I knew.
I might have just laughed it off and found a way to forgive and move forward with the three way plan.
Except that I heard something.
After I let myself in quietly, and heard the cries and gasps and grunts and all the primal sounds that make sex the best thing on Earth, I stood just outside the bedroom door where the trail of abandoned clothes led, and I saw my handsome husband standing on one leg with his other knee at the side of the bed, his torso hunched forward and supported by his muscular, tanned arms. Ursula (I swear, that was her name) was on her back, nude and without tan lines, her pelvis titled up to receive him, one flexible leg hooked around the leg that was planted on the floor and her other leg spread wide but caressing the outside of his thigh on the leg that was bent and on the bed. She was raking his arms with her nails, her nice natural C-cup tits swaying with every thrust he delivered to her body, her blonde hair a sexy mess of being scattered by the sexual thrashing.
"Give me your baby," I heard her say.
I focused between their loins.
A confirmed lack of condom.
"You want my seed?" he baited her.
"I've been wanting it, you've been wearing those rubbers."
Who calls them rubbers? Maybe that was the translation in the Slutty Norwegian-English dictionary she must have used to learn English.
Oh, and then this thought. "Been wearing rubbers."
How the hell long had this shit been going on?
In the end, I didn't ever bother to find out. Many women would litigate until getting every last answer to every jealous, angry question.
I'd rather use those funds to buy myself a BMW instead of paying for my lawyer's BMW.
She'd reached up and splayed her fingers over his shoulder, dragged her nails down his back, and pulled my husband down to her, and I saw their tongues meet as their long kiss began.
The kiss broke. And she said, "I love that you finally didn't wear your rubber, I want to feel you, you feel so good in me, you can breed me, make our baby now."
He gripped her like he wanted to hold her forever. Or that's how it looked. Maybe just looked that way because from where I was standing I could see his wedding ring, the one I'd placed on his finger, on his hand, so I was imagining all sorts of things. Truth is, he really hadn't been clinging to me like that in the past year. Or since Ursula entered our lives.
I'd found my phone on the little table next to her door when I'd stepped inside, the place you usually put your keys down when you live there. So, armed with technology when I approached the bedroom, I'd been recording the whole time. I had gotten all I was going to need with that low-light video setting on my smart phone. As a parent my thoughts had turned to making sure I could get along with this guy as an Ex to co-parent with him, because it was pretty apparent this was beyond fucking a hot blonde.
So my mother picked up my daughter from preschool and I left a text for Ursula and my husband to shower and get dressed when they were done fucking and to meet me at the offices of Finebaum and Teitelman, Family Law Attorneys of outstanding reputations in my community, so that we could simplify the process of serving them. I phone the lawyer from the car. He had handled my sister's divorce and flirted with me shamelessly throughout that whole case so I knew he'd interrupt whatever he was doing to take the call. I gave him enough info to draft a complaint over the phone and it was e-filed by the time I got to the office. About an hour later Ursula and my soon to be Ex arrived, and he signed an acknowledgment of service. We played my video on the 65 inch high definition screen in the conference room and explained how it could all play out.
I gotta hand it to those two, it was true love. They never denied anything. She apologized and even cried while maintaining that she truly loved him and never meant for it to happen.
And three years and two babies later they were still married and happy. The first of which was born nine months to the damn day I caught them. So I guess I was hearing the magic moment when I walked away and heard him strain and moan, "Oh God, Urse, so good, mmm, oh, so good Urse..."
And yes, I had still had him followed afterward and he wasn't screwing anyone else. Some examination of the credit card accounts, bank accounts and the car's GPS log (he didn't know about that trick) pretty much confirmed he wasn't screwing anyone except me, and Ursula.
In case you wanted to know the background story on how I'd become a single mom by the time of this Turkey Trot I'm telling you about.
So I'd gone to the race just to stretch things out, push myself, and get the boyfriend breakup out of my mind for good in time to have a great holiday family gathering for Thanksgiving the following week.
I was intentionally trying to be festive. And found a pair of shorts that had cute, cartoon looking turkeys on the ass, one on each butt cheek. How could I resist, so I wore those for the race.
It was mile two when I first heard him.
"Looking good for a turkey."
I looked over my shoulder. He smiled and nodded, and I smiled. Not the first humorous flirty quip I'd ever exchanged in a casual 10k.
Then at the next water station, "Damn, look at you, turkey lady, you're the best looking Thanksgiving meal I ever saw.' I winked at him.
"Careful, flattery will get you everywhere." I joked back.
"Oh I wish. This race rocks, I just keep focused on the sexy turkey and my legs run fast enough to keep up by themselves."
Should I have sped up and used my true maximum speed? Why, a man in pretty good shape was complimenting me.
Mile Four I heard, "you know there's usually pie after the turkey on Thanksgiving. You got any pie?"
Now by this time he was running side by side with me so that he could simply say it while huffing and puffing, and not have to yell loud enough for public consumption.
"Maybe there is pie, maybe there is."
As we passed the school kids holding the "Half a mile to go, great job runners!" sign I heard, "you know I'm really great at stuffing the turkey,"
My head turned and stared. "Are you for real?"
"No, I'm Jimmy. You got a name, sexy turkey ass running babe?"
I chuckled and realized I'd dropped a gear lower to be able to talk. This was fun, I was having fun. I needed fun.
Jimmy just might have a shot at stuffing the turkey, I thought.
"Okay Jimmy, I'm Dolly, let’s shut up and run"
And I took off with all I had left for a kick.
Kind of early for a kick. So I felt it, and really had to push. But yes, I beat him by three seconds. Which made me realize he was a pretty good runner.
So we're cooling down, wrapped in the fabric body heat retainers the race organizers passed out beyond the finish line.
Water bottles. Bananas. Medals. And the rest of the thousands of post-race runners filling the park grounds.
He was in marketing for a real estate management firm, he told me. Originally from outside of Chicago. Now lived an hour from my town, but loved to come in to "the big city" as he called it so he was making a race weekend of it. Moved to my part of the country for business school, loved the weather, stayed. Took up running to lose weight after twenty years behind a desk led to him gaining more than forty pounds, he told me.
I told him little about myself beyond my name and that I did live in town. "So tell me Jimmy, does your wife run, too?" I nodded toward his ring finger. "Or don't you bother stuffing her turkey anymore?" Yes, I was being a smartass.
"She doesn't run. We stuff a little turkey now and then, but not much, I'm not sure if she might be on a starvation diet or maybe she's just turned into a Vegan. I'm hoping you're a meat eater, Dolly. Running behind you and watching your turkey clothed ass and those lean legs, I'm starving. I'm ready to eat, sweaty, whatever."
His dick was bulging in his running shorts.
Which is never a good look. Men, you should all jerk off before a race if chicks in running gear would otherwise give you a stiff one.
And I thought about Mr. Ex-boyfriend who just wasn't the right stuff, so I wasn't currently dating.
And Mr. Ex-husband, having a happy weekend with three children, one of whom was my daughter and two of whom he'd conceived with my daughter's former nanny who was now my daughter's step-mother. And who was still, two babies later, really hot.
"Jimmy, see that guy over there with the two walkie-talkies?" I pointed to a dude with a pony tail and bony legs.
"Yeah, is he security or something?"
"No, he's talking to security and the course-marshals on those walkie-talkies, though. He's the race director, a friend of mine, and his name is Burt. Go tell him that Dolly asked if she can borrow his key."
I patted Jimmy on his crotch and twiddled my fingers, finding his nuts below. He jumped. And made his way over to Burt with the bony legs.
Burt looked over after Jimmy spoke to him, and I smiled my Dolly smile and waived. He dropped his head and shook it back and forth. Held both walkie-talkie's in one hand and gave the key in his pocket to Jimmy, who said thank you and returned.
Jimmy put the key in my hand.
"This the part where I get to stuff YOU?" he whispered into my ear, and I fondled his growing dick again. Game on.
I nodded for Jimmy to follow and made my way toward Burt's trailer. "We've got about twenty, maybe thirty minutes. Burt knows to knock, but while the medals are on a table, the trophies are inside so he can't give us forever."
I led Jimmy to the trailer, unlocked the door, we stepped in, closed the door, and there were the trophies. Moved those off the desk, turned to face Jimmy and leaned back against the desk.
He stepped close. I opened my knees, put my hands around his waist and pulled him to my body, kissing him hard, hungrily. I needed cock and Jimmy was about to deliver.
We broke the kiss, I felt his cock pressing into my sex and felt my body moisten in anticipation. Not that I didn't know where Burt kept his lube. Wink. I stole a quick kiss, produced the condom from my magic pocket, placed it in Jimmy's hand and told him to stuff me to the giblets. Which is when he told me he wanted me naked and to take me from behind over the desk.
And not too much later, as he was panting that he was about to cum, he said, "stay like that, I'm gonna pull out and cum on your ass."
Such sweet words, what a poet.
"After the last gob landed on my flesh, he said, 'there, now I really stuffed your turkey for Thanksgiving, Dolly."
And if you want to know what I said next, scroll back up to the top of this story. This is where I began.
I never did get with Ursula, as much as I wanted to just for revenge at first, then later for a mixture of retribution and lust because as I mentioned she was so hot. And my ex-husband and I had shared a mutual fantasy for our own marital bed dirty talk about bringing her into our bed. Only he'd taken her for a test drive after seeing the way she looked at him. He claimed he thought that's what it would be, a test fuck of her as a prelude to our threesome with her. Until he felt something for her about as soon as she made it clear she'd fallen for him. I can find other sexy blondes to take to my bed, either with a hot man for a threesome or just the two of us ladies. But I respect love, and they were happy, and I wasn't angry enough to mess with that. He's my little girl's father, and if he is happy, he's a great father. He's happy, my daughter's happy. And I got the house, the better car, the place in the keys for weekends and all the liquid money while he kept his business that he'd started before we were married. And I got to stop paying Ursula to watch my daughter when I worked since the new name for those time periods was "Father's visitation".
So that's my story for Thanksgiving. When the stuffing is in the turkey, It’s "stuffing", when Its cooked outside the bird It’s called "dressing". Cumming on my back isn't stuffing me.
"Ah, but now that you sucked me off and swallowed my hot married seed, Dolly, NOW have I stuffed you?" Jimmy asked after I wiped my lower back with my fingers, licked them clean, decided he was too fun to just let go with maybe five more minutes of trailer privacy until Burt needed to get the trophies, so I pulled Jimmy's shorts the rest of the way off and had dropped to my knees.
I licked my lips clean from his cum. "Okay, Jimmy, yes, NOW you've stuffed me. Now put your shorts on while I put myself back together in the water closet, and let Burt in, he's been knocking for fifteen minutes and the trophy ceremony is late.
Happy Thanksgiving to all my dear readers and lovers.
Maybe sometime I'll tell you about the adventure Jimmy and I had a month later at the Jingle Bell Jog 5K.
Purely fictional fantasy for your reading pleasure.