The Cream of Sheba
==================


Tony leaned back from his desk, the one hand, or more 
specifically the two fingers, with which he had been typing 
feeling numb. His other hand, however, wasn't so much 
numb at the fingertips as it was at the wrist. The penis he 
held in his hand, jerking up and down in his languidly 
flicking wrist, was hovering somewhere between achieving 
full arousal and subsiding back to its more normal torpor. 
In front of him was the old PC he'd bought years ago and 
never felt the need to upgrade. The CRT screen displayed 
his recently typed words, which had come almost directly 
from his semi-erect penis and found their way into the 
default Times New Roman font of MS Word 95 via only a 
brief traverse through his brain. Ancient dried semen stains 
were splattered on everything: the keyboard, the carpet, the 
fabric of the crappy old PC World swivel chair where he 
sat, and even on his Logitech mouse. 

Tony regarded the words he'd written in the hope that they 
might propel him into a realm of fresh inspiration and take 
his turgid prose soaring into new heights of second- or 
third-hand sexual passion. 



Joe's prick thrust again and again into the busty 
Venusian cunt, her extraplanetary cum dribbling 
down the shaft, while her massive mammaries 
bobbed and wobbled to Joe's hard, virile thrusts! 
"Ooooh!! Aaggghhh!! Uuhhh!!" she shouted in 
orgasmic desire. "You're the best fuck I've had 
since the Uranians came. I think I love you, Joe!"



Tony smiled with satisfaction, his penis twitching as it 
responded to the images it had inspired. His story, 'Women 
Come on Venus', was going pretty well, if he didn't mind 
saying so himself.  He was a fucking poet. He liked his 
own coinage: 'extraplanetary'. If it didn't exist in the 
dictionary, it fucking ought to. And 'massive mammaries'! 
He deserved the Booker Prize for his prose. Now, what he 
needed to do was try and get his character, Joe, to fuck 
some of the other Venusians. He'd got him to stick it in 
Amarinda, the Venusian with the huge tits, the big thighs 
and the long tongue (which was about all the 
characteristics he'd given her). But there were other 
Venusians to fuck. All with big tits. And all up for it. 

He wasn't sure how far his talent for invention might be 
stretched by inventing all these space age alien names. 
'Amarinda' was pretty good. A pretty cosmic kind of name. 
But what names should he give the other outer space 
bitches? Perhaps he ought to consult his old John Norman 
paperbacks. Or perhaps those novelisations he owned of Dr 
Who, Star Wars and James T. Kirk era Star Trek. They 
were a reliable treasure trove of inspiration. At least for 
that kind of inspiration he couldn't pump out of his 
testicles.

Tony scrolled up the pages of his story while wondering 
how he could get Joe and Amarinda to piss on each other, 
maybe get a dog involved, and whether there was an 
opportunity to incorporate leather or bondage into his plot. 
He settled at the top of the third page, his penis twitching 
in his grip, the tip of his glans slightly shiny in the light 
given off by the angle-poise lamp, and re-read the 
paragraph he had written.



Joe could see that Amarinda had whopping big 
boobies, perhaps 46DD, with a slim waist and full 
thighs. She pulled off her clothes really quickly and 
then took off her stockings with the suspenders. 
Joe's cock was as thick and stiff as a Cumberland 
sausage, but straight and rigid, rather than curved 
round in a circle.  The Venusian was gasping with 
desire as Joe approached her, his dick ready to 
thrust inside her creamy quim.



Tony repeated his breathless prose to himself. 'Creamy 
quim'! Alliteration. Shakespeare had nothing on him. 
Perhaps he could pause for a quick smoke, he wondered, 
glancing at his open packet of Bensons. Or should he just 
let his muse transport him toward towering new vistas of 
poetic inspiration? Dripping as it would necessarily be in 
plenty of cum, jizz and female ejaculate (the name of 
which Tony wasn't quite sure).

And then the door-bell rang.

Fuck! Who could that be? It was fucking nine or ten or 
something in the evening. And it was pissing down outside 
as well. Perhaps it was one of the guys from the office 
coming round for a pint in the Fisherman's Retreat. If it 
was, why hadn't he phoned Tony to warn him in advance?

The door-bell rang again, more insistently.

"Coming!" Tony called out, tucking his penis back into his 
trousers and buttoning up his flies. 

He glanced at the screen where the unfinished 'Women 
Come on Venus' was staring at him. What would one of his 
colleagues make of that? He didn't really want to know. If 
they knew he was a sex story writer who'd had loads of 
stories posted on the Internet, he'd never be able to live it 
down. And it wouldn't do him any good to tell them that 
he'd once got a half-way decent review for a story. Nor that 
his stories got loads of downloads. And they wouldn't be 
impressed by his account of the occasional e-mail he 
received from his readers, who praised him for writing the 
sort of stories they most liked to read. He'd just be known 
as a kind of pervert.

Tony hesitated over minimising the window in which 
Word 95 was displayed, but reflected that the wallpaper 
he'd chosen for his screen - a large breasted woman being 
fucked in both the front and the rear - was actually worse 
than a screen full of text. Tony shook his head, leaving the 
screen as it was, and scurried out of the living room and 
opened the front door.

"Fuck!" he cried, in genuine surprise. "Maggie! What are 
you doing here?"

"Why can't a wife visit her husband? Is there a law against 
it?" Margaret wondered, standing in the doorway, shaking 
her umbrella, the rain behind her having eased a little. "Are 
you going to ask me in? Or am I just going to have to stand 
out here in the pissing rain?"

"No! No! Come in!" said Tony as his wife crossed the 
threshold of his one-bedroom flat for the first time since 
he'd moved in just over a year before. He looked her up 
and down as she shook her long, dark bush of curly hair 
and undid the buttons of her shiny black overcoat. He'd not 
seen her for so long, he'd forgotten what a fine woman his 
wife was. And how painful it had been for him when she 
left him for that bitch from the insurance firm. 

Margaret held up her overcoat, the drops of rain sliding 
down its shiny fabric and looked quizzically at her 
husband.

"Well! What do I do with this?"

"Er? I'll take it," said Tony, releasing it from her grip, his 
heart beating thunderously inside his chest as he regarded 
his wife. Her bosom was just as proud and firm as he 
remembered, some kind of D cup, although, unlike the 
heroes of his fiction, he didn't quite have the aptitude of 
instantly determining their exact size. And those thighs of 
hers, full and womanly, narrowing from her slightly large 
arse down to her feet in the severe high heels she still 
chose to wear. It was obvious that living with a dyke hadn't 
damaged Margaret's dress sense one iota.

Margaret smiled at her estranged husband, her face as thick 
with eye-liner, foundation cream and highlighter as it ever 
was. Her lips now a shocking purple. And she still plucked 
her eyebrows. Maggie might be a woman in her forties, but 
Tony knew for sure she was still the head turner she had 
been when they'd got married five years ago, both on the 
rebound from their respective and equally messy divorces. 
And, as Tony needed reminding, she and he were still man 
and wife, even though they'd been separated for so long.

He turned round to hang up his wife's coat in the wardrobe 
he'd so carefully assembled from the IKEA flat-pack, while 
Margaret strode boldly and unaccompanied into the living 
room. 

Shit! Tony hoped she wouldn't look at his PC. Please 
anywhere? anywhere at all? but not at his PC. Perhaps 
the screensaver had started up. Perhaps she'd think it was 
some kind of letter he was writing to a solicitor.

Tony hurried into the living room, glancing at his harassed 
expression in the hallway mirror as he passed it by, his 
round-rim glasses and greying hair making him look so 
much older and sorrier for himself than when he and 
Margaret had got married in the registrar's office.

And then, his worst fears were realised. His wife was 
standing by his desk, an unlit cigarette dangling from her 
right hand and leaning forward to read the words off the 
computer screen.

"Maggie!" Tony said, trying to retain some sense of 
normality. "Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?"

"Tea or coffee? What time do you think it is? Get me a 
whisky. You still drink whisky, don't you? A 
Glenmorangie would go down fine."

"Yes. Yes. I'll get the bottle from the kitchen," Tony said, 
anxiously looking at his wife. "But first, shall I turn off the 
computer?"

"What? And deny me the pleasure of reading the latest 
opus from the Cream of Sheba? That would never do. Just 
get me a whisky. And two cubes of ice."

Tony scurried back to the kitchen. What did she say? 'The 
Cream of Sheba'? Did this mean that she knew? That she'd 
known all along? Or maybe it was just part of the text of 
the story. He could pretend it was written by someone else. 
That he'd downloaded it off the Internet. That'd be better 
than confessing to the truth. And better perhaps than if 
Maggie saw the wallpaper on his screen.

"Here you are, dear!" he called as he came back, watching 
his wife who was now sitting on his swivel-chair and 
reading his prose, the cigarette lit and held in her right 
hand, occasionally flicking ash into his ashtray.

"Award-winning stuff this, Tone!" Margaret said with a 
sneer. "Listen to this. 'When Joe reached the bottom of the 
ladder and his feet trod on the orange Venusian sand, 
thirty-three luscious babes emerged from their pods, with 
the most fantastic bodies Joe had ever seen. They all had 
waists like hour-glasses and boobs like beach-balls.' What 
do you think of that?"

"Um? I dunno," Tony remarked, uncomfortable at the 
sound of his own prose.

"It's really strange, isn't it? I mean, forgetting that Venus is 
like thousands of degrees hot and nothing could live there, 
it's weird how this Joe just struck lucky. And 'boobs like 
beach-balls'. Sounds pretty gruesome to me. Is that the best 
way to describe breasts, do you think?"

"Erm?" blushed Tony. "It's rubbish, isn't it?"

"Rubbish?" Margaret commented. "Don't be so hard on 
yourself. And what's this? How does this Joe get to find 
out what this Amarinda's bra measurements are? Was he 
working in the lingerie department of Marks & Spencer's 
back on Earth? Even though it says here he was the most 
accomplished and intelligent pilot to have ever graduated 
from Earth Space Academy. Bloody hell, Tony! Where do 
you get the inspiration for all this? Blake's Seven? Fireball 
XL5?"

"I don't know what you mean," stumbled Tony, his glass of 
whisky shaking in his hand after placing the other one 
beside the ashtray Margaret was using.

"Don't be stupid, Tony," Margaret sneered, puffing out a 
ring of smoke. "Don't think I don't know about your dirty 
little secret. 'Cream of Sheba'? When I first saw that on 
your PC a couple of years ago, it didn't take much skill at 
googling to find all those stories you've written. And God! 
You've been a busy little beaver, haven't you? All that 
Sheba cream of yours has gone a long way?" Margaret 
pointed at a stain on the mouse. "At least the cream you 
didn't squander on the way?"

"I can explain, Maggie?"

"Don't bloody try. As if it makes any difference. When I 
first read your stuff, I thought what kind of a perv am I 
married to? Sex with children. Sex with dogs. Bondage. 
Scat. Even rape. In fact everything except male 
homosexual sex?"

"It's not what it seems?"

"Well, what is it then, Tone? And why not male 
homosexual sex? After you got together with that French 
guy, Armand or whatever, of all the things you might have 
written about, that's about the thing on which you'd have 
been most authoritative. At least, I'm pretty sure you've 
never really had incestuous sex with twelve year old girls. 
Or pissed in anyone's face, unless it was Armand's. And 
however much you like dogs, I don't think you've ever 
actually had sex with one. And yet, unless you post under a 
different pseudonym to gay sites, I don't think you've 
written anything about men having sex with other men."

"It didn't really work out with Armand. And anyway, I'm 
not really gay?"

"You just fuck with one, do you? Well, you do like poking 
the women in your stories up the arse, like you sometimes 
did with me when we got a bit blotto, so I suppose you put 
your experiences with Armand to some good use. But, like 
I said, when I first saw your porno doodlings I was a bit 
shocked at first?"

"It's a bit cutting edge, isn't it?" Tony said with pride, 
despite his discomfiture.

"Well, that's not what shocked me. And anyway, it's no 
more 'cutting edge' than a lot of other stuff you see on the 
net. No, what shocked me was the poverty of your erotic 
fantasies, the narrowness of your views on women and all 
those bloody grammatical errors you made. And the typos! 
Don't you ever use a spellchecker? And your plots! All I've 
got to do is look at the title and I know what the story's 
going to be about. 'Amy and the Alsatian'. 'I Fucked a 
Cheerleader Babysitter'. 'Arsehole Avengers'. Christ, Tone! 
Is that what goes through your brain? And your stories with 
lesbians in them?"

"My lesbian stories?"

"Well, you don't have any with just lesbians, but you have 
loads where the girls hit off with each other, before hitting 
off with the guys. You really have no idea, have you?"

"Is it because you read about the lesbians in my stories that 
you ran off with??"

"Fuck no! What happened between me and Lucy was 
nothing to do with you. I might have left you one day 
anyway, but it wasn't your pathetic stories with all those 
dykes gagging for a man's dick in their mouth that made 
what occurred between me and Lucy happen. It wasn't like 
you and Armand, from all accounts?"

"I don't know what you're getting at?"

"Got drunk and ended up waking up in a man's bed. That's 
how you described it at the time. But you still kept seeing 
him for about two months after that. Was that you getting 
your own back at me after I'd left you, was it?"

"Well, I don't know whether?"

"Lucy was different. We were in love. Not that you know 
what that's about, judging by your stories?"

"Hey! That's not fair! When we got married?"

Margaret smiled wickedly. "Yeah! When we got married? 
You were pretty hot then. But was it love, eh? It was love I 
felt for Lucy, but I don't know even now if it was love I felt 
for you."

"But I was in love with you!" protested Tony, surprising 
himself by the degree of sincerity that betrayed itself in his 
voice.

 Margaret sipped on her glass of whiskey and coughed 
slightly as it burned the back of her throat. She smiled at 
her husband. "Well, you certainly couldn't keep your hands 
off me, could you?"

Tony leaned over the desk in front of the PC screen whose 
words stared so accusingly at him and opened his packet of 
cigarettes. He pulled one out and lit it with a disposable 
lighter. How could he steer the conversation away from the 
Cream of Sheba?

"What are you doing here, Maggie? Why, after all this 
time, have you come to see me?"

"Well, it wasn't to be first in the queue for your latest story, 
Tone," Margaret smiled. "Your last one about that 
cheerleader gang bang was pretty disgusting, you know. 
What had she done to deserve it? And what do you know 
about cheerleaders anyway? You've never been to the 
States." Margaret placed her cigarette in her mouth, a trace 
of lipstick on its filter, and blew out a cloud of smoke. "No, 
it's me and Lucy. We had an argument. So, I thought I'd go 
somewhere else for a while till things calmed down."

"An argument? What was that about?"

"Why the fuck should I tell you, Tone? Anyway, it's not the 
first one we've had. And the little bitch thought she was the 
broad-minded one. It was her idea to play around a bit. So 
what if she got a bit jealous? But we'll get together again, 
Tone, don't you worry. We always do."

"But why come round to see me? You've had plenty of 
opportunities to do so, but the only times we've met since 
we separated has been in caf‚s and pubs. And there's 
always been Lucy with you."

"Yeah, we have, haven't we?" Margaret sneered. "But I'll 
be honest with you, Tone. I've come round to see you 
because I fancy a fuck."

Tony gulped. He wasn't quite sure he'd heard right. Even in 
his stories, his women were never quite as bold or direct as 
that.

"I'm sorry. What did you say?"

"I fancy a fuck, Tone. Christ! Do I have to spell it out? I 
thought I could come here and we could make love 
together. I mean, you never had any difficulty in that 
department when we lived together. And sometimes, you 
know, a woman might want a fuck from her ex."

Tony wasn't sure that was such a universally held opinion, 
even from what little he knew. His divorced wife, Melinda, 
certainly wasn't at all keen, even though Tony had 
suggested it to her several times after they'd separated and 
before the divorce papers came through. 

"Is it because you read my stories?" he wondered.

"Fuck, Tony! If you think I want you to stick your cock up 
my arse and piss in my mouth, while a bunch of other girls 
get ready to join in, then you really are stupid. If anything, 
it's despite those smutty little fantasies of yours rather than 
because. But, yes, at least I know by googling around that 
you're still keen on sex and not gone all monastic. And 
anyway, if you find the time to write all that porno wet-
dream stuff, I know you're not finding the time to actually 
give your dick any practice."

Tony nodded at the PC. "Shall I turn it off?" he pleaded.

"What? And deny me the pleasure of reading the Cream of 
Sheba's latest literary masterpieces? Come on! What else 
have you got on your hard drive? Anything likely to fire up 
a girl who just wants a fuck with her ex?"

Tony's heart leapt up with a thud from his chest to 
somewhere at the back of his throat where it lodged 
momentarily and deprived him of articulate speech. "Why 
d'you? Why do you?? With me? Why?"

"You're there. You're available. And anyway I didn't go 
after Lucy because you were a poor show in the bed 
department. It's the other things you don't have and that 
Lucy has in spades that made the decision for me. So, 
come on, big boy. You got some other hot little stories. 
Anything like 'Naked Gymnasium', 'Buffy Fucks Willow' or 
'Sex Slave Daughter'?"

Tony winced as Margaret recited the titles of his short 
stories. He remembered when 'Sex Slave Daughter' had 
been nominated as best story of the month, though it had 
been beaten to the title by some romantic lesbian slush. He 
stood in front of Margaret as she swivelled around in his 
PC World chair.

"Come on, Maggie! Leave the PC alone."

"Or perhaps you've got some pictures you've downloaded 
off the Internet? You don't surf the same websites as Pete 
Townshend or the Royal Metropolitan Constabulary do 
you? No kiddy porn?"

Tony blushed again. "I'm not into that kind of stuff?" 

"Doesn't stop you writing about it, though, does it?"

Margaret placed the palm of her hand flat against the front 
of Tony's trousers. She puffed at her cigarette and raised 
her eyes lasciviously up toward Tony's rather nervous face 
above her as he looked down at his estranged wife. 

"Gives you a bit of a hard-on, thinking about it, doesn't it?"

Tony nodded. His eloquence vanishing into a gurgle of 
incoherence as one by one, Margaret carefully undid the 
buttons that secured the flies of his trousers. His wife 
placed a cool hand inside and felt the meat of his penis 
through the boxer shorts.

"Nice and big, isn't it?"

Tony nodded. This was a bit like one of his own stories, he 
thought, only what normally happened would be that the 
huge breasted seventeen year old cheerleader would then? 
would then? do exactly what his wife was actually doing. 
Which was ease down his trousers and underpants to his 
knees, take his swollen member in her hands and run her 
fingers up and down its length, from the aching testicles to 
the swelling glans, fully emerged from the constraints of 
his unmutilated foreskin.

Margaret stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, picked up 
her glass of whiskey and took two long gulps, emptying it 
down her throat. She smiled at her husband, before letting 
her right hand accompany the left in pumping his penis. 

She smiled up at Tony, who regarded her with an as yet 
unabated expression of embarrassment. 

"I guess I need something to disguise the taste of your 
cock, Tone."

She put her mouth to the tip of the glans, the tongue 
touching underneath where the stretch of skin from his 
retracted foreskin pulled down and her teeth gently above 
on the hooded rim. She removed her mouth. 

"Still smells and tastes the same, Tone, doesn't it? A bit 
like the cheese you write about in your stories. Never could 
work out what kind of cheese, could we? Should be blue 
cheese given what it inspires, but I guess it's more like 
goat's cheese."

And with that, Margaret returned her mouth to the penis, 
which she deepthroated and gobbled with a skill that only 
someone more expert in these matters than Tony would 
have recognised betrayed a recent lack of practice. Tony 
looked down at his wife and glanced again at the words 
he'd written as the Cream of Sheba. His fantasies now 
seemed so small and trivial compared to the real life 
pleasures of the real thing.

It was only much later when Margaret at last slumped 
asleep by his side, in the double bed they'd once shared 
every night, that Tony was able to let his mind wander, as 
it always did each night, to the fantasies he realised on his 
word processor. But as he regarded his wife, even as she 
snored in that soft and still familiar way, he knew their 
love-making, however passionate, was really just a 
diversion for her until she patched things up again with 
Lucy. Although this encounter meant everything to him, he 
knew his wife well enough to know it might mean 
something to her, but nothing as much to her as it did to 
him. He still loved her, and this meant that Margaret was 
welcome to return to his bed again. Although he had no 
idea whether she would ever want to again.

And as to the other matter? as to whether the Cream of 
Sheba should immortalise this precious moment in prose? 
Well, Tony wasn't sure. Now that he had actually met one 
of his readers, he wasn't at all sure he was able to express 
to her, as he would have to do, knowing she would read his 
words, the true essence of their coupling. Could he find the 
words to express the love he felt, the passion that his penis 
had only been his companion in the throes of their sweaty 
embracing? 

Or would he return again to the virginal schoolgirls and 
bosomy aliens that he found so much easier to write about?








