The Swarm Cycle

It was New Years, and the big bash I’d paid big bucks to go to was
over. We’d raised Hell and danced and had our fancy dinner and a
show and the champagne to ring in the New Year and it was two thirty
in the morning. Coming out of the city on the main highway, I
rounded a corner to find blue lights everywhere. Shit. Well, I’d
had a bit, but I’d eaten well and danced my ass off — and I didn’t
FEEL impaired, so MAYBE… It wasn’t as if there was anywhere to go
— all three lanes led in one direction, toward the roadblock. The
right lane seemed to be moving faster, so I got into it; it wasn’t
as if being in the left lane, stopped, was going to get us there
faster, despite what the majority of idiots in this state — who all
tended to believe they had a God-given right to drive in the fast
lane, fast or not — might believe.

The tactic proved effective; I bet we got to the cops ten minutes
ahead of those who stubbornly stayed left. I didn’t worry about it
because ten minutes one way or the other wasn’t going to save me
from a DUI if I was over the limit; if I was going to start the new
year in the drunk tank, I might as well get there early.

Mona spent the whole time in the front passenger seat worrying,
running just north of hysterics; Bonnie spent her time leaning up to
rub her shoulders and soothe her. The other two girls were mostly
silent. I could see Lucinda in the center seat in the rearview; she
was as canned as I was if the cops got serious, since she was an
illegal. Grace wasn’t even visible; she was doing her thing,
blending into the background.

The cop was HUGE and all business — not a surprise, actually, given
the fact that they were tying up the entire road. “License,
registration and CAP card, please.”

“We haven’t done anything!” Mona erupted. She’d had a bit, and she
had her own very serious worries about anything that might separate

“Shush!” I snapped. Bonnie took the sting out of it by murmuring,
“If there is a problem, you’ll only make it worse,” while rubbing
Mona’s shoulders.

“Have you been drinking this evening, Mr., ah, Connors?” the cop
asked. Mona moaned, but I answered truthfully, “A bit. I think I’m
legal, though.”

“Would you step out of the car, Sir?” He stepped back a bit.

“Certainly.” Mona whined again and Bonnie went, “Shhh!” I got out
and stepped away from the car, looking around. This was a major
setup; there were big, heated tents on either side of the road and a
couple of big trailers. Cars were trickling through — reasonably
quickly, on occasion — but some were being collected beside the
road in a parking area. I wondered if mine was going to appear over
there soon. The cop waved me a few feet away from the car and
asked, “Will you consent to a breathalyzer test? It will speed

“Certainly, officer.” I was good or I wasn’t…

Then he did something uncharacteristic; he went over and squatted to
look in the car windows and asked, “Is this your pre-pack?”

I blinked. “Actually, it is.”

The ‘cop’ turned to me and grinned, uttering that classing George
Peppard line, “I love it when a plan comes together!” He hopped up
and crossed back to me, murmuring, “If you’ll call your concubines
out of the car, we’ll get this show on the road!”

I got it. This wasn’t about my blood alcohol level, after all — or
it might have been if my CAP score wasn’t seven point six, but in
this case… “Ladies…?” I beckoned and the doors came open.

Mona was first, dashing to me as fast as her chunky legs could carry
her, wringing her hands and crying. I cuddled her to me and
whispered, “It’s all right — in fact, it’s GREAT, Sweetie. Just
settle down…”


Mona was unusual — and looks had very little to do with it. She
was twenty-four and five feet five and daintily built — above the
waist. But she had a big ass and sizeable thighs before everything
shrank back down to calves and feet that matched her upper body.
She was a brunette with pixie features and a bit of Italian
swarthiness and high-riding grapefruit-sized titties — but that ass
kept the boys away.

It didn’t keep ME away, however; I tend to find something to
appreciate in the majority of women — but the whole thing STILL
wouldn’t have happened without the Swarm. You see, when it became
more important for a woman to get noticed than it was for her to
compete on an equal footing with a man, the ‘politically correct’
custom of pretending to ignore women in public settings fell into
disfavor, to be replaced by something long practiced by Hispanics
and Italians — and perhaps the French — overt appreciation. The
‘wolf whistle’ has resumed its place in the male arsenal — and
women were finding reasons to dress naughtily and show off their
wares — reasons directly linked to survival. Suddenly, telling a
strange woman she was hot got dimples instead of a glare and ‘sex
object’ wasn’t the negatively freighted term it had been only

I met Mona in a grocery store, of all places. She was going over
the produce on one of the tables — yams, I think it was — while I
was hunting Vidalia onions on the other side of the table; I glanced
up and my eyeballs rolled down into her soft, round cleavage. She
was wearing a pink and white striped tube top under an open hoodie
— which was somewhat modest and offered an opportunity to be more
so while displaying her breasts and midriff quite provocatively. I
said, “Wow! Nice rack!” — something that would have been seriously
distant from anything resembling politically correct a couple of
years before — and she smiled shyly, blushing, while I watched her
nipples stiffen.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, regarding me with doe-soft eyes.

“Thank YOU!” I replied, rounding the table, the onions forgotten.
“Are they real?” Pretty rude, huh? I’ve gotten better, but I’ve
never been gifted at romantic conversation. The negative parts were
visible before she turned to face me — her butt made her lean
forward a bit and resemble a duck — but I was past the point where
I was going to be concerned by a little extra padding in the
fundament; this chick’s whole vibe was throwing out the welcome mat,
and I was NOT inclined to turn such a thing down!

A note about me, I guess. I’m thirty two, about six feet, one
eighty or so, rangy, not muscular looking. I have bland brown hair
that’s thinning on top embarrassingly and a baby face that requires
a moustache to ensure that you realize I’m not a college kid.
Otherwise, it’s a pretty nondescript face, though, and I don’t have
perfect shiny white teeth, so I don’t smile much. I did some time
in the military but got out when it became apparent that my horizons
were too limited; now I’m a tech geek — well, actually, I always

The point is, Superman wasn’t bearing down upon her from around the
produce table — but Mona’s eyes said she liked what she saw, and
that was unusual in my experience, to say the least! My next
utterance — “Can I see them?” — should have killed things, but it
didn’t; she just looked up at me, wide-eyed, and said, “Uh huh.”
Later, Mona told me that we were a done deal the moment I put my
hand on her bare waist as I asked her that question.

I broke my gaze away from her hypnotic eyes and glanced around; some
dried-up looking forty-something bitch was glaring at me, but nobody
else seemed to be paying any attention. I slid my hands under the
hoodie and under the sides of the tube top, and then lifted it
forward and away from the cutest set of brown-capped globes…

My delighted visual and tactile examination was interrupted by a
rasped, “Young man! MUST you make a spectacle of yourself in a
public place?” Forty-something was glowering at me disgustedly.

I glanced up and down the aisle; there were a couple of teenyboppers
in transparent blouses and more than one MILF showing the entire top
half of her titties — down to the nipples. I snarled at the
busybody, “I see at least three other sets of tits visible at a
glance; just because you can’t compete doesn’t mean SHE can’t!”
Ignoring old grouchy, I returned my attention to the chubby pixie in
front of me, “Baby, these are SWEET!” They were soft and round and
firm and drooped just a bit out of the support of the top — and
they felt wonderful!

Mona played with her fingers then ran her hands down my chest and
belly, mumbling, “I’m glad you like them,” while looking at my
crotch — which was bulging.

Reluctantly, I wormed my hands back under the top and re-settled it
over her breasts. “Got a boyfriend?”

Mona cocked her head, surprised. “No.” Her tone said, ‘How on
Earth would I attract a boy?’ as clearly as if she’d said it out

“Want one?”

You’d have thought I’d slapped her. Her face tightened up and her
lower lip came out and she said, “You’re teasing me. Have you seen
my…” She looked behind her.

I stepped in and ran my hands over her stretch pants, taking a big
double handful of ass flesh. “Your ass? Yeah, that’s a party, I

“Wh–what?” Mona looked up at me in wonderment.

I was discovering ass — and lots of it — more or less for the
first time. I slid my hands under the waistband of her stretch
pants and her panties and squeezed the soft flesh. “Do you like
having it played with? I’m having a ball, here…”

Mona said, “Ummm…” and pressed herself against me and slid her
hands up under the sweatshirt I was wearing to rub my back. “Oh,
oh, oh…” After a few seconds, she pushed back so she could look
up at my eyes and said, “Were you serious?”

“As a heart attack!” I insisted, nodding. From my perspective, it
was ‘love at first feel…’

“Okay.” She took the basket I’d dropped on the table and
transferred the contents into the cart she’d been pushing. “Do you
like yams?”

“They’re okay. I don’t cook them.”

“You won’t have to.” She took my right hand and shoved it back down
inside her stretch pants and we moved off slowly down the aisle, me
moving on her left. That hand didn’t leave her ass until we hit the
checkout. Thirty minutes later, I sat watching her as she put OUR
groceries away in MY cupboards and refrigerator, wearing nothing but
her little rubber flip-flops with the pink and yellow sunflower or
whatever sprouting up between her cute little toes. She’d followed
me home in her drab little Nissan and carried two bags of groceries
to my one as we went upstairs — and when I said something about
being unable to wait to see her naked, she’d stripped down to
nothing in the entryway, blushing but grinning like a pixie at the
look on my face. I had a hard-on that could drive nails in concrete
— but I was waiting for the dream to be over. I figured I would
bust a nut all over myself and wake up when the goo hit my belly and
chest… Sure, she was being all domestic — but I was looking at
the puffy lips of her hairy, wet snatch and the crinkle of her anal
ring as she bent to put lunchmeat in the meat drawer of my
refrigerator… Shit, I didn’t have to FUCK her — just remembering
this would do me while I jerked off until I had blisters…

She looked over her shoulder at me and a little furrow developed
between her eyebrows. Turning to face me, she said, “What?”

I blinked. “Nothing.”

“Something is wrong.”

I sat looking at her, my eyes moving from her cute pixie face to her
sweet titties, past her little puffy belly and the thick gathering
of curls over her puffy pink snatch, right on down over her knees to
her meticulously red-painted toenails. “Not wrong, exactly. Too
right. You’re the first woman who ever darkened that door,” I said,
pointing at the entrance to my apartment, “and I’m wondering when
I’m gonna wake up and find out that I’ve been mauling a pillow or

She came over and knelt before me, worming her way between my legs
until her breasts were on my thighs and looked up at me with big
brown eyes and said, “I’m twenty four years old, and you’re the
first guy outside my family to tell me ANYTHING about me was
attractive. And you are ABSOLUTELY the FIRST guy EVER to treat my
ass as ANYTHING but a joke or something awful to look at! I
promised myself…” She swallowed, choked up. “I promised myself
that if some guy ever said anything seriously nice about me —
ESPECIALLY my ass! — I would offer him whatever he wanted, even if
he looked like a Wookie and smelled like old motor oil!”

I chuckled, embarrassed. “With a little luck, I might exceed that

“Omigod!” she exclaimed, her hands under my sweatshirt, “You’re
sweet and hot and hard and handsome…”

“Huh?” I blinked. “What? Sweetheart, how long has it been since
you’ve had an eye exam? I’m not handsome. I might not be
THOROUGHLY homely, but handsome? Let’s just say my track record
argues against it.” I paid for pussy, one way or another, period.
Maybe it was a hooker, maybe it was in booze or whatever for a one-
night-stand with some drunken barfly as desperate as me (and usually
older), but there was, historically, a direct connection between
large outlays of cash from my wallet and wrapping my cock in
anything warm and wet. I’d never dated in high school or college —
oh, there had been a few group outings, but in every case, if there
were females present, they were attached to someone else. The
military had been worse; the areas around military bases tend to be
places where serious competition exists for any pussy that doesn’t
have a bar code tattooed on it — Hell, even THAT doesn’t come
cheap, in some places. Even now, I didn’t go out much — it was a
waste of time — and Swarm or no Swarm, workplace policies forbade
anything smacking of ‘sexual harassment’ through the sheer inertia
of the legal system.

Okay, I know what you’re thinking — ‘So why did you go nuts on some
strange chick in a supermarket?’ Well, I was just coming off a
weekend with a couple of crazy guys who managed to make the whole
‘wolf’ thing work and I was pumped up by their success; it seemed
like suddenly chicks were willing to up some, rather than pretending
to be drones or something. I’d only been an observer, too fearful
that I would fall flat on my face in front of them and give them
reason to give me shit about it until the end of time, but things
seemed to be looking up. The other thing was the fact that Mona
just tripped my trigger…

Mona’s answer was, “You’re handsome to me…”

Somehow, I couldn’t argue that. I chuckled and said, “As long as
you think so, I’m good to go, I guess. Let me know before you go to
the eye doctor, so I won’t be surprised.”

“My vision is fine,” she insisted, “or, at least, no worse than
yours. My ass…”

“I see it,” I replied. “So what?”

“It’s always been more than enough…”

I cut her off. “It IS more than enough — question is, is it too
much? I don’t think so.”

“You would be the first,” Mona asserted.

“I doubt it,” I replied. “I’m just the first guy to TELL you so.”

“That’s good enough for me,” Mona replied. “You win the prize, such
as it is.”

“And what’s the prize?”

“Me,” she said simply. “As much as you want.” And she turned those
hypnotic brown eyes on me.

To say that I was taken aback would be to traffic in understatement.

“Until you tell me to go away.” She cocked her head, watching me
like a hawk. “You asked me if I wanted a boyfriend. The answer is

“Well…” Part of me was thrilled to death — and part of me wanted
to run! What had I gotten into? What was the downside?

Mona interrupted my confusion with, “Can I suck you now? I’m not
very good, but I’ll get better — I just need practice…”

“Uh, sure…”

Permission came while she was already opening my pants. When my fly
was open, Mona tugged at the elastic of my boxers, revealing my
probe, and whispered, “Omigod!”

Now, no woman I could remember had gone all reverent when faced with
my dick — but then, I suppose all of my sex partners to date had
seen it all before. I’d gotten comments, here and there, from
hookers — and figured it was all part of the service, if you know
what I mean. ‘Pump the guy up over the humongous size of his little
cocktail frank…’ To be fair, it was bigger than a cocktail frank
— even a normal Oscar Meyer was going to be eclipsed — but I
didn’t figure I was hung like a horse or anything. But both of my
heads swelled as Mona regarded my meat with wide eyes. She started
dragging at the waistband of my jeans, so I lifted my ass — and she
dragged those suckers all the way to the floor. Then she gently
pulled my cock down and away from where it was pulsing against my
belly and slid it between her puffy red lips…

Her opinion of her abilities as a cocksucker aside, I lasted about
six incredible seconds before flooding her mouth with jizz — to my
COMPLETE embarrassment!

Mona, however, was pleased to death, smiling as she swallowed a
larger than usual load of my babymakers, then continuing to vacuum
my still stiff erection. “Ummm, still hard! Can we go to bed now?”

DUH! I waved and croaked, “That way!” and ninety seconds later she
was on her back on my unmade bed with her feet up as I crawled
between her legs. I stopped to give her a little lick (highly
appreciated) but we were both in a hurry and she was plenty wet…

There is no way in the world I could have gotten into that thing on
the first pass without blowing a nut while still at the gates!
Later on, Mona told me that she’d had sex — well, heterosexual sex
— once in her life and it had hurt like Hell and lasted ALMOST as
long as my blowjob. The guy doing it had only been looking to put a
notch on his gun belt, so once he got his, it was over. All I knew
is that I’d been in pussy that was snug before, but usually because
it was dry. Mona’s tunnel was lubed with hot oil and tight enough
to make every inch of my necessarily slow penetration exquisite! I
took it slow because I had no choice — I was opening up territory
that might as well have been virgin — and I stopped at every little
grimace, but every time I did her little hands urged me forward,
deeper, until there was nothing left of my length to seat. I ground
my pubic bone against hers and she moaned, “Yessss…” — and we
were off to the races! I started slow, but Mona wanted more, then I
wanted more, then Mona wanted more… Pretty soon, I was cycling
like a sewing machine! We lasted maybe ten minutes, blowjob or no
blowjob — but I watched Mona get hers twice before I lit off. Mona
wouldn’t let me get up; I drifted off to sleep at probably eight-
thirty at night with my dick still buried and my seed soaking into
Mona’s womb.

I woke up about two a.m. on my back. I had to piss, but there were
lips around my dick. That’s one of those unsatisfactory situations
where there doesn’t seem to be any way to get everything you need;
blowing a nut isn’t possible while you have to piss that bad, but
pissing means removing those Heavenly lips. Later, Mona offered me
a solution, but that night I had to gently disconnect her and go
take care of business.

When I got back, the time for appetizers was over; Mona was on her
back, asking, “Please, do me again…” I managed to last half-again
as long as the previous effort, with an appropriate increase in the
number of orgasms produced in my little lover; once my balls were
drained, I rolled us over and she collapsed atop me, damp and sweaty
and cuddly and beaming. “I’m in love,” she announced. I opened my
mouth, but she covered it with her hand, saying, “No, I know it’s
too early and I’ve just scared you — don’t say anything. Just let
me be happy for a while.” Fuck it. I didn’t argue. We went to
sleep until the alarm rang.

Mona never left. Well, technically, she did, I guess, but when I
got home that night, her shitbox Nissan was in the other parking
space assigned to my apartment — and it was full to the gills with
her shit. I pulled up and she got out of it and stood there, head
down, looking up at me with those eyes — and I just opened a door
and collected an armload of her clothes and headed for the door. I
rearranged my dresser and my closet and by eight or so I was sitting
on the couch watching TV and listening to Mona hum as she fried
something for dinner. We didn’t discuss it — we didn’t set rules,
or expectations — she just moved in. When we did get around to it,
several days later, I learned that rules were my problem, and
obeying them was hers. That night, she cuddled up to me on the
couch and said, “I’m a little sore, but I’ll be glad to suck you —

‘Or…’ turned out to be opening that ass for business. I opted for
that — and enlightened self-interest dictated that I make SURE she
enjoyed it, so I went slow and gentle and lubed her like crazy and
made sure she was hotter than a pistol before I even THOUGHT about
nosing my cock against her little rosebud. The results were
gratifying; Mona LOVED having her back door probed, and I loved
doing it, and another use for what she considered a useless part of
her body was discovered. Everything was rosy.

Now, I know, some of you are going, “What are you — nuts?” But
this is all about something that guys know instinctively, but women
forget regularly. Basically, it’s simple: Guys are simple
creatures, even if gals aren’t. Suddenly, home-cooked meals started
replacing the litany of “Whose take-out do I order tonight?” — and
there were NO dishes afterward. My dirty laundry started
disappearing and turning up clean in my drawers. The sink wasn’t
full of dirty dishes and the toilet and shower were clean without
any effort from me. And last, but by NO MEANS least — I was
getting my balls drained regularly — and very pleasantly, too, I
might add! ‘No’ wasn’t a word in Mona’s vocabulary — worst case
seemed to be, ‘That receptacle is out of service, please select
another…’ Let’s face it, that one item is THE key to the
domestication of the male; keep his dick drained — and keep him
enjoying it and operating under the impression that YOU enjoy it —
and everything else is gravy. If I had to put up with a reduction
in essential services, I could clean or do laundry or do dishes —
or even cook (or order take-out) — but having my joystick played
with on a regular basis was a fine incentive to learn to share my
bed with another warm body. Women get tied up in domestic this and
that and self-actualization and such and totally forget that the
smell of wet pussy is what nailed their man’s feet to the floor —
until the corollary slaps them in the face; once regularly supplied,
men don’t willingly do without, and if he can’t smell yours, he’ll
follow another piece home, sniffing, unless powerful incentives are
provided to keep that from happening. Temptation is just around the

Here we get into how women are different than men; women will say,
“That’s what marriage is for.” Wrong. That’s what DIVORCE is for
— it’s the stick you beat him with for following the fresher scent
— but it is closing the barn door after the horse has left. Sure,
you’re punishing him — and for what? Breach of contract? What
happened to YOUR end of the bargain? “Well, I cooked and cleaned
and kept house…” Uh huh… Ask him — would he rather have a
clean house or wade through piles of dirty laundry to get between
your legs? Priorities… his are SO simple — how on Earth do you
lose track?

There is another possible issue, here — an obvious one, actually.
‘Clearly,’ you theorize, ‘Mona moved in because of your CAP score;
she was looking for her ride off-planet.’ Sorry, that ain’t it.
How can I be sure? Because CAP scores didn’t come up between us for
three solid weeks — and what she did AFTER she discovered mine
makes it very clear that she wasn’t aware in advance…

Anyway, back to my story — if not back to New Years yet…