Figurski at Findhorn on Acid

Dear Penthouse Forum,

Like most of your readers, I thought I'd be the last person in the world to be writing you. I was positive that your editors just made up all those horny letters — that is, until the most incredible thing happened to me last month. Now I'm a believer! Extend my subscription!

As an advocate for the homeless, I was staying for the summer in a canvas lean-to down the embankment from a fancy shopping center in a wealthy Silicon Valley town. Nearby is a large seminary with acres of open space. The seminary won't let you sleep on the grounds but tolerates visitors to keep up its public image. Sometimes you see the nuns walking around praying and meditating in between doing all the shit-work for the priests. Now, my lean-to buddy Josh has a pet pig, one of those black and white Vietnamese Potbellies, but crossed with a Berkshire so bigger, like 250 pounds. Maybe he's planning on eating it someday, I don't really know, but on this particular day Josh has to go off real early to find a shower before a job interview his parole officer is making him go to, and he asks me to care for the pig. The pig's name is Blaster.

Well, before the sun even comes up, it must be 5 a.m., Blaster starts nuddling me with that big wet nose, so I drag myself from my sleeping bag and leash him up and head over to the seminary. I've been here before with Josh and Blaster, it's really the only place around you can take a 250-pound pig. You can't exactly bring Blaster to the mall, especially one where space rents for like a gazillion dollars per square inch and where you can be kicked out just for slobbering in your coffee over the rich ladies popping out of their tightass dresses, practically begging you to reach down into the dark chasm between their beautiful tits when they bend over in front of you.

We wander the grounds for a while, Blaster stopping here and there to root in the moist dirt. Like I said I've been here before, but never this early. Pretty soon we're in the most remote part of the estate, with dense brush everywhere dripping with dew, and I hear this moaning and groaning, getting louder as we penetrate deeper into the bush. At first I think maybe someone is hurt, so I follow the sound. What do I find behind a thick oak but a big-assed nun with her head thrown back, habit hiked up high, and hands in her crotch working away in a blur.

I feel my balls start to tighten at the sight, but I don't know what to do exactly so I tie Blaster to a branch and clear my throat loudly. This just about scares the Jesus out of the nun, right in the middle of a twisting, hip-thrusting orgasm. She flips around onto her knees and I see she's about 24, with a nice face, big brown eyes, dark lashes, long black hair, and olive skin. Lots and lots of skin, big rolls of it — I'm pretty sure she could hoist Blaster on a teeter-totter.

“Please, please, please,” she says in an accent I can't place exactly, looking around nervously. “You must not tell!” She puts her hand up to her ample lips in a shushing gesture, and I see her love juices glistening on her fingers as the sun shoots its first rays across the woods.

“Please sir. You must not!” she repeats, hands held up to her forehead now in prayer. “Not tell!” I remain noncommittal, but I notice her eyes move to the increasing bulge in my gym shorts. “Please, please,” she keeps saying while she waddles on her stump-size thighs slowly closer to me, across a mossy patch of ground, until her bowed head and clasped hands are bobbing right against my thickening rod. Not to brag, but especially at these close quarters, my 14 inches are difficult to ignore. “Please… ummph,” and just like that, she has slipped my waistband over the tip of my throbbing member and engulfed it in her trembling mouth.

That might've been the end of the story right there — with her large tongue deftly working the sensitive underside of my manhood, I was about to go off like the booster rocket of the Space Shuttle — but all of a sudden Blaster (I guess he was getting a whiff of the action, pigs have very good senses of smell) pulls free from the tree branch and sticks his snout right up against the nun's gigantic hindquarters. She pauses and looks around, and I take the opportunity to reach down and pull her habit, which had drifted back down, up and over her head. This requires a lot more work than I'd intended, and if you've ever tried getting a size XXXL habit over a 250-pound nun then you know what I mean. But let me say it was worth it when those breasts got fully unpacked and thundered to the ground like giant cherry-tipped udders. She's got absolutely nothing on underneath (I wonder if all the nuns are like that!).

Well, it quickly becomes obvious that Blaster is not neutered, as he goes apeshit (or I guess more accurately, hog wild). He's snorting and grunting and nuddling all over her bare buttocks, working his snout into the Grand Canyon of her backside. Did I mention that Blaster is hung like a horse? Sure enough, his boar cranny-hunter is out like a technicolor pink lance and he's humping the air. The nun starts wiggling and wriggling and it's all I can do to get her back to business with my own Mr Big Wazoo. Blaster tries to mount her piggy-style for real but can't get it in, so he's sliding his huge animal husbandman between those incomparable cheeks. I find it hard to believe a Potbelly-Berkshire boar can move his hips that fast! But the nun is going crazy now too and she wraps both hands around the base of my joystick while hoovering at hyperspeed. My knees buckle and I kneel down on her crumpled uniform, only inches from where her grand tetons are pounding the ground. I marvel at her oral talents, obviously honed from years of practice. I close my eyes, I clutch at her head, she backs into Blaster, and we all come together in a giant spasm of black and white, fat, mammal passion. I can't even describe what Blaster shot from the cockpit across the foredeck of the USS Nun.

Josh said I was full of shit when I told him the story, but I notice that ever since that day he looks at me a little funny when he asks me to look after Blaster for an hour or two. I've been back over to see Mary, the nun, three more times, including once with Blaster when Josh was out.

— F.F., Palo Alto, CA


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