Ice
In August, a wind blows in Louisiana, cooling nothing, a slow, stifling current of air, laden with water. Of old, the beds were built high, the mattresses at the height of the window sill, hoping to catch some cool breeze. You can see such beds at Shadows-on-the-Teche, the best-preserved of all the plantation houses, in New Iberia. In that lovely house, I have seen a curious bottle holder made of copper, to hold ice and liquor decanters. Against heat, man can make a fire and warm himself, but against the heat of August in Louisiana, nothing but ice can provide any solace.
I leave work in Baton Rouge around 5 PM. I climb into my black Civic, I burn my hands on the steering wheel, holding it gingerly with two fingers and a thumb, I push in the clutch, start the motor, put the little car into neutral, start the air conditioning, and climb back out of the car, to let it cool down. The Arabs say God created the desert to test the faithful. I have known the desert. At night, the desert will radiate its dry heat away, the stars will come out and the air will chill down enough to warrant a fire. In this place, the night is no relief, only a dark wetness of moving clouds, the cruel promise of rain unfulfilled.
Drive back home, to find the air conditioning out, A is cranky and put-out. Even a shower does not help much, lukewarm water, Christ even the cold water pipes require a run-off to get down to cooler water. I take A out for dinner: it’s pointless cooking. At Shadows-on-the-Teche, the kitchens were kept away from the main house. Down Perkins Road, to Louisiana Lagniappe, A has a crabmeat salad, and works moodily on a bottle of merlot, L’Ecole 41 Columbia Valley 2003. There comes a point where misery really does love company, and A began to talk.
“How did people ever live here without air conditioning? What a hell this place must have been.”
“C’est vrai. They sure didn’t work on a tan. That explains those ladies’ parasols. Tans were for the working class” I said, working on an étouffé and yet another Abita beer.
“I swear, I was thinking of going up and hanging out in the grocery store today. That goddamn repairman said he can’t get out until tomorrow.”
“Mumph.” I said. This means I have a mouthful of crawfish étouffé and am trying to say something encouraging without actually dealing with the issue of the AWOL repairman.
“I dread tonight. You’d think being from the Gulf, I could deal with this heat, but my God…”
“Complaining is good for the soul. Robertson Davies says, ‘in large doses, self-pity is invariably fatal, but in small doses, can be a very comforting thing.’”
“Ha! Are you saying I’m complaining?”
It is at such intervals where one needs yet another mouthful of étouffé. Alas, it had all been devoured, and I am reduced to that sort of argumentation akin to Michael Jackson’s moonwalk, slowly retreating while seeming to move forward. Whereas I had spent the whole day in a cool office, she had been parboiled in our home. It is difficult to blame the sufferer for grumpiness, but I was not feeling especially saintly, and it is a sore trial, dear reader.
We hang out until the restaurant closes, at 9:30, walk out into the soggy night, and drive home, listening to Donald Fagen, Morph the Cat.
A opens the door, the place is as close and humid as an armpit. I open the windows, A cracks ice and pours herself a generous slug of Crown Royal. She really is a nice girl. I lug an old fan from the back room and prop it in the bedroom window, and put a fresh cotton sheet over the duvet. She leans up against the doorframe, sipping, watching me. Don’t tell me women don’t know when men are trying to ungrumpify them, it really doesn’t solve anything, but it does amuse them.
She turns off the lights, undresses and lies down on the sheet, spread-eagled. She rouses herself to one elbow for another snort of whiskey, lies down and sighs profoundly.
I put another sheet over her, tucking it between her legs, under her arms, and turn the pillow over. She turns over on her side, pulling her hair away from her neck. I undress and put on a cotton t-shirt, naked in the heat is almost worse than being clothed. I brush my fingernails gently over the ridge of her spine, over the sheet, from her waist to her neck.
“That tickles.”
I pull a pillow off the bed. “Open your knees.” I put the pillow between her thighs.
“Mmmm.”
Reach into her glass, fish out a cube of ice, and put it against the back of her neck, at her hairline.
“Oh Jesus, that’s nice.”
The smell of Crown Royal is perfume of a sort, sweet and sticky. She sits up in the bed, pulls the sheet around her, her pretty breasts reflected off the streetlight I have an idea, and head back to the kitchen.
From the bedroom: “Now what the hell are you doing?”
I return with a glass bowl, full of ice.
“C’mere, stand up. I have a plan.”
“God, you are terrible when you’re horny, I swear.”
A kiss, a piece of ice transferred from mouth to mouth, hands in her hair, thick and straight, a perfect moment. The night could stop here, and I would be content. The ice leaves my mouth, onto her tongue, her sudden fierce hug. Pushing her back, she sits on the bed, I put another ice cube in my mouth, pull at her elbows, she falls back, I spread her legs and kiss her belly, pushing the ice cube across her, lower, between her legs. The smell of her, wet, my nose probes into the inner folds of her, parting her, the slick softness of her, opening to me, I expel the ice into her, pushing it in with my tongue
The heat of her, she calls out and arches, holding my hair, “God, that’s cold.” Her thighs close, shuddering, around my head, the ice melts onto my tongue. Searching, my lips close around her, sucking her into my mouth, her clitoris like a tiny pearl. Softly, softly, the tip of my tongue finds it, lifts its elegant little hood, and touches her, holding her thighs, feeling her hairs erect, as I take her, sweet creature. Kisses, a hundred tiny kisses, my tongue opens her again, finds the ice and pushes it back inside her body. A quiet passage in D minor moves through my head, one of the Goldberg Variations. The taste of her is in the melting ice. Her back arches, her bottom rises from the bed, my tongue finds her clitoris and pushes down, firmly. Withdrawing my head and hands, only my tongue touches her, putting my hands under her pretty bottom, lifting her, her head whips from side to side, her neck arches.
The iceberg cracks, tons of white ice descend in a tremendous crash. The wave rises, curling across the bay, rocking the boats. She comes, almost angrily, a roar of release.
She lies on her back, her hair wet with sweat. I put a sheet over her, wipe her face, she gasps like a fish out of water. She sits up and finds the whiskey. A gulp, she holds the glass to her forehead.
“Gimme a sip”
She wordlessly hands me the glass. A mouthful of whiskey burns on its way down. I laugh.
“Whatcha laughing at?”
“Thinking about Bender the Robot, after a slug of booze, belching fire.”
“God, the shit you think about.”
“C’mere, A.”
I put a pillow on the bench of her makeup bench. Got it for her, an oval mirror in a pair of spindles, over a kidney-shaped curly maple table, with curved drawers, on four legs, probably 1890s
“Kneel for me”
A tiny awkward moment, I hold her hand as she kneels naked on the bench. She is perfect, the curve of her back, ending in the cello curve of her bottom, her breasts in silhouette. I kiss her shoulder, she shudders. I find her silk nightshirt, and drape it over her shoulders, I give her the glass of whiskey again, into both her hands, she drinks the last of it, gives it back to me, a quiet question in her eye. I put a pillow on her makeup table. She finds a comfortable posture, her cheek pressed into the pillow.
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Ice in the palm of my hand, I touch the tip of her nipples, holding the ice to her breast, standing behind her, the soft head of my cock against her, touching into her fur. Holding her breasts, ice melting into my palms, I gently enter her, bending over her, kissing the back of her neck. The perfect tightness of her, one long slow stroke, right to the hilt, her pussy is still cool from the ice. A hiss of pleasure, she breathes in, taking me into her body, pushing her forward with my pelvis, pushing her face into the pillow, her elbows brace, she is completely full of cock. She involuntarily closes tight onto me, like a fist, she clenches and shudders, her bottom pushes back against me.
The feel of the silk, between my face and her back, a kiss into her hair, the warmth of her buttocks as the nightshirt rides up.
A slow withdrawal, and a firm push, swift, right down into her, definitive, almost a slam. My hand reaches under her, finds her clitoris, covers her, a quiet whisper in her ear,
“Come for me”
A slow fuck, in the heat, she arches her back up, almost withdrawing from me, then she pushes back, her head lifts, and she cries out, “Just fuck me”
I hold her hips, pushing and pulling her onto me, away from me. In the mirror, I can see her face, unaware, her eyes closed, biting her lip, as her body takes control and shakes her, a crazy shudder, I press down with my index and third fingers, I can fell myself in her. Her bottom shudders. She puts her face into the pillow and screams, her fingers clench and unclench, I hold her nipples, wet from the ice, between my fingers, like a cigarette,
Reaching around, I hold ice in each palm, and hold her breasts, her nipples in my freezing palms, and I fuck A, a proper fucking, selfish, into her pretty body, her face pushed into the pillow with each stroke.
I reach forward, take her wrists, pull them back, holding her by the forearm, cold hands on her wrist and softly bite her ear,
A sudden breeze blows, moving the curtains, and I cum into her, a burst of red and orange behind my eyelids, holding her to me, for a moment I am fused to her, we are one being, a glowing thing, of great power.
I hold her hand and walk her around a bit, kneeling is hard on the knees, especially after a good sound fucking, she’s a bit wobbly, grinning weakly. I pick her up, lay her down on the bed, she curls up, I pull the sheet away, unfurl it with a snap, and let it fall over her. I paddle away to the kitchen, and fish around in the fridge for iced tea, bring back two glasses.
“Brought you some iced tea, if you want some”
She sits up, takes the glass and drinks almost all of it in a rapid set of swallows, holds her hand to her chest and belches delicately.
“Urgh, you’re a madman”
“Humph. What was that about ‘just fuck me?’ hmmm? "
I jump into the bed, and curl up to her, her hand against my arm, absently touching me, she drinks the rest of her tea.
“Christ, it’s still hot” she murmurs
“You’ve gone through a whole tray of ice already, A”
“Well, I’m still hot, dammit”
“I have an idea”
“Oh Lord. You and your ideas. I know where this is going.”
“Come oh, you’ll love it”
“Surprise me”
“That’s the general tenor of it, A”
I receive another of her fierce little kisses.
I bring her the silk nightshirt, she puts it on, lay back down on the bed, her legs hanging over the edge. I go to my closet, silently retrieve a silk tie and sit down behind her.
“Sit up”
I hold her arm as she sits on the edge of the bed. I reach around her, put the tie gently over her eyes and tie the blindfold in an open bow behind her head.
“Now you look like a birthday present. I’ll be right back”
“Don’t be long, you bastard”
I went to the freezer, got a pint of chocolate chip ice cream and a spoon.
“Open your mouth”
“Sausage?” She smirks.
“No, you wretched creature, blow jobs are off the menu tonight”
I put the spoonful of ice cream into her mouth, her mouth closed. For a moment, she is perfectly still. I withdraw the spoon, and she gasps in happiness.
“Gimme nother” she says with her mouth still half full of ice cream. I feed her ice cream, then a triangle of Toblerone chocolate, from the back of the freezer, where I’d hidden it from her behind a package of frozen spinach for just such a moment.
I take a turkey feather and stroke her breast. She flinches, sighs, her nipple erects. I take the pillows and lay them behind her, easing her back, her knees at the edge of the bed, her calves dangling over the edge, her eyes covered, her hands moved about, blindly.
“Relax, hands on the bed” I whisper into her ear.
The turkey feather curves and curls over her, under her breasts, between them, gently flicking against her areolas, against her neck, into the hollow of her throat, under her chin, and against her cheek.
The feather traverses her ribs, making her laugh and squirm, over her tummy, over her fur, onto her thighs. I kiss her belly button.
The feather finds its way to her inner thighs. She moves, her thighs opened, and she sighs, arching, her pelvis slowly rocking. My mouth closes over her right nipple as the feather first touches the whorl of flesh at her clitoris, her legs spread wider, the feather smoothly travels from one thigh, over her pussy to the other thigh.
“Ssssh, hands down, no touching yourself” I hiss in her ear.
The feather – o that feather, with just enough resilience to find her, she whimpers, her head turns, her mouth opens Whirling like a bit of down flying from a nest, her mind turns, rising, my mouth against her nipple, my tongue pushing it back into her breast, then flicking it. The feather strokes her inner thighs, slow and mysterious, she arches with each stroke.
I roll her over, lifting her silk nightshirt. She spreads her legs, inviting the feather again. I stroke the back of her thighs, her buttocks and her back over the silk itself, over the hair of her outspread arms, over her fingers. The feather is hypnotic, where it goes is the entire focus of attention. With the feather, I enter into her mind, I become an observer, detached, watching myself, watching her slight movement, listen to her breathing, in the heat.
I put a pillow under her hips: her bottom is in the air. I spread her thighs and touch her pussy with the feather, brushing softly over her. The feather curves over her bottom, into the small of her back, she is completely relaxed, when my curved hand holds her pussy, it seems to come as a shock and relief. My middle and ring finger slowly curve into her, she is parted and she is entered. My left hand holding her down between her shoulder blades, she is softly finger fucked. My right hand backs away, leaving her open and empty. The hand returns with a little sliver of ice, I hold it to her perineum, between her pussy and her ass. The slow ice cream cold spreads, rich, not biting cold. I lead the ice down, across her pussy lips, and into her body, pushing the ice in gently, middle and ring fingers, curling up, the cold sinks into her, into her heart.
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Wet cold fingers reach under her, holding her clitoris, gently shaking it. She rises from the pillow onto her elbows, moaning, almost crying, her heart melting. Cold water oozes from her, onto the pillow. Her pussy wants to expel the ice, my fingers prevent it.
In a moment of tenderness, I kiss the small of her back, and try to give her release. My thumb parts her buttocks, my left hand holds a chip of ice to her back door, gently pushing it into her, as my right hand cups her pussy, closing on her clitoris, firmly gripping her. The ice slips into her, her shocked bottom senses it, her mind twists, rises, and the familiar heat of an orgasm spreads from her thighs up into her belly, like a brushfire.
I pull her to her knees, her bottom out, my cock tucked under her, its soft head against her clitoris, her thighs closed together, she feels the cock between her thighs, and the velvet head knocks against her clitoris, in one smooth motion, your pussy is entered. Her head droops, her mind collects itself, focuses and the orgasm seizes her.
I turn her on her side, spoon up behind her. I hold her, shuddering and sweating, sobbing, almost crying. She pushes back against me, pulls off the tie.
“Gimme the rest of your iced tea” A says.
She gulps down the tea, the ice clinks at the bottom of the glass. She sits, meditatively, pulling back her hair, reaching for a scunci, does her hair up in a ponytail.
“You haven’t come yet, have you?”
“Well, that’s true.”
“You want my ass, don’t you? You always do me like this when you want it.”
“Yeah, but you know how I get about it, you have to ask, A.”
“Consider yourself asked. I need another orgasm. I don’t feel like I’m quite done yet. Christ, you get me all worked up and it usually seems to end with your cock up my ass.”
“It’s like Star Trek, darling: going where man has never gone before.”
“That is so lame. Never seems to occur to you that I might actually like it.”
“That’s part of the schtick, A. Anal is something sorta special, a matter of trust, it’s like a gift you give me.”
“Yeah. It is a gift. Pleasing you matters to me. Anal is something special I do, just for you. This time, tie me up, be selfish for once, this one is for you.”
A is silent for a moment. She picks up the glass, turns it up, the ice slides into her mouth. She crunches ice in the darkness. The moving curtains cast shadows on her. She mutely holds out her crossed arms to me, I wrap the tie around her wrists, tying it off with a bow. She kneels in the bed, her elbows against the headboard. I get another tie, and bind her ankles together. I stand beside the bed, in an odd state of detachment, admiring her body, the tiny hairs on her calves, the curves of her bottom, her breasts, the dark mass of her long straight hair gathered together on her back.
“You’re beautiful, A.”
“I love you. I’m all yours.”
Aroused, delighted, my mind detaches again, I am an observer inside my own body. I lubricate myself, I kneel behind her, I kiss her shoulder. My cock touches her bottom, she moans, pushing back. My right hand reaches over her thigh, to her fur, finding her clitoris. The slick cock parts her cheeks, I press against her, the length of my cock stroking upwards, nuzzling upwards, not entering her, but laterally. My pelvis closes on her, my cock rides up and down the furrow of her ass: the tip crosses her pucker, up and down.
Then holding my cock in my left hand, I hold it against her back door and softly press home. A presses back, we gently rock in tandem, not entering, not yet, feeling her will the cock past the tight pucker. Our motions collide, and the head pops into her, she gasps. I stop completely, as still as a statue, her breath is ragged. Her breathing comes back to a soft inhale and exhale, as she adapts to me. I feel the incredible tightness, almost painful, as she slowly dilates around the neck of my cock. I slowly withdraw and lubricate myself again, then softly re-enter her bottom. She pushes back gingerly, accepting me. Time stops, each second lasts an eternity, and my cock slowly finds its way to the core of her, my pelvis pressing against her cheeks.
A pushes back, then moves her pelvis in a slow motion, pulling and pushing me in and out. The fingers of my right hand play counterpoint to her motion, and I begin to fuck her ass in earnest, in largo tempo.
“You are my gift, A.” I whisper in her left ear, and gently bite her earlobe.
A sighs, a low sound emerges from her with every stroke.
“Oh god o god o god fuck my ass.”
And I do fuck her ass, holding her hips with both hands. She puts her hands between her legs, and furiously touches herself. Her ass clenches around me, hard enough to trap me, as tight as a fist, as she erupts in a series of sharp cries, as she comes. She pushes back against me, biting her lip. Shattered, she pulls herself away from me, then turns and kisses me, her bound hands over my head.
I unbind her wrists. She slumps on the bed, curling up, almost in a fetal position. I untie her legs, she stretches out and yawns. I put a towel between her legs. She pulls a pillow under her head. I clean her up, pull her straight in the bed, and unfurl the sheet over her again. She rolls over, gathering the sheet between her knees.
I stagger into the bathroom, turn on the shower. The cold water is at last cool. I stand there naked, in the white noise of the falling water. Drying myself off, combing my hair, walking quietly into the bedroom, A is already asleep. I put on a bathrobe and sip the last of the watery Crown Royal, gazing down at A, her hip rising like the swell of a guitar under the sheet.
Tomorrow the air conditioning will be repaired. Tomorrow, I will drive to work. Tomorrow I will fill the ice trays. Tomorrow I will buy A some Toblerone of her own and not hide it behind the frozen spinach. Tonight I will sleep, curled up beside A.
The End
In Heat
I am in heat. I am.
I woke up this morning with a burning desire between my legs. I need to get laid tonight. I want to get laid tonight. I will get laid tonight. I am so hungry for a man’s hard shaft of pleasure. I am not sure I will make it until tonight. In fact, I am certain I would not make it. It is going to be a long day at work. I have already decided that I am going to stop by the local pub after work and see if I can pick up a hot man to satisfy my craving. Until then, I have got to keep my libido in check.
Heat, that is how they describe animals that are about to mate. Apt description I think as I touch my steaming zone of pussy. Pussy, another well-chosen word, as I stretch with feline grace and wish for a sandpaper tongue to lick myself with. Oh goodness, I am horny today. Horny, another word that conjures sexual imagery. What on earth am I going to do today?
My fingers spread my pussy lips as I slide into the familiar zone of keen arousal. Damn, I need a thicker and longer finger. No, it is not my finger I need. I need a cock, a rock hard, throbbing mass of pulsating flesh. I need a man, and I need him bad. Bucking my hips wildly, as if I am being fucked, I grind my palm harder against my clit. My finger teases my g-spot and I feel a tingle begin. My juices flow freely over my hands anointing them with my liquid heat. I finish a quick orgasm but look forward to more as my day progresses.
I start the shower and the bathroom fills with steam. This looks like a job for Mr. Shower Massager. I let the warm water beat against my clit repeatedly as I lather the foamy soap into my closely trimmed hair, making my hand slide with erotic lubrication until I achieve orgasm number two. Of course there are solo orgasms and duet orgasms. This will do for now, but I know what my true goal for the day is.
I am still aching for more. I pat myself dry from the shower and search for my ‘ben wah’ balls. I love how they vibrate inside me and duplicate the twinges of arousal. Deftly inserting the balls into my slippery void, they give a temporary solution to, and permanent reminder of the need to have something in there. I know that they will keep my desires hot throughout my day at work.
I dress in a manner that will keep my stimulation simmering. I skip the bra, and put on a thin silk shell. I shiver as the fabric rubs over my exposed nipples. I cover my shell with a modest blazer, to be promptly removed after work. I realize that my pussy has to breathe today. The heat is stifling her and she needs all the help she can get. So I do not put on panty. I choose an above the knee skirt and instead of pantyhose, I wear my garter belt and snap on stockings. I am ultra aware of the taut elastic rubbing my thighs and the slippery stocking making my legs feel like I am walking on air. The silk top continues to caress my nipples, the jacket lends an air of professionalism, my garter belt recalls how amazing my legs are, while the air teases my steamy hot flower of lust. I am finally ready to go to work.
I wonder if I shall even be able to concentrate on work, I am both excited and apprehensive about what I have committed to for the end of my day. I grab my handbag, find my keys, slide into my car, and as I grab the smooth gear lever, a sly smile dances across my face. Feeling the round head in my hand, I grip with confidence and throw my car into motion. I wickedly think how good it is going to feel to put some fleshy knob into my grip and not this hard plastic one.
Pulling into my parking space at work I think about the way my car slides into the opening until it comes to a rest. I open my car door and I swing one leg out. My skirt slides up my thigh, revealing the bottom of my garter belt. My thighs feel a hint of the cool breeze during their momentary exposure and I catch a waft of my arousal. Do I really smell like sex or are my senses just heightened? My heels hit the blacktop of the parking garage and I stand, swaying, nearly intoxicated by lust.
Will I make it through my day? After the staff meeting, I make my way to the restroom. Closing the door, I hike my skirt up and look down at my exposed pussy. I wonder what my co-workers would say if I come back out of the restroom without my skirt or jacket, with just the thin silk shell, garter belt and stockings and heels ~~ my naked pussy reveals for all the world. She is in charge today and wants to come out and play. What would my handsome male partner say to mix a little business with pleasure? Well, he is married, so that is out of the question. I have got get back to work and get my mind out of the gutter. Giving my happy girl a little conciliatory tap, I remind her that we are going to play after work, to just be patient. The ‘ben wah’ balls quiver in my vaginal passage and I feel a spasm to keep me going.
I keep myself busy the rest of the morning until it is lunchtime. I smile with glee imagining the muscled salesman of the food shop, where I get my daily sandwich. Walking to the deli down the street, my ultra sexual awareness notices every man and sees something about him that I desire. I arrive at the deli and the air conditioner makes my nipples perk even more through the thin shell. I catch salesman’s familiar eye and sparkling smile.
“Hi babe, the usual?” he inquires.
“No, today I’d like something with a little more spice in it.”
The salesman hands me my sandwich wrapped in crisp white paper and I sit down on the counter stool and sink my teeth into it. I savor my lunch all the time counting the remaining hours until I get what my appetite really is hungry for. I squirm in my seat and the ‘ben wah’ balls stir up subtle vibrations as I feel myself inhaling deeply to regain my composure.
The rest of the day progresses with steamy thoughts and aching desires but I control them with the gentle reminder that I have a solution. The workday is nearly over and my heat is now at a fever pitch. Walking rapidly to my car, I toss the jacket in the backseat, no longer needing. My temperature is significantly higher as my mind races more towards my goal. My nipples perk as the silk fabric caresses them and my arousal erects them, I feel practically naked.
Parking my car on the gravel parking lot of my favorite bar, I confidently assure myself that what I need is right inside those doors. I would not need the ‘ben wah’ balls anymore and I reach between my legs and give the string a little tug. They slide right out from my petals and land in my hand. My juices are all over them and I quickly stick my toy into the bag. My hand smells like female desire, as I rub my hands together. I wonder if the man who touches my hand first will smell and know what I have been doing.
Swinging open the door to the bar, and I make my way through the dim interior until my eyes focus on the perfect combination to quell my desires, a man with incredible potential along with the empty bar stool next to him. Coincidence! He has cuffed up shirtsleeves, a loosened tie, broad shoulders, and chiseled features, dark wavy hair and the most incredible eyes. He is sipping some sort of cocktail.
We catch each other’s eye with a look of unstated sexual recognition. He will do perfectly.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask in my most enticing voice.
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“Only if you take it,” the object of my desire answers back.
“Well thank you then, I will.” I subtly swing my leg over the backless stool and settle onto the seat. Nothing but my skirt separates me from the hard polished wood of the stool.
The man flags the bartender over, “Whatever the lady would like… please.”
Oh as if he does not know, I think silently. I tell the bartender, “I would like ripe cherries, please.”
The bartender served the order and I smile warmly at the man next to me. I wonder if he knows what I have in mind. Without saying a word, but never breaking eye contact, I lift the cherry into my mouth. Sliding the shiny crimson fruit past my lips, I open my mouth slightly and pluck the cherry from the stem. I lick my lips where the juice touches them.
“You’ve quite a talented tongue,” he chuckles.
Yes, it worked! I think.
Boldly, I haul my stool near him and lay my hand on his knee.
I spread my legs a little and slide forward so my knees are on each side of his knees. His hand touches my hand and I grab it with confidence. I pull my hand away so that his hand is on my bare thigh, just above my knee. I wonder how long before he realizes that I am not wearing panties.
“You are the sexiest, most confident woman I believe I’ve ever encountered.”
“I’m just used to getting what I need.” As I say that, I lean in towards him whispering, “For example…”
My voice trails off and I slide my leg over his so that his hand travels up my thigh.
His rough hand squeezes my inner thigh and I moan softly. I am so close to what I need and I have waited all day. “I need a man tonight; will you give me what I need?”
I part my legs a little more so that he gets the idea that I want him to feel him. I sit in such a way that his hand is camouflaged from the rest of the room and coax him with my body language to touch me there. With just the tip of his finger, he strokes between my slit. I shudder.
“Ohhhhh, wow. That was it, what I need. Can we please get out of here?”
The man pulls his hand back out and places his wet finger on first my lips, then his, almost making a shhhh sign. Our connection is sealed, as I lock eyes with him and watch him run his tongue over his lips, while he leans towards me for a kiss. He thrusts his tongue into my mouth with urgency, mimicking what I want him to do with his hard cock at the first opportunity. We start making out with wild abandon. Oh I have thought about this all day. I have wanted this all day. I have needed this all day. This man is mine.
We breathlessly part and I gaze down at his hands, such strong powerful hands. The sort of hands I want to hold forever. Something shiny catches my eye.
“Nice ring,” I say casually.
“Thanks, it’s just a little something my wife picked out for me on our wedding day. Do you like her taste?”
“It is obviously exquisite. She chose you.”
“You should see her, she’s incredible. And you really should see her in a skirt, particularly when paired with garters and stockings. I cannot help but notice, your ring is similar. I’d almost imagine they came together,” the man answers with a grin.
“I would imagine that same thing. But why are we discussing our spouses? I’m here to get laid, are you interested?”
“I’d be a crazy man to turn down an offer like that. By the way, you know that cherry trick always gets me hot, you shameless little hussy.”
“Of course I knew. Let’s get out of here sweetie, now.”
“Super. I had a buddy drop me off after work so we can ride home together. Told him I was meeting some hot chick and I hoped to get lucky.”
I smile at my husband as we lace arms and walk casually out of the bar, knowing full well we will both get what we came for. It was worth the day of waiting. I’d say he isn’t the only one who got lucky.
As to the heat? The flame still burns, but then again, isn’t that what it’s all about?
The End
Tom of Finland
Tom of Finland (1920-1991) is a gay artist extraordinaire. Through the sheer force and beauty of his art–inked line drawings, mostly–he established an entire subculture within the gay community of his day and our own. In the process, he peopled his art with macho characters so popular as to have become gay stereotypes. Some of his illustrations stand alone, whereas others tell a story, in sequential images, not unlike a comic strip, but without dialogue. So clear is the storyline of such images, however, that the representation of conversation is not only not needed, but it would also probably distract from the story’s narrative.
Tom, who was born Touko Laaksonen, was named for the month of May (“Toukokuu” in Finnish), in which he was born. Finland was a newborn infant of a nation, and the men were rough-and-tumble frontiersmen. His parents, however, were both schoolteachers, and they introduced their son to art and culture from an early age.
He had sex with other men for the first time as a lieutenant during World War II, when blackouts allowed him to have anonymous sex with other soldiers, including German warriors whose jackboots he found irresistible. Following the war, Tom locked himself in his room, naked, and masturbated while he drew his trademark macho men, the dream lovers he could have only in his imagination, now that the blackouts had ended.
The gay scene in Helsinki was devoted to effeminate men who held no interest for Tom, so he traveled, seeking the studs he preferred, meeting one, finally, in Veli, who became his domestic partner for the next twenty eight years.
Tom preferred manly men of rugged, handsome looks, bulging muscles, and oversize cocks who fought for dominance and engaged in rough sex, a feature of which was often BDSM. His men were unabashedly male, just as they were unabashedly gay. In fact, Tom’s art seems to suggest that, to be truly male, a man must prefer other men to women–must be unabashedly gay. Women are featured rarely in his art, but, when they appear, they are drawn realistically, not in a patronizing or caricatured manner. However, despite their realistic portrayal, complete with all their feminine charms, they seem to be no more than the trophies of clueless heterosexual men who have yet to realize that other men, not women, are the preferred sex and, as such, it is another man, not a woman, who appears on the arm of the truly masculine man. Men, not women, make a man a man in the world of Tom of Finland.
Although he earned his bread and butter by creating advertising artwork, he also drew erotic gay art featuring strapping men, and, in 1956, a friend prevailed upon Tom to send some of his work to a popular American muscle magazine, Physique Pictorial, and he signed his samples “Tom,” becoming “Tom of Finland.” The cover of the spring 1957 issue of the magazine bore one of his sketches–a lumberjack floating atop a log traveling down a river. Unfortunately, gay art didn’t pay much, so Tom had to continue working as an advertising artist until 1973 before he could devote all his time to creating the artwork that he loved most, the erotic sketches of manly gay men seducing one another and having hot sex in masculine environments. Exhibiting his work in Los Angeles brought Tom to the United States, and he began to travel extensively, meeting such gay movers and shakers as Etienne, Robert Mapplethorpe, and his eventual manager, Durk Dehner.
The men who people Tom’s work are cowboys, construction workers, lumberjacks, outlaw bikers, police officers, and sailors and soldiers, whose erect, circumcised penises reach to mid-thigh or chest level and are as thick as their fists. They perform men’s work, and they party and fuck like men. His art is responsible for much of the pride that gay men feel about themselves, both as men and as gays, which was Tom’s intention all along: “I work very hard,” he told an interviewer, “to make sure that the men I draw having sex are proud men having happy sex.”
West is an example of one of the narrative sets that Tom created. Comprised of twenty drawings, it shows an outlaw biker arriving in a western town. When he enters a saloon, he becomes the plaything of cowboys, after which he is left suspended by his testicles from a tree, an Indian observing him with a grin on his face as the cowboys leave him to his fate.
The first sketch in the series offers a bird’s-eye view, looking down upon an unpaved street in front of a typical western saloon, down which the outlaw biker, attired completely in black leather, speeds on his motorcycle, drawing the attention of six cowboys, one of whom is mounted upon a rearing horse that shies away from the loud vehicle that frightens it. Another cowboy sits on the steps outside the saloon, the front, swinging doors of which open off the elevated boardwalk, and a companion stands alongside him, his forearm draped over the rail that runs along the boardwalk. A third cowboy, the seat of his pants cut out to reveal his buttocks, saunters across the street, toward the saloon, while two others stand below a tree limb, the one in the dark hat masturbating his friend, who wears a white hat. The white hat’s erect penis projects from his open fly and is clutched in the fist of the dark hat. Were this picture to bear a title, it might be “Biker’s Arrival.”
In the second picture, the biker mounts the steps to the boardwalk in front of the saloon, stepping past the seated and standing cowboys, who exchange glances with him as they clutch their respective, well-outlined genitals through their tight-fitting pants. An appropriate title for this sketch might be “Initial Encounter.”
The third sketch shows the biker entering the saloon. He has opened one of the two swinging doors, and his black leather-clad figure is seen silhouetted against the doorway, his cock outlined against his thigh. A cowboy standing at the bar, playing with his genitals through the rough fabric of his denim pants, turns to look at the stranger entering the saloon, as does a cowboy with a bulging cock and balls who stands behind a seated, smiling blond cowboy in the foreground whose erect penis is being gripped in the fist of the otherwise-unseen cowboy who masturbates him. “Grand Entrance” would be a fitting title for this image.
The first three pictures have aroused the observer’s curiosity, causing him to wonder what effect upon the resident cowboys the biker’s appearance in their town (or “territory”) will have. Will he receive a friendly welcome or a hostile reception? This illustration answers this question. The biker, surrounded by cowboys, has bellied up to the bar, and the bartender is pouring him a shot of whiskey. As the cowboys look on, the one in the foreground to the left of the biker’s position, sporting a sizeable bulge in the crotch of his pants, one of their number jams his hand between the biker’s leather-clad buttocks, while gripping his chest with the other hand. An effective title for this illustration might be “Getting In Touch” or “The Introduction.”
Now that one of their own has initiated the sexual molestation of the biker, another cowboy seizes the biker’s jacket from behind, and a second cowboy, kneeling, reaches between the biker’s thighs to seize the lower portion of his erect cock, the upper portion of which is grasped in the fist of a third cowboy, while the barkeeper, reaching over the bar, seeks a handhold on the remaining inches of the biker’s jutting erection as well. (All of Tom’s characters’ cocks are circumcised and of an unlikely length, the biker’s appearing to be at least eighteen inches long and as thick as a good-size sausage.) Three other cowboys look on as the biker is molested by their friends. “Group Grope” or “Welcome Committee” might make a good title for this illustration.
In the next drawing, as one cowboy holds the biker around his waist, a pair have seized his jackbooted calves, lifting him off his feet, so that the biker lies across the top of the bar. One of the men who has lifted the biker off his feet kneels, reaching with his unoccupied hand to grasp the biker’s cock, which, along with his balls, he draws backward, through his thighs. Another cowboy, his hand resting upon the back of the biker’s left thigh, bows his head so that he might lick the biker’s penis with the tip of his extended tongue. “Swept Off His Feet” might serve as a good title for this drawing.
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In the sixth drawing, the biker, still laid over the bar, has been turned onto his back, but he has also been wheeled around so that his head faces down the bar. His pants have been pulled down to mid-thigh, and his enormous erection is held aloft by a cowboy who licks his balls. Another cowboy, bent over the bar at the biker’s head, exchanges tongue-kisses with the biker while gripping his nipples in his hands. At the other end of the biker, whose legs are being held up over his head by the clutching hands of two other cowboys, a cowhand performs analingus on the biker while the bartender and several of his other customers look on, the bartender gripping the cock of the cowboy who licks the biker’s anus. In the doorway, the silhouette of what appears to be yet another cowboy appears. This drawing might be called “Free For All.”
Only one of the biker’s leather-clad, jackbooted legs is visible above the heads of the cowboys at the bar. Their backs are toward the viewer and the man who was seen in the previous drawing in the doorway. The stranger has now entered the saloon and is pointing a six-shooter at the cowboys molesting the stranger. Like one of the cowboys at the bar, the newcomer’s scrotum is seen suspended between his thighs, despite the fact that he is fully clothed, which suggests that he has opened his fly to let his genitals protrude. Another cowboy at the bar has done the same thing, and his penis juts from his open fly. Fear on their faces, the men at the bar look over their shoulders at the newcomer. Could this newly arrived, stern-faced stranger in western attire be the town’s sheriff, come to rescue the hapless biker? Certainly, this seems to be the sketch’s implication. However, if this man is the local lawman, why has he taken his cock and balls out of his pants? The picture is ambiguous, after all. Nevertheless, “Arresting Moment” could be a fitting title for this sketch.
The next sketch shows the biker, pants down and cock erect, tumbling from the bar as the cowboys and the bartender face toward the front of the saloon, arms raised. The bartender’s cock, also erect, juts from his open fly. “Hands Up!” would be an effective title for this drawing.
The next sketch, number nine in the set, shows that the biker is anything but an unwilling victim of the cowboys’ lust, for, having recovered, he sits on the floor behind the bar, his pants still halfway down his thighs and his erect cock and balls showing, sucking the cock of the burly bartender, whose arms, like those of the cowboys lined up along the front of the bar, are still in the air. The pants of the cowboy nearest to the viewer are down below his smooth buttocks, and his cock is semi-erect, standing at half-mast. A hand, seen at the left edge of the drawing, tugs this cowboy’s shirt up, exposing his pubic hair and lean belly, as the tip of the six-gun points at the startled cowboy’s chest. Another cowboy visible in the picture stands with his arms raised, suggesting that the others, not shown, do likewise. Perhaps this drawing might be called “Secrets Exposed.”
In the next picture, the gunman points with the forefinger of his right hand while holding his gun on the men with his left hand. The cowboys are still lined up at the bar, but have turned so that their backs are toward him now, rather than their faces. All have lowered their trousers to the middle of their thighs or to their knees, and each of them but one look back, over his shoulders, at the gunman, none of them looking very happy about the situation. The gunman’s cock protrudes from his open fly, half-erect and pointing toward the bared buttocks lined up before him. This picture might be called “Bare Asses, All In A Row” or “Lineup.”
In picture 11, the gunman has made his choice, and his right hand delves between the sleek buttocks of a startled cowboy, who has lost his shirt, probably at the command of his captor, and whose hands, like those of his fellow captives’, continue to reach for the ceiling. Those who are lined up to his left, witnessing the assault, look anxious. Perhaps they fear that one–or all–of them may be next. As the gunman plunges his hand between the cowboy’s buttocks, his own balls are visible, hanging between his thighs, while his prick, more erect than before, points toward the lineup of asses on display in front of him. “Sampling the Wares” or “Choice Made” would be a descriptive title for this sketch.
One wonders about the biker’s motives in the next picture, for, as the gunman penetrates a cowboy (this one still wears a shirt) anally, lifting his shirt with his left hand while holding his gun, barrel pointing toward the floor, the biker, still kneeling behind the bar, his pants still down around his thighs and his cock and balls still on display, seems to be about to spring to the cowboy’s aid. Obviously, he didn’t mind being sexually assaulted by the cowboys, because he sucked the barkeeper’s prick even after the gunman’s entrance had caused the cowboys to release him. Maybe he identifies with his abusers rather than with the gunman who disrupted their sexual play or maybe he intends to abuse the gunman the same way that the cowboys had preciously assaulted him. In any case, he looks determined to attack the distracted gunman. “About to Spring” describes this scene.
The biker does spring, lunging forward while still kneeling, cock exposed, and seizes the gunman’s wrist in his fist. The revolver fires, into the floor. The gunman, his cock still jammed up the cowboy’s ass, fondles the cowboy’s chest as the victim continues to keep his hands, like his erect prick, raised. There is a look of anger and contempt upon the gunman’s face. This one might be called “Surprise Attack.”
In the next picture, the gunman has been disarmed, and the cowboys fall upon him, one throwing his arm around his throat and snapping his head back as the barkeeper holds the gunman’s left wrist and the biker rips the front of their victim’s pants wide open as he yanks them down, exposing the gunman’s erect cock and the round testicles within his tight, risen scrotum, while a second cowboy plunges his hand along the gunman’s bare thigh and alongside his scrotum. The other cowboys crowd around, presumably waiting their turns. Might not a good title for this picture be “The Tables Turned” or “The Captive Captor”?
It is now the captor who is held at captive at gunpoint, as he is being driven, naked, down a curiously deserted street, a rope secured above his balls, his penis still jutting from his groin, but not as erect as it had been when it had been jammed up the cowboy’s ass in the bar. His only clothing is his torn pants, which have been pulled down over his boots His physique is impressive and sexy, as are the cowboys’ bodies. One of the cowboys, walking ahead of the biker, holds the outline of the motorcyclist’s thick hard cock through the tight leather of his pants. “Marched at Gunpoint” seems to sum up this image.
The rope is thrown over a tree limb, and the gunman is hoisted aloft by his balls. A pair of cowboys take turns striking him hard against the back with a thick, wide belt, eliciting cries from him as, his dangling arms, he seeks to support his weight upon his hands. One cowboy, watching the scene, masturbates, his massive cock protruding from his open fly. The biker also has his salami-size prick out, holding it toward the dangling gunman’s head. He’s “Hoisted,” for sure, so this word would make an apt title for this drawing.
In the next sketch, the gunman is still dangling upside down, hung by the balls, but the biker has inserted his prick into their captive’s mouth and down his throat, filling his face with his cock. The gunman’s asshole is visible, and its round, wide dimensions indicate that he has been the recipient of other men’s cocks during anal intercourse and, perhaps, an anal recipient of dildos, butt plugs, and other sex toys as well. The other cowboys are grouped nearby, watching, and one, masturbating, ejaculates, his semen spewing onto the back of the suspended gunman. Another cowboy, kneeling behind the biker, licks the motorcyclist’s buttocks through the tight leather pants that the biker wears. It seems that “Mouthful” would be a good name for this picture.
In the final image of the series, the cowboys and the biker, having had their way with the captive gunman, leave him suspended from the bough of the tree, suspended by the rope around his balls, his hands on the ground to support him. As the biker walks away, a cowboy on either side of him, one with an arm around his waist, the other with a hand on his ass, and his own arms around their shoulders, an Indian brave with a massive erection and big balls thrusting aside his breechcloth, grins, looking down upon the captive gunman, implying that the poor soul’s sexual assault has only just begun. “Gift of the Palefaces” would make a good title for this last drawing in Tom of Finland’s West series.
These pictures are typical of Tom’s art, featuring handsome, macho alpha male characters with hard pecs; bulging muscles; washboard abs; and sinewy backs and legs; and huge, cut cocks and big balls who delight in all things masculine, including same-sex sex, often with an element of BDSM, and masculine work in all-male or predominantly masculine environments. Tom of Finland’s all-male world is a delightful place to visit. Too bad one can’t live there!
The End
Jessica, Helga and Me
While I was putting the final touches on my packing for our Caribbean dream vacation of a lifetime, the telephone shrilled. My live-in boyfriend, who was to accompany me, called to say he had a business emergency and would have to fly to New York tonight. He urged me to begin the trip alone, saying that he would join me in four days. I didn’t particularly care to travel solo, but we had been planning for six months. The travel agency had our semi-luxury accommodations booked for two glorious weeks.
The plane landed on time and I was whisked off in a hotel limousine. After generously tipping the bell boy, I gently closed the door, dying for a shower. Showers in paradise are just as good as those at home, but with an added element. There were all kinds of exotic oils and soaps in the shower of which I made full use.
Smelling like flowers and wrapped in the soft terry cloth robe provided by the hotel, I stepped out onto the terrace. The beach and ocean nearly hypnotized me with their simple beauty. Looking at the terrace next to me, I saw a lovely, full head of silver hair being brushed by a young, blonde woman. They must have felt me staring as they both turned to look at me.
“Hello, ladies,” I called, caught. “Beautiful day isn’t it?”
“Hello,” they responded in unison. “Quite,” said the older.
The face that went with the silver hair was unlined. Her body was slim and shapely in a brief two piece bathing suit. The lady was probably only twice as old as my own 22 years. She was gorgeous.
“How long is your vacation,” I asked, prolonging the scene.
“Helga and I–Helga is my social secretary/companion–are here for two weeks,” she answered with a smile. “I am Jessica.”
“I’m Anabel. And so am I. My boyfriend is joining me in four days,” I volunteered. “Well, I’ll let you get back to what you were doing. Nice meeting you. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”
I saw them that night in the hotel’s casino. Holding a drink, I wandered around the huge room taking in all the sights, including them. Jessica was seated at a dollar slot machine with Helga standing behind her, hands on her shoulders. Over and over Jessica inserted coins and pressed the button. When the machine finally paid off, they were ecstatic as they hugged. Helga kissed her full on the lips as she caressed her back. Were these two women lovers, I wondered. Just the thought that they could be fucking each other right next door to me excited me. They are both very beautiful women and I could easily see why each would want the other.
I lay in bed that night thinking about them. Had they come back to the suite? Were they doing it now? I wasn’t ignorant about lesbian sex. In my rebellious teen years, a college girl bet me she could make me cum in five minutes. I lost that bet under a pile of coats at a frat party as I came in two with her long tongue stuck in my pussy. Was one of them sucking the other’s pussy? Were they doing it at the same time? I fingered myself to orgasm imagining myself holding a silver head between my thighs and having a tall blonde sucking at my breasts.
At breakfast, I saw Helga at a table alone and decided to approach her. “Hi, Helga. May I join you?” I asked.
“Of course, Anabel,” she said smiling up at me. “Say, one of the maids told me about a real nude beach on another island. Would you like to go with me?”
“Sure,“I said perking up. I’d get to see her and Jessica naked. “I’d love to have an even tan for Jeff. Is Jessica joining us?”
“No. She’s conducting business by telephone this morning.”
On the ferry ride over, Helga told me more about herself and her relationship with Jessica. “She and her husband vacationed in Sweden several years ago,” Helga began. “I had a summer job as a hotel chambermaid. Jessica and her husband, Harlan, took a special interest in me. They told me all about America and made sure that I didn’t have to work too hard for them. At the end of two weeks, they asked if I would like to go back to America with them as a member of their staff. Well, I was 18 already and jumped on the idea. In gratitude, I let Harlan and Jessica touch me inside my panties a bit more than they had before. Separately, of course. By the time we flew to the United States two weeks later, I had fully fucked both of them several times. My position was to be a social secretary/personal companion to Jessica. Harlan and Jessica discovered the truth about each other where I was concerned. There was no jealousy. Fucking me enhanced their sex life. Being their social secretary, I simply set up a schedule for when each one could fuck me.”
“Wow, Helga. Did you really enjoy them or merely endure them because they helped you?”
“Anabel, I truly loved it. We were devastated when Harlan died in an airplane crash two years ago. Jessica and I got even closer. Actually, we love each other.”
We arrived at the beach. There was nudity everywhere. Helga and I shucked our clothes and spread out on beach towels. I couldn’t help but admire Helga’s lush body. She is about 5’ 9” and stacked–long, shapely thighs and legs, full high breasts, big blue eyes and long, straight blond hair. She was perfection walking. I’m not quite as tall as her, but my breasts are as big. My black hair is a thick shoulder length and lightly curly. I have been told that my violet eyes resemble Elizabeth Taylor’s. I suppose Helga and I made striking opposites by the way people were watching us.
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We continued our conversation as we sunned. “Helga,” I inquired, “do you think Jessica would object to us being like this?”
“I love her dearly, Anabel, but I don’t tell her everything. For example, I didn’t tell her about the cute little redhead and her boyfriend that I picked up in the movies three days ago. I sat between them and let them feel me up. Their hands were practically fighting for my pussy and breasts. We went back to their apartment and fucked our brains out. The guy was shorter than me, but made up for the lack with one of the biggest dicks I’ve even seen on a guy. He really knew what to do with it. And his girl dripped pussy juice in my mouth as she fucked my face. They were a fun couple. What’s more, I suspect Jessica is fucking a man from our country club who reminds her of Harlan. No harm done.”
The couple next to us began to get quite amorous. Before long he was stoking his dick deep into her pussy. They were oblivious to us and everyone else as they fucked loudly. “They are making me really hot,” Helga said squirming. “Anabel, do you mind if I at least rub that pretty pussy of yours? I need some human contact, now!.”
“Ok, Helga. I guess it’s all right.” I looked around and saw people kissing and touching. Helga would do to me what she does to Jessica. Hell, yes. “Other people around here are really going after each other.”
“Let me make you feel good,” she said before she took one of my breasts in her hot mouth. “It is so, so good with a woman,” she mumbled as she stroked my slit. “It feels wonderful, doesn’t it? I will make you come so easily,” she crooned as she found my g-spot and finger fucked me to orgasm. “Try some of this pussy, Anabel,” she said in a sultry voice as she moved above me. Helga put her large pussy to mine and rode me hard on the sandy beach. I had no idea a woman’s clit could swell so large. We came together at the same time as the couple beside us and then ran to the ocean.
Waves crashed around us at the water’s edge as, entwined, we kissed and screwed again. As Helga was telling me how beautiful I was, I moved up on the sand and let her eat my pussy. She said she would just perish if she couldn’t put her tongue inside my dark pussy right then. She brought me over the edge again and again. The ferry took us, exhausted and fucked-up to the eyeballs, back to the other island in the afternoon.
We said goodbye at my door. I watched Helga as she went in to her lover. She and Jessica had not made love this morning. “Jessica will be very horny,” she said smiling at me.
Again I imagined them fucking. I could see in my mind Helga screwing Jessica’s pussy like she did mine on the beach. I showered and lay down to take a nap. I awoke at 5pm to a ringing telephone. It was Jessica inviting me to dine with them at 8.
We had a six course dinner at an elegant restaurant in the city. Wine and conversation flowed. Facts about my life spilled forth as I played footsie with Helga under the table. Jessica seemed fascinated with me. Helga must have told her about us after all. Did she want to fuck me, too? We arrived back at our hotel a little giddy from the wines. When I couldn’t find my key card easily, Jessica took my arm. “Come, darling. You can sleep with us tonight.”
In their bedroom, we undressed to our birthday suits and fell into bed still giggling. Jessica said goodnight and kissed me deeply. The kiss traveled south to my pussy as I moaned in her mouth.
“My turn,” said Helga, who followed suit, but covered my pussy with her hand. Then the two of them reached over me and kissed each other. I fell asleep.
Some time later, I felt a warm tongue licking my pussy. I opened my eyes to see Jessica’s silver hair between my legs. She tongue-fucked me hard to a shattering orgasm. I rewarded her with a mouthful of my nectar. Jeff was not even in the same league as these women in pussy-eating skills. “I knew you would taste wonderful, darling,” she said as she licked away the remaining juice. Helga was watching us from across the room. Her hair was in wild disarray, her eyes shining and she beautiful as she approached the bed. A seven inch dick protruded from her pelvis.
“Jessica, even though we have company,” she said, rubbing her blue penis, “let’s not break our routine. You know you need my dick to sleep soundly. Get on your knees.”
“That’s why I love you, darling,” Jessica crooned. I settled into a chair to watch as Helga dipped the dick into Jessica’s dripping pussy. Jessica moaned deeply as Helga took her in long, powerful strokes until she came. Helga then pulled her wet dick out and aimed it at her lover’s asshole.
“Please, Helga. Please, do it hard, just like I love it, darling” Jessica begged. She was turned on to the hilt.
Helga slid the dick into Jessica’s ass in one fell swoop. Jessica bucked as Helga fucked her as she requested. Helga was pulling out and ramming in her ass repeatedly. I could hear flesh on flesh as their wet skin slapped together. The site of them fucking was magnificent.
Helga was in seventh heaven as she fucked her lover. Her lithe body gyrated as she thrust in hard and pulled out slowly. A myriad of emotions crossed her beautiful, flushed face as she came in Jessica’s ass, screaming in lust. I walked to the bed and kissed them both lightly and dressed to leave them alone. The night of love was surely not over for them. Helga pulled Jessica up but was still moving inside her. She was rubbing her pussy, sucking her neck, kissing her and whispering to her. With a wet pussy of my own, I left quietly.
My boyfriend arrived two days earlier than expected and was in our room when I walked next door. With my wet, open pussy, sensitive breasts, swollen lips and in a turned-on state of mind, I crawled on him in the dark and fucked him better than I had done in the whole of our relationship. The fucking that I knew was happening next door was still high in my mind.
Jeff was still dead to the world when I slipped out of the room the next morning. I left a note explaining that I had gone jogging. Instead I knocked at Jessica’s. I wanted to thank them for last night. Jessica answered, pulling me in. “Helga’s swimming at the beach. Let’s go on the terrace.”
“Thanks for last night,” I said. “It is fortunate I went to my room. My boyfriend, Jeff, had arrived.”
“I’m glad for you, darling. Now take off those clothes and let me fuck you outside. It’s such a nice morning.”
I was nervous, even a little frightened. Jeff could walk out and see us. The fear of discovery also turned me on. Jessica expertly ate my pussy at a very leisurely pace. Threading my fingers through her silver hair, I pushed my pussy up allowing her full access to it. Jessica let me cum twice before she spread herself out on the other chaise. She asked me to lay on her, pussy to pussy. That position allowed me to screw her and watch my terrace. Fucking the silver-haired Jessica was what I needed to do from the first time I laid eyes on her. I was so caught up in the lustful act. I would not have stopped even if Jeff appeared. I would not stop moving on this exquisite pussy, with its large clit, with the short silver hairs that tickled me slightly as I screwed. I would not stop until I had my fill. When Jessica stuck her wet finger in my ass, I sawed our mingled pussies to another sweet orgasm.
Sliding from Jessica to the floor, still high from our loving, I kneeled between her legs. Jessica was wet and open from her last cum. I rubbed my entire face–cheeks, nose, and forehead in the sweet warmth of her. Her smell intoxicated me. And then, at long last, I tasted the first pussy of my life. I proceeded to do to her what she and Helga had done to me. I feasted. I touched. I sucked. I licked. I tasted. I plunged. She came in my mouth. She came on my face. My pussy leaked on her terrace. I gloried in the sweet flesh of this older woman.
With one and a half weeks left on our vacations, I was so happy with my lesbian friends. I would never have thought I could enjoy a woman’s touch so much. I saw them as often as I could when he was not around. Helga and I slipped back to the nude beach. We put on quite a show in front of the other bathers fucking each other with her thick, two-headed penis. Jessica and I fucked when Jeff golfed. We became intense quickie experts, but the cums were just as sweet.
Never again will I look at two beautiful women together and not wonder if they have tasted each other.
The End
A Troubled Mind
I don’t care for sex; I never have done and neither does my husband. We, that is James my husband and I are very proper and religious. In any case during the early part of our 14yrs of married life James would spend his sperm quickly and would soon be asleep; but it did not matter. Sex, I repeat, is unimportant to us; we are far too busy with other things.
Why then have got myself in such a mess? Why, this morning did I request an urgent meeting with Pastor Michael to beg his understanding – plead for his help and advice? The situation is not through any fault of mine; indeed not, I have been lead astray by an evil man. Though I ought to have been stronger and will accept that I may have to pay a price for my stupidity and weakness – but not for being wicked – I am not wicked!
“Gina, come in and tell me your troubles – but I’m afraid I have very little time at the moment,” Pastor Michael had said when I entered his office.
I expected him to be of more help but he seemed impatient and bored; though he did pay more attention when I went into a little more detail. At first I had rambled and become upset, mixing up my story and not explaining things properly. The pastor had made me begin again then was more attentive because he started to ask me questions and insisted that I fill in fine detail, so, he had told me, that it would enable him to ‘get the full picture and understand the situation better’.
“You’re not the first housewife to be unfaithful,” he had told me, quite brusquely and before I had hardly begun my tale. “If it troubles you badly maybe your first port of call ought to be your doctor, maybe he’ll recommend a counsellor you can speak to.”
But it was more than that – as the pastor realised when I managed to straighten myself out and compose myself; then he became very interested – very interested indeed.
No, I had not encouraged the man nor had I any desire to flirt. Indeed, I thought he was rough and course and without good manners. Soon I was proved right when I overheard him making disgusting remarks to his friends – about me – about how I looked. Before long they cared not if I heard them snigger and stared at me lewdly, making comment. Then the man would often make an excuse to be near to me and would enjoy my embarrassment and anxieties, looking me straight in the eye, making me avert my glance to look down at the floor.
He was a big man with an evil grin, showing off his unusually white teeth that contrasted with his unkempt black beard. When he was near me I could detect his body odour. I disliked him from that first day he walked into the little drapery shop where I worked. Usually I was not alone, working together with the owner, a lady just a few years older than I.
“Would you mind if I asked you to call into the shop while I’m away - on a regular basis, just to keep an eye on things?”
She was going abroad for two months and it suited me for I would still receive full pay. You see her trip provided an ideal opportunity to completely renovate the old building in keeping with the area. Quite simply, Dora, the owner, didn’t want to lose me. All her plans had been made long before I came into her employment.
“Just for the season,” she had said when offering me the job, “Trade isn’t good, and I’m going away in the winter.”
But trade had improved and the little shop had taken on a new lease of life. Yes, it was fine by me and I would go in to work and reorganise the stock, the records and make sure all was packed away safely and kept clean; there was lots to do.
All was fine the first week and I kept out of the way whilst the workmen stripped the walls and cleared away the dusty dirty mess, leaving one half of the building just a bare brick shell. Then though he, that evil man, began to leer at me, in a lewd way, sometimes licking his lips, smirking. Sometimes I felt nervous and had palpitations or butterflies in my stomach – especially when he came up quietly behind me in the small kitchen we had to share. When he went away I would hear him making fun of me, telling his friends how he had scared me, making me tremble – suggesting that maybe I trembled because I wanted him – wanted sex! They would all laugh loudly.
He told lies! They told lies! They said that I had begun to wear shorter skirts and blouses and shirts that showed off my bra. Hadn’t I also begun to leave an extra button undone to display ‘a bit of cleavage’? Certainly not! True I had found a need to wear some older clothes that perhaps didn’t fit as well but only because the shop was so dusty now and I was handling so much old stuff, like clearing out old paperwork from the attic. What was the sense in wearing my better clothes?
Things went a little further when one day the bearded man sneaked up behind me when I was bending over low to pick up some files. What could I do when to my horror I heard him breathing heavily, then placing his fingers on the small of my back that was uncovered because my shirt had ridden up he prevented me from rising. He pressed his hand on me making me bend even lower – I knew he would be almost probably able to see my underwear; then he made me have a conversation with him, as though nothing was amiss!
When he finely let me up I turned but he was standing very close to me, smirking, showing his teeth, I could hear the sound of his excited breathing and he seemed to force me to look up to his face; it was as though his eyes could see right inside my head and he knew something about my inner thoughts. I was scared and began to shake when he rubbed his rough hand over my face and pushed a finger against my lips making me open my mouth and I tried to push it out with my tongue, but he seemed to think I was doing it for another reason and it excited him even more.
From then on the man would appear as if out of nowhere and he would touch me, like rubbing my shoulders, massaging me or slipping an arm around my waist while he spoke to me and caressed my belly with his other hand. I would be too shocked and scared to stop him and would simply freeze on the spot trying to avert his gaze.
But sometimes he would take hold of my chin and make me face him so he could see me while he rubbed those rough fingers over my face, letting one push against my mouth, making me part my lips to let it in. He enjoyed it and I reasoned that if I put my tongue against his finger I would prevent him from pushing it to far in and anyway if he liked that it would satisfy him then he wouldn’t pursue or attempt any other dirty act.
One time he whispered to me asking me if I enjoyed licking his finger – then asked what it reminded me of - what was I thinking of? No, licking his fingers was not what I was doing!
I ought to have called the police and reported him when one day when I was unaware of his presence and climbing down from the dirty attic that I heard him below me and stopping dead felt his hands on my thighs. He gripped my leg when I tried to step down preventing me reaching the floor, it was awful, I had to stand there, listening to his vulgar comments as he tormented me making it very clear that he was ‘admiring’ the view up my skirt, even commenting on the colour and skimpiness of my panties under the smoothness of my pantyhose.
The man kept rubbing my legs, my inner thigh and asked me if I was enjoying it, getting aroused; I told him an emphatic ‘No!’
“Come down now!” he said.
It was a trick to humiliate me as when I did he was so close to the ladder that I was in his arms and he held me keeping a hand on my leg that caused my skirt to fold up as I descended – then just as I had turned to face him his friends appeared and saw him holding up my skirt and leaning forward as though he was about to kiss me – as though I was about to kiss him! I was distraught and when they left, laughing, I cringed and almost sobbed. I caught some of their comments as the men apologised for interrupting him while he replied, “I told you that she wanted ‘it’!
The following week was even more disturbing because the man would now try to cuddle me or hold me in front of his friends – just to embarrass me I think. I asked him to stop doing this but he ignored my request. When he did get me alone he would pester me to tell him my likes and dislikes regarding sex though I usually didn’t answer. Pastor Michael made me remember and tell every question the man ever asked me.
I told the man how religious my husband and I were and that we didn’t place importance on sex. The man said it was a shame because I ’looked like I would enjoy a good ride’! He said that I was frustrated and that he could tell that deep inside I was curious and excited. I denied that having him touch me aroused me and asked for him to leave me alone. The man said he had noticed how erect my nipples became when he touched me but when I opened my mouth to protest his finger was ready to slip in between my lips and I struggled to speak to continually refute and deny the many following comments and suggestions as I kept his finger in check with my tongue.
It was perhaps silly and unwise for me to answer, “I don’t know” when the man whispered to me asking if his finger going in and out of my mouth reminded me of sucking a ‘cock’. He looked surprised and made me confess that I had never done that – it was dirty!
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