by Iona Nixon
So that's how it all ended. They took his money, left his pistol, but kept his bar uniform. Donna wanted to keep that for awhile. She wanted to be able to smell his clothes, maybe wear his shirt to bed. She could throw them away at her leisure. "Will he remember any of this?"
"Probably not much, at least not at first. Maybe he'll have flashbacks, especially when he sees us at the bar. It doesn't matter. We can edit the tape any way we want. We can threaten to post it on the web. He won't talk."
"But I'll always know," said Donna. "Especially when I flirt with him."
"That's right."
"Next time I want a girl to be there." Donna could hardly wait to get back and look at the tapes they'd made. She could hardly wait to screw Kevin in the safety of their own home. She took a last look at Mike, tied naked face down to the table. His awful humiliation when his roommate returned excited her terribly. Would he get hard at the sight of her? Would he cum at her touch, as she went to untie him? She wished they could be there to see it. What really made her hot was the thought of their next victims. The look in the eyes of the girl when she realized another woman was about to take her sexually. They would have to drug her after the fact. Donna would insist. She was young, rich, and bored. This was going to be her special hobby. She would help Kevin turn it into an art. Maybe they could pick out people for special treatment. People who really deserved to be used. Her step mother certainly had it coming.
All her fears had dissolved. Better to be the rapist than the raped. She couldn't wait another hour to have sex. She unzipped her boyfriend's pants, and blew him as they drove home in the snow.
The End.
The Second Person
This is one of those second person point-of-view vignettes that many writers claim can't be done well. To top THAT off, it's in the present tense. Strike two, you groan! Go ahead, roll your eyes—but read it anyway. You just might enjoy it. If you don't tell, no one will ever know. *wink*
~ ~ ~
So, this business trip you're on—dull, isn't it? The days are long and the evenings alone even longer. What a team player you are! Suffering a whole week away from home and those endlessly tedious contract negotiations. The only thing that makes it tolerable is that new corporate attorney. Damn, she's hot. Isn't she? So hot that after a day of working with her, you can't wait to haul your aching hard on back to the hotel and jerk off. Housekeeping, you might be surprised to learn, has a running bet on how many different places you'll blow your load each night. (Yes, they did notice the jism on the lampshade—and on the bedspread—and on the room service menu. Somehow, they missed the wad on the alarm clock even though it makes the last digit appear blurry.)
Not only is she visually stunning, she's incredibly bright. Shrewd, too. When she deftly turned the tables on that slimy worm from Consolidated Capital you cheered with both heads. Skills! The woman's got some serious skills in the board room. She didn't gloat, though. Uh uh. No way. That would be beneath her. Oh, beneath her! Yup. That's exactly where you'd like to be.
Her name's Daphne, and you just know she gives great head. Just know it! With a name like Daphne, she must. Right? It's a cock-lovin' name if you've ever heard one. She's got those incredibly full Angelina Jolie lips that mesmerize you. When you close your eyes, you can see her thick, chestnut hair falling over her face as she leans forward to take your dick into her mouth. All of it (which, of course, is no easy feat).
She groans while she does it, too—like it's the best damned thing she's ever tasted. Mmm and oh and uh and even a whispered yes when she pulls back in order to give your balls some more attention or when she slowly licks that trail of hair up to your navel and squeezes her lovely tits around your cock. That particular image resulted in the spurt you left on the bathroom floor—the one that started housekeeping's aforementioned wager. Carmelita slipped on it, you see. Wiped out. Bam! Landed on her bountiful tush. You should've heard her swearing while Ruby just cackled. She had to walk around the rest of the day with that glaze on her ass, and Ruby mocked her incessantly—even after she put her cleaning smock on backwards.
But, that's neither here nor there. In a few more hours, it'll all be over and you'll be on your way home on the red eye flight. You just have to endure the dinner celebration with a dozen of the stuffiest suits known to corporate America—and, of course, Daphne. If it weren't for her, you'd be sorely tempted to feign some sort of mysterious stomach virus. She'll make the evening tolerable—to say the least.
Hopefully, your cat survived the week. Cat. Pussy. In the free associative playground of your mind, all paths lead back to Daphne. Bet she has the sweetest pussy, too. Carpet to match the curtains, if not shaved. And taste? Ambrosia! Well, there goes your appetite again. Too bad pussy isn't on the menu this evening. You'll have to be satisfied with ogling. The thought of watching Daphne eat has your cock twitching, and you have to sit in the rental car in the restaurant parking lot for a few minutes while the tent in your trousers subsides. Yeah, so it makes you a wee bit late. So what? The contracts are signed, sealed, and delivered. Fuck 'em.
Twelve corporate scowls greet you as you are shown to the table, but you can only see Daphne. She has changed into an emerald green silk dress that hits just above the knee. One of those wrap numbers that crosses her chest and dips between those delectable tits. Twitch.
She looks genuinely pleased to see you, and who can blame her? You're no Adonis, but you're certainly the tastiest entree at this particular buffet. You take the last remaining seat, which happens to be directly opposite her. Dinner is absolute torture. She sucks the oysters from their half shells (twitch), licks the Tabasco sauce from her fingertips (twitch), and kisses the wine glass leaving cinnamon lipstick prints (twitch) which would look just divine on your cock.
The slab of corporate pork to your left digs an elbow into your ribs. "Right, buddy?" he leers, cocking his head Daphne's way. You don't have a clue what he said, but Daphne's expression tells you that she's not at all enamored of his remarks. For the first time this evening, it's your brain that twitches and you respond, "I think that's highly inappropriate, and you owe the lady an apology."
Shuts him right the fuck up! Daphne's eyes, on the other hand, sparkle with that "my hero" light. While you've no doubt she could hold her own in any situation, there's apparently something she finds sexy about chivalry. She holds your gaze with those smoldering grey-blue eyes and says, "I'm so glad you came."
You sputter, choke on your wine, thinking for just a moment that she was somehow privy to your hotel room antics. Well, you came because it was practically mandatory, but what the hell? It certainly can't hurt to give her the impression that you "came" for her, and technically, it's not all that far from the truth (as Ruby and Carmelita can attest).
And so, you confess that she is the only reason you "came" this evening. Unfortunately, since your flight leaves in barely three hours, you inform her in your most sorrowful voice, you'll not be around to enjoy her company much longer. Her reaction isn't exactly what you are expecting. She looks elated. Ha! Takes you down a notch, doesn't it? Well, you were getting too cocky anyway.
However, when Daphne sees your crestfallen expression, she hastens to explain. Her flight, it turns out, is scheduled to depart just minutes before yours. She works here in Atlanta – at the corporate headquarters – but is on her way to Phoenix to negotiate a settlement in a sticky matter involving a branch manager, two underage boys, and the bank vault. Rejoicing at your incredible luck, you offer her a ride to the airport which she quickly accepts. Her car's in the shop, and you just saved her over forty bucks in cab fare and tip. She owes you big time now, you think. Yeah, right. Dream on, chump.
"Shall we get going?" she inquires with a wink as she stands and smoothes the silk over her delectable curves. "Traffic's heavy this time of day."
Well, that certainly gets you twitchin' again. The two of you make a quick exit, with abject and totally insincere apologies. The CEO of Consolidated Capital's picking up th
e tab – as well he should, since his team put your team through a week of sheer hell. Every fuckin' nit picky thing was hashed and rehashed and re-rehashed. All told, though, you think (and Daphne agrees) that the deal is a win-win.
It had been rather warm earlier, but there's a bit of a nip in the air now. Milking the chivalry angle for all it's worth, you remove your suit jacket and drape it over Daphne's shoulders. She purrs a 'thank you' and takes your arm as you walk to the car. Sure, that gives you a look-what-I've-got swagger. And why not? This knockout's been giving you the most phenomenal head in your head all week, and now she's snuggled up against you all cozy like. You feel entitled to a little strut. (Carmelita and Ruby might not agree, given the "tips" you left them.)
The rental car isn't exactly a stud mobile, but it was the last on the Rent-2-Sav lot. At the time, you figured the savings would leave enough of the company per diem to cover a ticket to the theater and perhaps a meal in that trendy new restaurant everyone was raving about. Now, you're simply hoping that Daphne finds the vinyl seats retro cool. Sure, sure. On the plus side, that full bench in the front allows Daphne to slide right over. Silk on vinyl is slippery, eh? She kicks off those delectable strappy fuck-me shoes and tucks her stockinged feet against her ass, wriggling a bit until she finds a comfortable spot. And when Daphne wriggles, it's impossible not to (twitch) admire the show.
You alternate between thanking all known deities and cursing yourself for not opting to spend just one more night. It is within company travel policy to do so, after all. You figured you'd be eager to blow town. Now, with Daphne practically in your lap, you're regretting that decision. Her left breast is pressed against your upper arm, its nipple can be felt through both her dress and the sleeve your shirt. Blowing is definitely on your mind, but not in relation to town. You ease onto the Interstate with thoughts of her slowly lowering her pussy onto your waiting tongue.
"We make a good team," she says as she weaves her delicate fingers through your hair. Can't argue with that, now can you? Her voice drops in pitch, and her next words make your balls tingle. "I think we should get better acquainted. Much better."
By this time, you're past twitching and into a full scale throb. The bulge in your trousers is so obvious that there's no point even trying to conceal it. You squirm a bit, trying to readjust without blatantly touching yourself and calling Daphne's attention to your wood. Oops. Too late.
"It's okay, you know," Daphne says, staring at your crotch. "I can take care of your...um, dilemma... when we swing by my place to pick up my luggage."
Hot holy fuck, Phat Man! You give her a huge, cheesy grin, not trusting your voice. Sparky throbs to the beat of the I'm-gonna-get-a-blow-job chant which is ringing through your mind. At a complete loss for words—coherent words, anyway—you simply raise your right arm and wrap it around her. She snuggles closer, resting her head on your shoulder. The scent of her musk makes you dizzy with anticipation. Better stay in your lane, stud! An auto accident would certainly throw a wrench in your plans for her socket.
The final few miles to Daphne's townhouse is a blur as you struggle to maintain some semblance of composure. You rely on monosyllabic grunts and enthusiastic head nods in response to her explanation of precisely how she intends restore blood flow to your brain.
After the longest ten minutes of your life, you pull into Daphne's driveway. Walking is painful. Walking behind Daphne is excruciating. Her dress is stuck in the crack of her ass and she does nothing to rectify the situation. And there are stairs to add to the misery. Stairs which, if you stay exactly three steps below, put that behind directly in front of your face. It is quite difficult not to groan with each flex of those sweet cheeks.
The snick of her key in the lock would be music to your ears if you could hear anything over the pounding of your pulse. "Come," she drawls, pulling on your necktie. "Come...inside."
The door is not even all the way closed before her hands are unbuckling your belt. For a split second, you are mortified to remember that you're wearing Star Wars boxer shorts. When she hefts your light saber and licks her lips, however, the Force obliterates all else. She leads you to the center of the sofa, pulls your slacks and boxers to your ankles, and pushes you down with one manicured fingertip.
Standing before you, she tugs the tie at the waist of her wrap dress and lets it fall open. You utter nonsensical noises resembling "Wookiee! Wookiee!" as your eyes sparkle. She is a vision: green silk framing porcelain skin accented with a white lace push-up bra and matching garter belt; no panties; chestnut bush, glistening. One of her hands reaches behind to unclasp her bra and free those succulent breasts.
She kneels in between your outstretched legs and leans forward eagerly, her hair falling across your face (just as you envisioned). Your cock leaps to meet her lips which surround your glans as if it's a lollipop. "Mmmm," she groans (just as you knew she would). The phone rings, and she completely ignores it. Don't you just love a woman with her priorities straight?
"Da-Da-Daph..." you stammer as you fill your hands with her hair, lifting it out of the way so you can see her tongue in action. Without breaking stride, she pushes her breasts together to sandwich your balls between them as her tongue continues to tease droplets from your meatus.
The ringing continues until the answering machine finally engages. "Senorita Daphne, es Carmelita. Ruby come in the morning to clean for you," the heavily accented voice sighs dramatically, "solamente. I hurt mi espina... uh, back. Please to leave her instrucciones."
Daphne gives no indication she's heard. She is completely in the zone, humming softly to herself as she adores your cock, and you're far from caring about her housekeeping issues (even though the voice sounds vaguely familiar). She takes you fully into her hot mouth. Her lips grip your shaft tightly; so tightly that you swear it's a different orifice you're penetrating. Her tongue traverses your dorsal vein, lapping your corona at the apex of each journey, and you marvel at its dexterity. There's no doubt she can do the cherry stem trick. No doubt whatsoever.
You lay your head against the sofa and stare at the lazily-spinning ceiling fan. Its blades are mirrored, and you enjoy a tantalizing strobe-like reflection of Daphne's ass as she scoots sideways to straddle one of your outstretched legs. Her hot pussy slides against your knee cap and her clit feels much like a wet version of the nipples now grazing your groin.
She grinds in tiny circles, somehow matching the speed of the ceiling fan but in the opposite direction, and the disparity is making you regret ordering the linguini with clam sauce. Puking on Daphne's tea rose chintz sofa, your brain informs you, would be totally uncool. So, you close your eyes and try to concentrate instead on all the places Daphne is in contact: pussy-to-knee; tits-to-groin; hand-to-shaft; mouth-to-glans. It's a sexual form of Twister and she still has one hand free. Whoa, Nelly! Had one hand free, you correct yourself as her index finger worms into the crack of your ass and begins to rim your anus.
Your facial expression is priceless. With your eyes squeezed tightly shut and your fists gripping the arms of the sofa, you look as though you're either trying to take a shit or trying desperately not to. You are falling into that orgasmic vortex, where the world is eclipsed by the enormity of your genitals. Your cock feels like it's going to split its skin. Your nuts pull close to your body and expand into red hot bowling balls.
Daphne picks up her pace, both with her mouth and her pelvis. Her humming gets louder and sounds, for all the world, like a hymn. As first pulses of spunk begin the journey from your body, the name of the hymn pops into your mind and you sing "Nearer, My God, To Thee" in tune with Daphne's skin kazoo accompaniment. Your lava bathes her vocal chords, and she takes it all, rising then and adding her voice in harmony to yours as she comes.
The two of you finish the hymn while getting dressed, grinning sheepishly at one another between verses. Daphne helps you straighten your tie and says, "You are the second person."
"The second person?"
"Yes," she continued,
picking up her suitcase and opening the door. "The second person to ever sing with me. Somehow, I just knew you would."
The End.
No Way Out
It was the fifteenth of April in sunny Chicago; Joss had been walking along the sidewalk window shopping like she did every Sunday since she had moved to the city. She had already visited the open air Farmers market where she picked up two pears and an apple. Her dark denim jeans, tall brown boots and breezy sweater was the perfect outfit to wear on this in between spring and summer day. Joss was admiring a scarf in the window that would go quite nicely while she nursed the vanilla bean frap that was nearly emptied, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.
"Excuse me, "The gentleman said, "I believe you dropped this back at the market, I did not want you to fret." He grinned as he held out the chartreuse scarf that she was just admiring in the window. His salt and pepper hair lay perfectly, and although it was warm enough to go without an overcoat, he was well dressed in a suit and tie.
"Sir, that can't be mine. It is beautiful but you must be mistaken." Joss smiled back kindly, but had a sense of alarm as she started to walk away. He was charming and handsome of course, she thought, but she also knew she had been admiring that exact scarf for the last month. How strange.
"How silly of me," The older man called out still extending the scarf toward Joss, "Forgive me, take it anyway?"
Joss paused frozen with a suspicious grin. She was 25, and he must be at least 45, twenty years her senior. Before she could turn around to reply, he was coming up beside her, pulling at the scarf with both hands.
"Do I know you from somewhere? Maybe the school or the store?" Joss held her arms open as if trying to offer up an explanation that she didn't have. She was referring to the children's art academy where she taught or her parents store in Odem, just outside of the city.
"No, neither of those, but I do know you Jocelyn." He grinned a wide toothy smile, he was disarmingly charismatic.