The grabbing the cash he took her back into the kitchen, Just in time he watch as his buddy jacked off all over Helen's big tits
"OOHH OOHH OOHH"!!! He yelled as he ejaculated all over her large fleshy mounds.
Once done he yanked up his sweatpants, and the two ran out of the house passing Rob upon the floor, as they did, They ran through the wooded area back to their parked truck.
"OH MY GOD"!!! Paula screamed and ran naked to her husband.
She used scissors to cut her husband free of the duck tape, as Helen re dressed in the kitchen.
Once the tape was off Robs mouth
"OH HONEY I am so sorry"
"I didn't even see them" He told her
"They raped me" "They raped me" She cried out.
"OH BABY" He said holding her with tears in his eyes,
Later They talked with Helen and they were all traumatized by this event, But Helen told them that she wouldn't be a part of calling the police,
Because she worked for the school and didn't want her name in the newspaper, They all agreed not to go to the police, Because they wouldn't ever catch them anyway and it wouldn't be good for any of them to go through this.
Paula went to take a shower and Helen drove herself home, and got into her shower after she arrived.
The End.
Listen to Me
She's standing there—by the window—with her back to the room, silhouetted by the moonlight filtering through the sliding glass doors that lead to the balcony. I'm sure she hears me enter, but she doesn't turn around. Closing the heavy door behind me, I turn the dead bolt, and she flinches to the snick of it.
We've planned this, but she's still nervous. I can tell. Although she's perfectly still, I can read the apprehension it in the set of her shoulders. A little fear won't hurt. In fact, it'll probably help. I cross the room in four long strides, tossing my shoulder bag on the king-sized bed in passing, and I stand very close to her with my hands clasped behind my back.
Leaning forward so that just my breasts brush against her back, I bury my nose in her hair and inhale deeply. Her thick, dark locks smell like rain—warm, summer rain tinged with the cloying scent of honeysuckle blossoms. I lift her hair away from her neck and whisper into the skin just below her ear, "Listen to me." She shivers to the husky tone of my voice, the sensation of my breath. "Are you ready for this?"
In response, she drops her head back against my shoulder and sighs—half exhalation, half 'Yes' ... and all surrender. I smile. It's a devilish little grin, full of the most exquisite potential. Tonight will be well worth the months of waiting.
I grasp each of her arms from where they're folded against her chest and smooth them to her sides. Her neck and shoulders tense, and I take a little time to massage them. Not much, though. I'm impatient for her skin.
When she's relaxed a little bit, I reach around her body to unbutton and remove her blouse. Her creamy skin glows in the silvery light, and she gasps as I nibble on her bare shoulders. My hands continue to disrobe her as my mouth enjoys the salty-sweet taste of her flesh. When her jeans puddle around her ankles, she steps out of them.
"Don't move," I caution, crossing the room to fetch my bag. The zipper is loud against the backdrop of the night, and I pull it very slowly—savoring her fear-tinged curiosity. She starts to turn around, but stops when I say, "No." I extract two items, placing them on the corner of the bed, and grab a third.
Returning to her, I trail the silk scarf across her ass and up her spine. A blush suffuses her skin. I can feel it rather than see it—a slight increase in the surface temperature, a slight shift in her scent. When I drape the scarf over her eyes, she giggles nervously.
"Listen to me. Are you ready for this?" I ask as I fold it over her eyes and knot it at the back of her head.
She just whimpers. The sound of it stokes me, and I back away from her long enough to undress myself. She cocks her head to the side, listening—her other senses beginning to heighten due to the loss of vision. I can tell she's fighting the urge to turn but resists.
Grabbing the items I'd taken from my bag, I stand before her and hold them under her nose. "What do you smell, kitten?"
She inhales then groans softly, but doesn't speak. I grasp one wrist and buckle a black leather cuff around it. "Are you ready for this?"
"Please," she whispers, offering her other wrist to be cuffed. "Please."
I push her hand away and press my bare body to hers. Warm, almost feverish, skin greets me from shoulder to thigh. She searches for my mouth—blindly—with her own, but I do not let her catch it. Her desperation amuses me. Her body excites me. Her submission thrills me.
Circling her, I cuff the other wrist and join the two behind her back with a metal clamp. The bonds pull her shoulders back and lift her breasts. Her nipples are taut—eager for my attentions. I lead her toward the sofa, pausing to push the small coffee table out of the way.
She hesitates then takes the tiniest of steps, hampered by both her lack of vision and inability to balance. When we reach the sofa, I position myself against the back and pull her down so that she's sitting in front of me, between my legs. I can feel the heavy leather cuffs against my bare mons and the wiggle of her fingers when she realizes where her hands rest.
"Nice," I growl into her hair, pulling her backward until she's lying against my chest. Her back arches toward the ceiling, and she turns her head toward mine. This time, I let her kiss me—and the taste of her lips coupled with the movement of her fingers brings a surge of wetness. She feels it, too, and chuckles softly into my mouth.
Breaking the kiss—lest I get lost in the pleasure she's giving me—I snake my arms through hers and wrap them around her waist to caress her skin. She holds her breath, waiting for me to move toward either her nipples or her pussy. I do both—abruptly—and she voices her appreciation.
"Hush!" I scold, giving her pussy a slap and twisting a nipple. "You'll wake the neighbors." She doesn't hear me, though. She's in the zone.
With her feet planted on the floor, she pushes her hips upward in search of my hand, lifting her ass off the sofa and crushing my chest with her shoulders. I release her nipple and allow both hands to settle between her legs, one focusing on her clit while the other dips deeper to slide a couple fingers into her wet cunt.
The scent of her arousal permeates my mind, and I want to taste her—to drive her crazy with my tongue. But that's too easy, too fast—for both of us. This rendezvous requires at least a little patience. Plus, I'm waiting for something.
She bucks against my hands, trying to prolong the contact, but I'm not ready for her to come. Not yet. When I move both hands to her tits, her fervor calms a bit and she seems to concentrate on the sensations—moaning softly. A light sheen of sweat coats her body. It catches the moonlight.
Once she's backed away from the edge, I feel her fingers exploring my pussy and I allow her to play for a while before returning one of my hands to her sex. I take her back to the edge, then again calm her. Twice. She's writhing and gasping and begging me to let her come, but I'm still not ready.
I hear a small noise and look up to find him leaning against the doorway, watching us. She hasn't noticed, being unable to see and too lost in her own pleasure to hear him.
Now, I'm ready.
"Be still now," I say and wait for her to comply, delivering another slap to her pussy to emphasize my words. "Listen to me. We have company. Are you ready for this?"
The End.
Ghouls Just Wanna Have Fun
I fucking hate Halloween. Hate it with every fiber of my being. Stupid fucking holiday. All that teeth-rotting candy. Snot-nosed kids squealing "Trick-or-Treat, smell my feet..." Teens in lame costumes who, if thwarted, will egg a house. Extremely annoying if you ask me—and totally pointless.
My Halloween routine typically consists of either: (a) going to a movie, or (b) sitting alone in the dark, pretending I'm not home. Either way, I inevitably have a mess of egg or toilet paper to
clean up the next day—even if I leave a big bucket of candy on the front step. Fucking adolescent malcontent ingrate hoodlums.
Friends try to lure me to costume parties or bar shindigs where even adults behave like sugar-starved idiots. Puh-leeze. Give me a good book and a mug of spiced cider—and just leave me the fuck alone. I'll resurface when the insanity is over. They call me The Great Scrooge Pumpkin. So be it.
But, let me tell you about this year. This year things didn't go exactly as planned. This year, I opted for Plan B since there wasn't a damned thing playing at the cinemas that I was even remotely interested in seeing. Fucking slasher flicks—Jason, Freddy—in nearly every theater. Why anyone would pay money for that shit is beyond me.
Anyway, I was prepared. Books—two new novels by my favorite author—and cider were on hand. I made myself a great dinner, then spent an hour soaking in the Jacuzzi, reading. Then, I wrapped myself in my softest, oldest, comfiest bathrobe. "Relaxed" doesn't quite capture the way I felt, but it's the closest I can come. Geez, I'll take that kind of solitude over the mass hysteria any day!
I put on some soft instrumental music to drown out the raucous sounds coming from the street, lit a few scented candles, and curled up at the end of the sofa with my cider. The curtains were drawn and all the lights extinguished except for a tiny reading lamp. I was about two hundred pages into the first novel, and enjoying myself immensely, when I first heard it.
Initially, I thought it came from outside. A soft thump, kind of like an under inflated basketball hitting the roof. I listened for a bit but the sound did not recur. Oh, well. Probably kids. There was no way I was going outside to investigate, so no use wasting any more time wondering about it.
There was a strong breeze, although the weather was unseasonably warm. I had glimpsed the skimpy costumes of a few pseudo sluts through the curtains of my bedroom window earlier. Young minds often think such exhibitions will attract true love. They'd have to learn the hard way—like I did. A beautiful body was one thing—and a fleeting one at that. A beautiful mind, on the other hand, was to be forever treasured.
My attention returned to the book in my hands, and just as I was really getting back into it, that noise came again. Closer this time. Perhaps just outside the nearest window. Accompanying it, a feeling—a vibe. Not malicious. I did not feel fear but instead an intense curiosity, which I struggled to put aside. Nothing was going to distract me from the enjoyment of my solitude.
It was nearing nine o'clock, which was the end of the Trick-or-Treat period designated by the county. Things would be quieting down very soon, I hoped. Once again, I dove back into my novel—but settling into it was difficult. My thoughts kept returning to that sound, and oddly...a smell. As if a window was ajar on a humid June night, the scent of blooming honeysuckle filled the air. Cloying and sweet, it made me want to throw open the windows, although I knew the honeysuckle was long gone.
These thoughts, for some unknown reason, made me intensely aware of my bare skin beneath the robe. Each movement a caress of soft fabric. Every inch of my skin on alert, sensing. I held very still, thinking to prevent the exquisite feathery friction against my nipples, my ass, my thighs. It was no use. The robe seemed to move of its own accord, touching me and waking heated emotions.
I forced myself to continue reading, but it was futile. My imagination had been stirred, and once that happens—well, let's just say it's a very powerful thing. My concentration shattered, I realized that the only way I'd be able to get back on track was to masturbate and just get it out of my system. Fine. A minor detour, and one that would be pleasant enough. I'd dealt with this type of distraction often. It was a helluva lot easier—and less messy—than finding a partner. More efficient, too. Quick. Simple. No entanglements. I liked it that way.
So, I put my book down, grabbed a candle, and headed upstairs. My vibrator was old, but still quite functional. It had a lot of mileage on it, and I knew I'd soon have to shop for another. What a nuisance that would be. I pulled it from the drawer of my nightstand and clicked it on to check the batteries. Nice steady hum. Plenty of power for a quickie. Opening the front of my robe, I lay down on the bed and ran the tip along my cleft.
As soon as the vibrator made contact with my skin, it quit humming. I looked at it, puzzled. Shook it. The hum returned, so I tried again. And again, as soon as it touched my skin, it stopped. Knowing laughter echoed in my mind. Voices. Several voices, chuckling. "Use your hands," they urged. "Your toy won't work."
"Get the fuck out of my head," I said aloud, both surprising and embarrassing myself. There was no one there, yet their presence was unmistakable and the smell of honeysuckle even stronger. I've always loved that scent—the real thing, not bottled—and the word, too: HONEY... SUCKLE. So seductive. It has always made me crave the taste of skin, of moist pink places that hide beneath clothing.
I was pulled to my feet and my robe removed before being returned to the bed. Their touch was strong, but gentle. Gender indeterminate. At first, I resisted—just to resist. My initial reaction when told to do something, whether I want to do it or not, is to refuse. I was not seeking a phantom sexual encounter. It wasn't my idea, so I wouldn't cooperate. So there. I mentally stuck out my tongue.
Looking back, it astonishes me that I never once considered the absurdity of the situation—that the ghouls were real and in my bedroom taking advantage of me. I just jumped right over that mental hurdle and went straight to, "Oh, no you don't, buster!" I had plans, after all, and they did not include ghosts or spirits or whatever the fuck they were.
They quickly persuaded me otherwise. My mind was overtaken with images of bodies entwined, sweat shimmering on bare skin. I could feel the pounding of pulses, racing toward the pinnacle of passion. The sounds of skin meeting skin flooded my brain, accompanied by guttural moans and soft sighs. I was powerless in the face of this multi-sensory assault. The desire now raging in my mind overcame any innate resistance, and I surrendered.
I felt hands—or their equivalent—stroking my legs. Magnificent long, slow strokes. Their touch was hot, almost uncomfortably so, such that I felt a delicious chill when they left my skin. When they neared my sex, my body arched in vain search of contact. Repeatedly, they teased me and withdrew. Closer each time.
"Touch yourself," they demanded.
I hesitated. No one, to my knowledge anyway, had ever watched me getting myself off.
"Touch yourself!" Stronger this time, and my hands moved involuntarily. They could force me to do it, I was certain, but by that time I was so hungry for satisfaction that I let go of my inhibitions. I worked both hands between my legs. One from the front, the other from behind. The forefingers of each hand met in the middle and fought for entry, simultaneously, while the rest of my digits sought their own pleasure points.
The rest of the world disappeared, replaced by the timeless realm of ecstasy. In typical fantasy fashion, a parade of bodies and faces danced in and out of my vision as my hands worked feverishly. Merging, melding, morphing into one complete dream lover. I completely forgot about my ghoulish guests until I heard, "Mmm, very nice," whispered into my ear, its breath as hot as its touch had been. And now a mouth on mine, tongue probing. Fire kiss. Two more, one on each breast. Biting me. Licking me. Plunging me into a roaring inferno that fueled every sense, each suckle sending bolts of lightning straight to my core.
The point—that delicious point of no return—was passed. I was falling toward the sun, burning. Gasping as my hands were pulled from my depths, I felt a hot tongue cleaning my fingers of their juices and then immediately seeking more from the source. Probing hungrily, far deeper than any human tongue could possibly reach, and far more agile than any cock, my walls were painted with fire. Red. Hot. Fire.
I was consumed by the blazing intensity of their attentions, lost in their raging tongues of flame. My skin, my cries, my utter surrender drove them to new heights. They held me as I fell, then flew, then fell—catching the currents and rising again. Each wav
e a new crescendo, until my body spasmed uncontrollably, becoming ultra sensitive to any touch. And still they drove on, oblivious to my gasps as I quaked again and again with the after shocks, begging for mercy. It was too much, too intense.
Then, much to my surprise, I again found myself flying. A threshold had been passed. The pounding intensity of my orgasm was replaced by an infusion of pure bliss, radiating outward from the center of my pleasure. A pervasive sense of well-being invaded my psyche, and the deepest satisfaction blanketed me as I crested again and again and again. Only then did they retreat.
I slept soundly, waking early the next morning with vivid memories of the night before. My spirit lovers would be back, they'd assured me. Every year. Now I fucking love Halloween! Love it with every fiber of my being. Next year? Plan B, of course.
The End.
Salt & Vinegar
LENA
I watch Jus stroll towards the kitchen.
"Get me a coffee will you, Doll?"
She gives me the finger, without looking around.
"Hah!" She's so cute when she's rude.
I throw myself onto the couch as I hear the espresso machine firing up.
It's a gorgeous day. The breeze is playing with the drapes around the open windows of our apartment. The soft movements cut the summer sunlight, casting an infinite variety of shadow patterns onto the wall and bringing my pictures in and out of focus.
My pictures are my life. I think I've always liked pictures. A small piece of the world captured and frozen for ever. You can just look. And the more you look, the more you see. So much in so little; in just an instant. A sudden smile. A cracked pavement. The incredible inevitability of a water droplet about to fall. Shape and form. Colour. Life.
I bought my first camera when I was eleven. It was pretty shit, but I'd spend hours after school just looking through the view finder, framing my world. I even took pictures sometimes. I only kept one of those. It's over there towards the top left. It's the swing in the playground near where we lived. The day was grey and the light just right. The playground was empty, freshly wet with rain. The swing was still and close up you can see all the subtle variations in colour from years of use. I spent some of happiest times in that park. Also some of my worst. A swing: inanimate but with so many memories. And not just mine, but probably for bloody thousands of kids.
Arousing Family Page 60