“Spread your legs.”
As I did, his hands snaked around my thighs to stroke the crack of my ass before pulling my cheeks apart. I could feel his hard cock, under his trousers, as he pressed against me. Keeping my backside open with one hand, he cupped and squeezed my pussy with the other before inserting two fingers inside my slit and spreading my lips open.
“Oh God,” I moaned as I was left open, front and rear. “Please,” I murmured.
“Look at the view. I’m told you can see Catalina from here, if it’s a clear day. Although I don’t really know where it is. Maybe you can see it now. Are there lights on Catalina?”
I felt his thumb pressing against my anus and an involuntary shiver shook my head.
“No?”
“I don’t know,’” I whispered. I pushed back against his hand, but he moved with me.
“Now, now. Don’t get so anxious. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
I could feel my moisture coating the fingers pulling my cunt lips apart. “Please,” I murmured again, rocking my hips from side to side.
“You’re so wet.” He closed his fingers and rubbed them against my opening. “Is this what you want? Feel how they slide.” He teased my opening with the tip of one of the fingers, still keeping my lips parted with the other.
I thought I’d go crazy with desire. I’d never experienced anything quite like it before. I’m no stranger to sex. I’m a very carnal person. But this guy was directing sensations I’d never experienced before. He removed the finger from my opening and again pushed my lips apart with both fingers. He pushed the edge of his other hand deeper, splitting my buttocks even more. This time, I responded with a full body shiver.
“Lovely,” he said. “Now, spread your legs further and press your tits against the glass. Yes, that’s right.” He withdrew his hands and I must have made a noise because he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be back. I just need to get something from the bathroom. Look for Catalina and tell me if you see it.”
I fogged up the glass, panting through my open mouth. All sorts of thoughts went through my head but moving from the position he’d placed me in wasn’t one of them. I saw what I was fairly certain was the Santa Monica Pier, but I still had no idea where Catalina was, or if it could be seen from here. I was just beginning to realize how inane that thought was when I felt his hand on my waist and the other rubbing between my legs.
“Did you find it?” My head shook back and forth jerkily while I felt my muscles begin to tighten pre-orgasmically. “So responsive,” he whispered against my neck as he buried a finger in my pussy and stroked my clit with his thumb.
My orgasm was mind-numbing in the way all little orgasms are when what you really want is a fully body release.
“Just to take the edge off a little bit,” he said. He backed up and told me to turn around.
Slightly dizzy, I turned around. He was removing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. He had a thick thatch of salt and pepper hair on his chest and it was easy to see that he worked out. He had a tighter chest and abdomen than the last thirty-year-old I fucked. He opened his belt and pants and removed them, along with a pair of red silk boxers, as I watched. His cock was both thick and fairly long and my mouth watered at the thought of having him inside me but first I wanted to taste him.
Silently, I knelt down in front of him and gently stroked his shaft, feeling the weight of his balls. As my lips enclosed the head of his cock I could feel all the air leave his lungs. He was warm and hard and velvety. He smelled of soap and maleness and as I tongued him, all the air left my lungs, too. I massaged his balls as I took more and more of him inside my mouth. He was too big for me to get him all the way in, so I licked and sucked up and down his shaft, paying special attention to the crown.
His hands were on my head, massaging my scalp and hair, and as I drove the tip of my tongue into the slit of his cock I could feel his balls begin to tighten. He grabbed a handful of hair and pulled my head away from his body. I strained to get his cock back into my mouth before I realized what had happened.
“Not yet,” he said. “I want to come inside you, not in your mouth.”
“Condoms,” I whispered.
“Yes, of course. Only a figure of speech, my dear,” he said. He helped me up and we walked to the bed. He pulled off the blanket and bedspread, letting them fall on the floor, and picked me up, placing me in the center of the bed. I noticed his dopp kit on the bed table. He removed a couple of condoms and a travel-sized bottle of lube. “May I fuck your ass?”
I love anal, more I think than vaginal sex, so I smiled and said yes.
“You’re sure?”
“Oh yes,” I said, drawing him to me for a kiss.
He positioned me on my hands and knees on the bed and, with one hand on my back, holding me in place, he drew his other hand down my ass, gently teasing the crack. He repeated the motion several times before withdrawing his hand. “Your body is amazing,” he said.
It’s nice to be worshiped and I basked in the sensation of his eyes on me until I felt cold lube dripping into my crack. His finger spread it around and began to tease me open, slowly and gently. He obviously knew what he was doing. He was both sensuous and gentle.
“I love your ass,” he said and he inserted first one finger, then a second into me, slowly fucking me with his hand. “I can’t wait to feel that tight muscle gripping me.” He added more lube and kept up the gentle finger-fucking. He slipped a third finger in me and I moaned. “All right?” he asked.
“Slower, please. Just give me a minute to catch up,” I panted.
He stopped fucking me and held his fingers in place. When my breathing slowed, he began his slow in and out motion again. I hadn’t felt this full in a long time and I was eager to feel his cock in me. My clit felt heavy and swollen but I kept my hands on the bed. I wanted to wait for his cock before touching myself.
He withdrew his fingers and I felt completely empty. I whined and he said, “I think you’re ready for me now.”
I heard him tear the condom wrapper and seconds later I felt the tip of his cock pressed against my anus and more lube drizzled over me and, I assumed, his formidable shaft.
He slowly began to press against me until my sphincter began to allow the entrance. He was an accomplished ass fucker. He took his time. It was minutes before he was seated fully inside me and I felt his balls against my vulva. I tightened my muscles against him and I felt, more than heard, him chuckle. He hung there, without moving, letting me get fully used to the pressure. I wanted desperately to touch myself but I waited.
“All right?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” I sighed and he slowly withdrew, only to slowly push back inside.
Each time he withdrew a little more and pushed back in a little faster until I was moaning, pushing back against him, fucking myself on his cock faster and harder.
I started to lower my head to the bed so I could take my weight on my chest and shoulders to free my hands but he told me not to move. He’d been keeping me steady, using my hips as handles. He slid one of his hands around me and stroked my cunt, only to find me dripping.
“You’re one wet little slut, aren’t you?” he said as he buried two fingers inside my vagina and assumed the same rhythm he was using to fuck my ass. My God, my muscles were convulsing wildly around both his cock and his fingers. I tried to get my hand on myself but he said, no, not to do it. “You want to come?” he asked.
A low, guttural “yes” spewed from my throat.
“Well, you can’t. Not yet.”
I growled and pounded against his body, his balls slapping against my flesh.
“I control this fuck and I’m not ready to come yet.” His rhythm changed, became more syncopated but his fingers stilled. He used his thumb to circle my clit, without touching it, until I screamed. “Oh, the poor little slut’s getting frustrated.” He withdrew his hand, altogether, and slapped my ass. I jumped and my muscles tightened against him again. �
�Oh, yeah,” he laughed.
His rhythm built back up to a steady pounding again and he slid a finger inside me one more time. This time, instead of fucking me with it, he began to stroke the ridge just inside my opening. His strokes became harder and harder until I was panting and whining. He was still actively fucking my ass, but the pressure on my G-spot was quickly bringing me to orgasm. Before I could even say, “I’m gonna come,” I was squirting fluid into his hand, something I’d never done before.
“Good girl,” he said. “That’s the way.”
His hand slowed and withdrew but his pounding cock never faltered. After my initial tremors slowed, his rhythm picked up until it began to break up and become erratic, with more strength behind each thrust, as if he were trying to force his entire body into me, and with a few more thrusts, he came.
He grew still inside me and I felt his last few contractions as his orgasm finished. We stayed like that for a bit before he slowly withdrew to my groans of complaint. We rolled away from each other, sweating and panting, giving our heart rates a chance to slow down.
“Jesus,” I said.
“You’re not so bad, yourself,” he laughed.
“Fuck. I never did that before. I never – ejaculated – before. Jesus.”
Once the sweat dried, I went to the bathroom to clean up. By the time I’d dressed and come back into the room, he’d put his pants and shirt back on. It seemed our tryst was over.
“May I have your card?” he asked. “Perhaps the next time I’m in town, I’ll call you.”
I was at the door. “Oh, I don’t live here,” I said, digging a card out of my bag. As I handed it to him, he handed me something in return. I gave him a quick kiss. “Thanks, it was fun,” I said.
He closed the door behind me and as I walked to the elevator I looked at what he’d handed me. It was money. Two five-hundred-dollar bills to be exact. I laughed all the way down to my floor. While waiting for room service to bring my dinner I wondered what he’d thought when he read my card:
April Harriman, MD
Neurosurgery
566 Park Avenue, Suite 105
New York, NY
212-555-2170
Service: 212-555-8310
New Orleans When it Rains
Maxim Jakubowski
Some cities smell of diesel fumes, others of cats, and then there is the smell of the sea, or mown grass, or the sharp odour of curry cooking endlessly in basement flats, or again the acrid combination of industrial waste and low-hanging fog.
New Orleans smells of spices, the humid twang of nearby Mississippi bayous and swamps and, in early morning, the unpleasant waft of stale beer on the Bourbon Street sidewalk following yet another night of drunkenness and minor-league bacchanalia before the high-speed hoses complete their work and sweep away the detritus of the previous evening’s boisterous excesses. Mardi Gras adds yet another dimension of smells and spills and noise, or the Jazz Festival or New Year’s Eve when it can take almost a quarter of an hour to walk through the massed crowds from Jackson Square to the corner of Toulouse and Bourbon. A cocktail like no other.
Even the music rising from bar to bar on each side of the street, battling for your attention, blues against jazz, show tunes fighting hard rock, Broadway schmaltz wrestling with tentative folk melodies, all seems to hold yet more fragrant promise of sensuality unbound.
There is no place like New Orleans.
And, year after year, I kept on coming back.
It was a city that talked to me, whispered to me from faraway through to my European shores of melancholy and I would treat myself again to the long plane journey, with the customary stopover in Chicago or Atlanta (and once Raleigh-Durham) to catch the right connection, arriving at Louis Armstrong Airport as night was falling, bone tired but my mind on fire, my senses waking with a sense of delight to the smells and sounds of the French Quarter.
Some cities are male. Others are distinctly feminine. New Orleans was assuredly the latter.
The way it tempted you, caressed you, kissed your emotions, licked your soul, fed you with sumptuous plates of jambalaya, warmed your stomach with okra-sticky but succulent bowls of gumbo, and its raw oysters once split open made you think of a woman’s cunt as you sucked on them with undisguised greed and swallowed their juice and spongy flesh in one swift and easy movement.
It was a city I had brought women to.
Often.
In a spacious twelfth-floor room at the Monteleone I had undressed a preacher’s wife from the Baton Rouge suburbs I had met on the Internet. She had driven down in her SUV to join me and timidly tapped on my shoulder while I examined the shelves at Beckham’s on Decatur, where you could once often find some interesting first editions amongst the morass of worthless book club editions. That was where we had arranged to meet. I turned round.
“Martin?”
“Hi . . .”
She was voluptuous, a lovely face, somewhat bigger than I had expected from the photos she had sent me, but I knew those curves and the demure clothes she was wearing concealed terribly guilty urges and a determination to be bad.
Once in the hotel bedroom I stripped her and buried my face between her high but generous breasts, licked and bit her nipples to gauge her reaction while I cupped her cunt with my hands. She was terribly wet. Her kisses tasted of cotton candy.
When I undressed, she looked down at my half tumescent cock and exclaimed that it was so big. Which warmed my heart of course, although I knew it wasn’t particularly so, just that her husband’s (she had known no other man, she had once confessed) was smaller.
I drowned in the folds of her flesh, my thrusts inside the cauldron of her innards setting of concentric waves of shimmering movement across the surface of her skin.
We fucked ceaselessly, between walks through the Vieux Carré in search of beignets and praline-led sustenance. She only had two free days before family duties required her to be home.
“Where have you told him you are?” My finger inserting itself into her anus, feeling her squirm with added pleasure.
“It’s not important. I don’t want to talk about him.” Her regal thighs clinching me in a mighty vice, her hand roaming hungrily across my balls, nail extensions dangerously grazing me.
Even though she lived barely a couple of hours away, it was only her third time ever in New Orleans. A city of sin that represented everything that was evil in the eyes of her social set. Which made her brief affair with me even more of a thing of the night, and a temptation her frustrations had been unable to resist. Meeting a foreigner with a quaint accent for purposes of the flesh in such a den of iniquity somehow felt right. We would never meet again after those frantic two days but before we lost contact I heard that she had left her husband and shacked up with a pharmaceutical salesman who was happy to fuck her once a day at least, unlike the monthly diet her religious fanatic of a man had restricted himself to, and always in the dark at that. I had, inadvertently, lit the fire and set her on the right (or wrong) path.
Then there was Natalia, a Lithuanian waif and single parent who lived in Delft in Holland, who had been a regular fuck buddy back in Europe. My evocative stories of New Orleans and its sweet craziness had convinced her to accompany me across the Atlantic. She made it a regular habit to meet men she came across in chat rooms and I knew all too well I was not her only sexual companion (I was aware of the Korean business student she had been giving Russian lessons to; the English engineering export rep; the married car dealer who wanted to leave his wife and live with her; and the many others she had no doubt omitted to inform me about).
She fell in love with New Orleans. The hotel I had booked us into upgraded us to a suite and she wandered naked and free across the lush carpet, the angle below her pert white buttocks always just that touch apart, a sheer invitation to grab her and do my worst. She was playful, capricious, deliciously wanton. No post-coital sadness for Natalia: the moment I’d withdrawn from her following each frantic fuck, she was up
and about, eager to go out and sample more French Quarter atmosphere, tiptoeing away from the bed on her heels towards the open window and looking out from the balcony in the buff, attracting whistles and cries from the street beneath on most occasions, and then rushing back with a cheeky smile on her face at having exposed herself and straddling me, or standing above my still exhausted form on the bed, her legs obscenely spread, affording me a voyeuristic close-up of her still wet cunt and her luxuriant and curly dark pubic thatch.
One morning, she had arranged for a local pen pal to pick her up from the hotel in his car. We shook hands, both introduced to each other as just friends. He was supposed to take her for a drive along the nearby bayous, but I suspect they spent most of that morning in his bed. No matter, it gave me a handful of hours to rest from the fucking.
In my memory, Natalia and New Orleans went hand in hand in perfect harmony. The fragrance of southern flowers, magnolias et al and the intoxicating smell of her cunt. The delicate curlicues of wrought steel of the Crescent City balconies and architecture and the cheerful curve of her snubbed nose and the gap between her front teeth. The Queen of the blow jobs who always insisted on going pantie-less when we went out for walks or to eat. I’m still in touch with her. She finally gave in and married the car dealer and had a son with him, although it hasn’t worked out and they are now separated.
Another bittersweet New Orleans memory is the Finnish interpreter from Seattle. High cheekbones, square jaw and a monstrous tease, it took me ages to finally get into her bed proper (days of foreplay and petting until she finally agreed that having spent an eternity in bed naked together, we should finally fuck . . .). She knew of my attraction to New Orleans and suggested I join her there; she was in town for a conference and had a large room in one of the massive impersonal hotels on Canal Street, with a view of the Mississippi from her window.
The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 12: Over 40 outstanding pieces of short erotic fiction (Mammoth Books) Page 10