Extreme Passions

by Extreme Passions [Bold Strokes FF] (retail) (epub)

  Placing her hands on my hips, she pulled me toward her face. I rested my hands gently on her head to keep from falling over on top of her. She gently nudged my legs apart and I opened for her, giving her access to my core of desire. She leaned in and inhaled, filling her senses with the odor of love wafting just for her. With both hands, she lightly spread my nether lips apart, then touched my clit with the tip of her tongue.

  I fell forward at the first touch, unable to stay still. She had me throbbing and burning, needing more of her. I cried out as she tasted me, pressing harder, running her tongue down the length of my slit. “Stop…Oh God…stop,” I cried, as I couldn’t stand any more teasing.

  She stood quickly in front of me and began to remove her clothing. I watched to see if her nipples were as tight as mine as she stripped out of her silk blouse. They were: they stood out like berries just waiting to be in my mouth. As her hands moved to the button on her pants, I knew that I needed to take over; I couldn’t remain idle as I watched her.

  I pushed her hands to the side as I slipped the button from the hole and slowly slid the zipper down, being sure that my hand touched her stomach as I did. She had nothing on but her harness and pack. My mouth dried up when her cock came into view. I knew that she knew well how to use it. I had to pull hard to slide her snug leather pants off her body. Finally, I had them pushed down to her knees.

  The bartender pivoted and sat on the edge of the bed once again. This time her pack and harness were all that I could see. Dropping to my knees in front of her, I lifted one foot at a time and pulled off her boots and socks so I could slip her pants the rest of the way off. At last, she was wearing nothing but her package and strap. I leaned forward on my knees, pressing her legs apart, causing her pack to move to the center of her crotch. I couldn’t resist.

  Holding her package lightly in my hands, I ran my tongue up its entire length, feeling her heat where it had nestled tight against her crotch. I didn’t want her cock tonight; I wanted her. Gently I reached around her waist and unhooked her harness, then slid her pack from her body. Oh God, she was so slick and hot to the touch of my fingers—they felt like they were burning as I touched her nether lips and trailed my fingers the length of her pussy. She groaned and fell back onto the bed, leaving her legs over the side and her hips on the edge of the bed, lying there just waiting for me to taste.

  I couldn’t have held back if I had wanted to. Pressing her legs farther apart, I moved in and kissed her mound, running my tongue over her, tasting her. She quivered beneath my touch. I could smell her musky scent and it turned me on more. I ran the tip of my tongue up against her clit, she moaned, “Mmm…yeah…baby.”

  Pressing closer, I sucked her clit into my mouth, rolling it with my tongue, feeling it harden. My body was on fire as I played with the bartender. She tightened her legs against my sides as she rocked slowly against my tongue. Lapping up and down, I sucked more and more, wanting all of her. As I quickened the pace she jacked up, slamming her slit against my tongue, and I felt her dew leaking from her innermost chamber to trickle against my tongue. I hummed at the taste of her.

  The bartender gasped loudly as her body convulsed in my arms. I pulled back, asking her to move up onto the bed so that I could lie beside her. She moved in slow motion, crawling toward the center of the bed, making room for me to climb up beside her. I kicked off my high heels and climbed up to join her.

  As I circled my arms around her, she snuggled close, sighing as she relaxed against my body. I ran my hands over her back as she dozed against my breasts. I knew that there would be plenty of time for my needs when she awakened. Tucking my head against her hair, I made ready to join her in sleep. My last thoughts were, She may tease, she may please, but the Bartender always comes home to me. She is the love of my life, and for her, I will always be the Dancer.

  Skin

  Fiona Cooper

  Your plane left Leeds two hours ago, so I’m kind of at a loose end. Never been without you since we met. Don’t like it much. But I’m going to the wrong side of the tracks tonight, been wanting this for a long time, and, hey, I couldn’t do this if you were here. You’d kill me. I swagger down derelict streets, hands welded in my pockets, broken glass underfoot, dark cries in blind alleys, a thin dog skeetering down basement steps, jailbait whores necking vodka straight from the bottle. You’d drag me away from here by my hair, like something out of The Flintstones.

  This must be the place—it’s the only one with lights around here. Closer, I can see the sign in bold graffiti-ed letters.

  SKIN

  I don’t do eye contact in cities, not even in daylight—hey, anyone who eyeballs you in the concrete ramparts of a city is probably a mugger or an outpatient from a high-rise booby hatch. And here I am at the dead end of Domestic Street in downtown Leeds looking straight into the eyes of a guy who looks like one of Al Capone’s charmless backroom boys. Somewhere above me, the sky is as dark as it ever gets and the fizzing neon of a cracked streetlamp dances over him like the flames of hell. This boy is so big his head nudges the top of the door frame; he could just shrug those colossal shoulders and pick up the whole building. He’s one of those guys who looks even worse when he smiles—the gaps in his teeth are plugged with gold, the skin round his eyes crinkles like a relief map, and he flexes his knuckles. Knuckles that spell out L O V E and H A T E between the sort of chunky bling that makes Liz Taylor look positively restrained.

  He shoves one shoulder aside and says come in.

  And I do. Of my own free will.

  After all this is for you and for you I would go to hell in a handcart.

  “Have a look around,” says Knuckles. “See what you want.”

  I know what I want already—it’s in the folder zipped under my urban guerrilla tough dyke leather jacket. I want you—and you are in my heart and soul. But I look around anyway. You don’t argue with a man like Knuckles.

  There is not one square inch of bare wall in here. From floor to ceiling there is a mosaic of bright pictures—dragons breathing fire, blowing smoke, scaled wings spread, claws dripping blood; there is a dragon clasping a crag with his crooked feet, his tail lashed around the snowy peak. Another dragon holding a skimpy maiden like King Kong right next to a dragon in death throes impaled by a lance half his size held by a knight half as small again. Cute dragons smoking spliffs, dragons rampaging over barbed wire and tribal symbols.

  Skulls, flowers, tombstones, chains, lightning bolts in rainbow shades, a yin/yang sun, mermaids, gryphons, basilisks, Jesus on a cross, swastikas, Winnie the Pooh, Elvis, a Harley-Davidson, monkeys, snakes, angels, unicorns, centaurs, Medusa, and the moon—waxing and waning and full.

  These bizarre murals are a tapestry of every fantasy creature, a shrine to every image and dream ever held sacred—or profane.

  “See anything you like?” says Knuckles, his voice like cigar smoke. “Take your time, darling.”

  Take your time…darling.

  You said that to me when we slipped over some dizzy invisible edge, God knows how long ago. We were free-falling into forever, and suddenly scared. You held my shoulders fiercely, and our eyes locked like a piece of kryptonite that releases the key to the universe.

  “Take your time, darling,” you said, your voice was clear water, fine silk, “because this has to be real. I’ll take it, whatever it is with you—us. But I want real.”

  It was a while before we kissed again—time gets lost in your eyes. I breathed yes onto your lips, my soul found yours, and our only separation was that your skin holds you, and mine holds me and hands and tongues and toes caress—but my God, we are one. We made that vow that night, knowing we were simply stating a deep inner truth as vast and dazzling and eternal as the rings of Saturn. Born again.

  We made love when we had made our vow. Is it a vow or a wow? you said, we made love and laughter that danced until dawn. We make love in bed, on a backseat, under the moon, in the river, love under spring green trees, love in the azure mist of a
bluebell wood. Love in the afternoon, love in the evening, love in a midnight sky, love as the sun blazes over the horizon into a new day.

  I want to love you like no one ever has before. Take you to ecstasy you’ve never felt before—and you me.

  You tell me I do just that, as I slide my tongue into your ass, make my fingertips paint a starburst inside you, plant strawberries in your navel, sew kisses on your knees; you wrap your thighs round my neck as I am on my knees to you, sucking you, drinking you, you taste better than anything else I have ever put into my mouth. Even chocolate.

  I always want you, want to do things no one else has ever done for you.

  Which is why I’ve parked my car a mile away in a floodlit barb-wired corral, why I’ve elbowed my way through boarded-up streets, past groups of lads pacing broken slabbed pavements, braved their jagged stares and strutting menace to get here. This is why I’m sitting here in this third circle of hell while Knuckles leans on the counter in front of a curtain made of chain mail, growling like Lee Marvin on a tiny silver phone which is almost lost in his bone-crushing hands, his arms are scaled green, claws flex under gold chains on his wrists, the back of his hands are flame bursts and smoke.

  He sees me looking and rolls up his sleeve so I can see the whole dragon, eyes glaring from his bouncer’s biceps.

  “That was my first,” he said. “Like it, darling?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  A woman comes through the curtain, holding her arm.

  “Shit,” she says. “It don’t get any easier.”

  “You’ll be back,” says Knuckles, taking her money.

  “I will,” she says. “He’s the best.”

  She leaves and Knuckles clatters into the back room, and this is the time to say no, to go, to change my mind—but it took a lot to get myself here, it’s what I want, and it’s all for you. There is no going back. And anyway, the silver links jangle and Knuckles is back.

  “Bernie’ll see you now,” he says.

  The metal links rattle over my face and body.

  Incredibly, Bernie is even bigger than Knuckles. He smiles with six gold gaps, he says sit down. I do. Over his shoulder a TV is playing a blood sweat and muscles movie, leather and armor and lunging spears, screaming mud-faced peasants, a blond chisel-cheeked hero with stiff nipples strong-arming it against a darker, hairier bad guy with a much shorter sword. Not my kind of movie, but then none of this is usual. I don’t spend one-to-one time with men, apart from my bank manager—let alone a man naked to the waist, muscles like flowing lava, a seascape of silicone-enhanced mermaids undulating across his chest, twin samurai flexing on each bicep, virid sea serpents twining around his muscled forearms.

  I don’t stare at men’s bodies, but you can’t help it with Bernie. Every inch of his skin is illustrated. His head rises from flames licking around his neck, and instead of hair he has an eagle, eyes glaring above his brow, wings spread wide down across his ears with each feather perfect.

  I don’t spend time away from you, but then your crazy Finnish family haven’t spoken to you in all the years we’ve been together and you agreed—just for this once you told them, like you were declaring war—to go there without me.

  “So what do you want?” says Bernie.

  “Well, I don’t know if you can do it,” I say.

  “I’ve done every part of the human body,” he says.

  “Male and female,” says Knuckles. “Don’t be shy.”

  On the TV screen a flaxen-plaited heroine clutches her jewelled bosom.

  “You may take what you want by force, Sir Henry,” she says, “but I will never give myself to you.”

  “Well,” I say, handing Bernie my folder, “that’s it.”

  He studies the piece of paper—the only other person to have seen it, to know what I want to do for you—and the eagle’s eyes wrinkle a little above his own.

  “It’s very nice,” he says, “I can do that—can’t I? And them’s the colors you want?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Like a rainbow,” he says.

  You are every rainbow, my love.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Knuckles takes the paper.

  “Oh yes,” he says. “That’s very different. Nice bit of graphics, darling. Magic. Magic, eh? He can do that, Bernie can do anything. Even magic.”

  Magic?—oh, of course.

  “Try telling the wife that,” says Bernie.

  “Yeah,” says Knuckles, laughing. “Mine’s the same. I go home smelling of Dettol and she says, you’ve done it again! Haven’t you, you just can’t control yourself. What sort of size do you want it, darling?”

  “And where do you want it?” Bernie says.

  That’s a really tough one. I was lying in your arms when I got the idea of doing this, your sweet fingers stroking every pore of my skin. I drew circles and spirals on your beautiful back, the heel of my hand rested just above the totally edible cheeks of your ass. Your tongue was washing my breasts like a cow licks her newborn calf. Then your hand came to rest on my belly, fingertips teasing and tugging my hair.

  “Mine,” you said softly, your voice shaking. “You’re mine, darling, all mine.”

  You rubbed your hand above my hair over and over until all the blood in my body rushed to the heat of your touch. You lapped and sucked my skin where your hand had been, painted your love on my skin with your hot saliva…and then you were on me, inside me, my love my lover, I’ve got you under my skin.

  And my skin is for your eyes only.

  Until now. Now there are six eyes looking at me—Bernie, the eagle on his bald head, and Knuckles.

  “Unhand me!” trilled the blonde on the TV screen as Sir Henry slashed her dress open with his sword.

  I stand up and draw a line through my jeans with one finger.

  “Across there,” I say.

  “Right,” says Bernie, “You better lie down for this.”

  And while I unzip my jeans and lie down, he tells Knuckles to run off a four and five.

  Knuckles puts the paper in the copying machine and shows me both pictures.

  Bernie looks at my naked belly and nods.

  “Five,” he says.

  “All right, darling?” says Knuckles. “Don’t worry, it’s all just skin to Bernie and me. Here’s your magic.”

  “I thought it said magic,” Bernie says. “It’s just skin to me, all right?”

  I look at the picture, now vermilion lines on acetate.

  “Yeah,” I say. It says you and you are magic.

  “That’s what he said to the wife, darling,” Knuckles says. “Leave it out, it’s only skin.”

  “Yeah,” says Bernie, swabbing me with icy spirit before pressing the acetate to my skin. All at once I want to laugh—why the hell do I trust him, I never trusted anyone in the world before or since you. And now I am lying with my jeans round my thighs in a back room in a street of empty houses with metal-grilled windows and razor wire, while a stranger called Knuckles takes bright-colored bottles like children’s paints and squeezes them into tiny pots and another stranger called Bernie is selecting an array of fine shiny steel instruments in clear sterile packages, meticulous as a surgeon in an operating room.

  Bernie leans over me.

  “You’re sure,” he says, “because it’s forever, you know.”

  His pale green eyes are as unblinking as the eagles.

  “You will regret this, you scoundrel!” says the TV blonde, clutching her torn bodice, pulling a handy shawl over her ravished thighs.

  “Oh, I’m sure,” I say.

  “I always ask,” he says. “Sometimes people change their minds.”

  The door of the blonde’s bedchamber bursts open and the blond hero leaps in like Zorro…

  “Not me,” I say. “I couldn’t be surer.”

  “It does hurt,” Bernie says. “This bit’s the worst. Just think of something nice.”

  I lie back and close my eyes and think of you coming down onto
my face, the intoxicating smell of you filling my mouth and nostrils.

  An electric buzz drowns out the clashing of swords in the movie and—

  JESUS!

  It hurts like when I came off my bike at speed on gravel when I was seven years old. Only that was my knees skinned bare with more blood than I had even seen. It was so red I could only stare and scream. But I am a big girl now, so when Knuckles mouths all right, darling? at me, I nod and give him a thumbs-up.

  Just when I feel I can’t take any more, Bernie stops to refill.

  And then he bends back over me, and the pain starts again.

  The dragon that starts this picture is the heat of you and us, your laughing tongue that lolls around in the liquid flow of our love, then stiffens to a fine point quivering me to heaven.

  Mmm…

  Is one word that says it true into hot crushed pillows as you love me, the naked softness of your inner thighs as I love you. Mmm is wow is a growl is a cry is a sob is banshee laughter as we come together, the burning breath of a dragon coiling around its secret treasure.

  Aaa…

  Is one of the waves that rolls and curls like a surfer’s dream as you bring me proudly crashing to the shore of our very own paradise. Aaa is the invisible blur of the hummingbird’s wings when it finds the elusive flower shaped only for its fine beak to find sweet and hidden nectar. Your fingertips flutter over my skin like a thousand wings.

  I…

  Come totally alive and cease to be as you love me and I come over and over, you as I love you, us as we love. I am yours, I only have eyes for you, you are my love, and your eyes have it, the holy grail, the tantalising glimpse of a winged unicorn flying over silver lakes and verdant forests of a new world that is ours.

  J…

  Holds a mermaid perched on its curve—for we were born to be in the sea, you and me. The salt wind refreshes us, the froth on a wave is clear jewels on your skin, when we dive, silver bubbles cling to our naked skin, sparkling between your toes like a thousand diamonds. You breathe out under the waves and make silver rainbows flying to the light.