by Starla Cole
“Stop teasing, Peter. That’s cruel with no place to go.”
Peter slid the tip of his finger between her folds and felt her hands grab fistfuls of his shirt. “Who said anything about going anywhere?” He walked them over to the couch. They collapsed on top of it, she underneath, and let their mouths lock again, both teasing and pushing with their tongues. Peter’s hand slid down her side and over her hip again, seeking the soaked cleft between her legs.
Ellen broke the kiss with a groan as Peter’s fingers found their goal. “Peter, we can’t! Someone might come in!”
“Exactly.”
“But…”
He hushed her with another quick kiss. “They might see. Just like you saw Joe and his chick. Except we’ll finish.” Peter could see the conflict behind Ellen’s eyes, her lust fighting against the potential embarrassment.
His dick throbbed again in his jeans, pressing against her leg, and he saw the cloud of desire settle in her eyes. He moved his finger to circle her swollen clit, and she arched against him. Any lingering protest died a rapid death as his finger danced around her pleasure bud. One hand clutched the edge of a cushion while the other gripped his shoulder. Her nails dug into his skin, a delicious pain that pushed him to work her faster. Peter moved down her body and pulled her top up, then traced harsh, nipping kisses across her smooth belly. Ellen pulled her top off the rest of the way, and Peter moved one hand under her bra to tweak a nipple.
Her growl send him into a frenzy of need, and he dropped off to the couch to his knees. Peter grabbed her panties in both hands and yanked them down to her ankles. Ellen spread her long legs, one stiletto heel resting on the floor and one finding purchase on his shoulder. He marveled at her sweet sex, pubic hair trimmed neatly and topping a perfect pair of velvety lips. Her desire glistened on the pink folds and filled his nostrils with a heady musk. Peter dipped his head and settled in, his tongue sliding up and over her pussy. Ellen’s hand clutched his head and pushed him in deeper. He obliged by driving his tongue into her opening, then drew it flat up the length before spearing her clit with the tip.
Ellen gasped and writhed on the couch as he worked her over. Each time her breathing shortened and her belly rippled with imminent release, he pulled back just enough to let the wave subside. Then he would jump back in, flicking her clit lightly with his tongue tip while dancing his fingers among her folds. His cock screamed for release. With his other hand, he unbuckled his belt, pulled open his button fly and shucked his jeans down to his thighs. He could feel his own sticky wetness on his boxers as he finally pulled his length free. Peter stroked it with long, lazy movements, lost in Ellen’s escalating pleasure.
A thump at the door made him jump from his skin, and he fell backwards on to the floor. Ellen yelped and clutched her arm over her now bare breasts, her bra lost during his ministrations. They both sat stock still, waiting for the door to swing open and bust them both. As the seconds stretched on and they remained alone, Peter’s eyes found Ellen’s and they both laughed. Ellen’s gaze drifted down to Peter’s crotch and his cock standing at attention from its soft nest of pubic hair.
The wicked grin reappeared. “He looks so lonely.”
5: Belted and Busted
She was going to get fired. Hell, she didn’t care.
Peter was never this forward, this bold. She remembered when they were first together, trysting in the stock room of the bar where she worked. But there had been doors, locks, or friends keeping half an eye out for intruders, people who knew what they were up to.
This was a big room with three ways in. And Peter was as exposed as she was.
But his erection was just inches from her face. How much trouble could she really get in? She wrapped a hand around him and pulled him closer by its length. His head fell back, and she leaned forward, taking the head in her mouth just like the girl in the van had done.
He was familiar. Taste. Smell. Texture. Hotter than usual and maybe even a bit harder, bumping into the back of her throat. She ran her tongue along the bottom as she formed a strong suction with her cheeks. Peter grabbed at her hair. Freshly fucked hair. Definitely going to have that when she returned to the bar. If no one caught them first.
The tension fueled the fire in her belly, and Ellen found that rather than rushing to be done before anyone found them, she wanted to slow down, draw out the moment.
She took her time drawing him in and out of her mouth, his pre-cum already changing the taste of him. He gathered her hair in his fist, and when she squeezed the bottom of his shaft, he yanked, hard.
Ellen almost bit him in surprise. Peter had never been rough with her, not ever. She pulled away. “Inspired?”
He twisted her hair more tightly in his hands and used it to force her back down on the sofa. “I am.”
This was way beyond where they’d ever gone. Maybe he knew he was losing her. Maybe she was responding in ways he’d never dreamed. But she found she wanted it rough. Public. Rough. And maybe even if someone watched.
The idea made her burn so hot inside that she cried out. Peter’s mouth sucked on a nipple and not gently, nipping at her with his teeth.
She ran her fingers down his back to find his lowered jeans and the loose belt. She pulled it from its loops, inch by inch.
“Now what are you going to do with that?” His voice was almost a growl.
“I think I’m going to do this.” She whacked him soundly on the ass with the leather end.
The music ramped up on the stage outside their door, drowning the sound. The band was warming up. She’d be expected to introduce them.
They could introduce themselves.
“Did you like that?” She held both ends of the belt, sliding the length of it across his skin. “Should I do it again?” She didn’t wait for an answer but smacked him a second time.
Peter groaned, a low gutteral sound, and snatched the belt from her. He grabbed her hips and neatly flipped her over.
Her face smashed into the rough cushion rank with beer and smoke. Cool air hit her skin as her skirt lifted out of the way and even though she knew what was coming, the bite of the leather make her scream.
The band was really going now, moving forward without her and masking their sounds. Peter ran his hand across the inflammation, soothing it back to low burn.
He leaned next to her ear. “We’ve never needed a safe word. Do you want one now?”
This was crazy. Her husband, capable of this. She had no idea. And her, instigating it. “Shiner.” Her favorite beer.
“Got it.”
As the whelp calmed down, Ellen discovered, inexplicably, that she wanted another, and then she wanted him inside her, immediately, no hesitation. Would he figure it out? Would she have to tell him?
Thwack.
She arched upward, now desperate to be filled and pressed into him. He dropped the belt, and she knew he got it, he understood.
He ripped into her without any calmness or care, cleaving into the folds with more force than she knew him to possess. Her face planted deep into the cushion, so she brought her arms forward to give her leverage.
Peter never slowed, plowing into her so hard and fast that she knew he couldn’t last. The band blasted the air just outside the door, and Molly certainly was swamped. The other staff should have arrived.
Just as the thought that someone should be coming in any moment, the back door opened wide, bringing a blast of cold. Sam, the new hire for the bar, raced inside. “I’m so fucking late!” He said as he barreled through the room, then stopped dead.
Peter stilled behind her, his hand on her back.
Sam shook his head. “Ain’t nothing I haven’t seen before.” And he raced on through the doors to the bar.
Ellen squeezed her eyes shut. Peter leaned over her. “You okay?”
“Not yet,” she whispered, and he understood, rocking into her again. He reached around to rub her clit, moving in rapid circles, just the way he knew worked for her. So many years, so much
they’d done.
The orgasm began to drive forward in waves, tension cascading through her. He knew her well and timed it perfectly, pushing deep into her in a long heavy thrust just as she went over the top, crying out behind the music of “Hello, Pain,” the song that had gotten the boys the gig, the most perfect thing she’d possibly ever heard, punk and pulsing and a precise fit.
He laid on her for only a moment to kiss her neck, then rolled away. He handed her the clothes scattered on the floor. “Who was the guy?”
“New hire. He’ll be cool.” She fixed her clothes. Her hair was everywhere, she could tell, a mass of hair spray and dislodged pins. She didn’t care.
Peter slipped the belt through the loops, looking anywhere but her. “I’m sorry. I got a little rough.”
“Sorry? That was perfect. I mean, who knew we had this in us?” Please don’t be sorry. If he never did it again, well, that would be worse.
He ruffled his hair. “I know. I feel like a treated you like a groupie, not my wife.”
She stood up, pulling her shirt into place. “I think I like it better being your groupie.”
Peter stared at her. “Really? I mean I hit you. I spanked you with a belt. Here. Where you work.” He sat back on the sofa.
She nestled in beside him. “I started it. And look.” She gestured to the room. “We got away with it.”
He clasped her hand between his. “So we’re okay?”
The crowd outside roared as the band finished the first number. The bar was going to be a hit. “We’re more than okay. From now on we’re going to be even better.”
About Starla and Maxwell
Starla was one of those girls who refused to get married, convinced all the good things in her relationship would die in the face of laundry and dishes and the placement of the toilet seat.
After seven years of patient waiting, Maxwell finally managed to get her to tie the knot in 2012. Since then they have chosen to let the house be a mess and the bedroom be their sanctuary. They began writing erotica stories on their six-month anniversary. They will be writing many many more titles in the Couples Play series.
Also by Starla Cole
The Boudoir Sessions (Sexual Misadventures in the Photo Studio)
#1 Naughty Santa (A Christmas stripper comes to town)
#2 Dirty Pirate Hooker (A pirate sex show promo shoot goes wild)
#3 Goddess of Bondage (A contortionist proves the ideal subject for Japanese rope bondage)
Stay on top of Starla at her blog: http://starlacole.blogspot.com
Or get freebies and sneak peeks on her list: http://eepurl.com/tlv6b
Excerpt from Starla Cole’s Naughty Santa:
Syria's eyes widened. "What do you plan to do with those?"
The reins from the sleigh she used as a photo prop jingled as he shook them at her. "Terrible things." His eyes danced with mischief. He let go of her ankles and grasped her wrists.
His lips surrounded her nipple once again as he expertly entwined the leather around and through her arms. "Just a little bit of bondage. Nothing elaborate."
Her heart hammered. She should be afraid, a stranger tying her up. But instead she felt wet and slick.
Once her wrists were lashed together he pushed the reins through the runners of the wood sleigh and wrapped the ends around his own wrist. "You're mine now," he said, biting her nipple lightly.
She shivered. Her elbows framed her head, her hands high and away. She tried to bring them down, but he jerked on the reins with a jingle. "No escape."
He worked his way back down between her legs, spreading her lips with his tongue in broad strokes. "Good girl," he said. "Wet and ready."
He lapped at her, and her head fell back. The immobility of her arms left her vulnerable, but also free to focus. His hands grasped her thighs, and she ached now for him to fill her. "Please." Her voice was strangled.
Tyson sat up with that low chuckle she already found familiar. He pushed her knees wide and entered her in one swift thrust. She parted for him, wanting to scream as he plowed inside. Her arms jerked on the leather straps. He'd driven her over a brink, each stroke more powerful than the last.
He lifted her ankles to his shoulders. The velvet bag slipped on the Plexiglas as he moved against her, sliding to their rhythm.
Sweat beaded on his brow and across his smooth solid chest. Syria wanted to brush it, but the leather held her away, powerless, his. She closed her eyes, reveling in each upward movement, the fur against her back, the taut tug of the straps.
He paused, letting her legs fall, then pulled out and flipped her over, cradling her belly in one arm to avoid her face smashing into the floor. He pressed her onto the velvet bag, arms overhead. "Eyes closed," he ordered.
The reins jingled as he shifted. Her heart hammered as she waited to see what he would do. He moved aside until they no longer had contact. She didn't know when he might touch her again, or where, or how.
Something tickled in the hollow of her lower back, soft yet oddly rough. The cotton snow, perhaps. It moved up her spine and across her shoulder blades, then back down to between her legs. The texture produced a powerful itch and she writhed against the velvet bag. The need to scratch overwhelmed her. "Please," she whispered, and he replaced it with his hand, thrusting fingers inside of her, relieving the painful urge. She relaxed down into the fur.
He pulled away again and her skin cooled. She lay there, anxious, waiting the next sensation.
Find out where you can buy Naughty Santa and Starla’s other stories at
http://starlacole.blogspot.com/p/starla-coles-books.html