Stories to Make You Blush: Seven Naughty Tales

by Marie Gray

  “Why? I don’t see any harm in it. It certainly beats the movies we end up with.”

  “Absolutely, especially the movies you choose… Yech!”

  “I beg your pardon, miss? You’ll be making the selection next time.”

  “That probably won’t be necessary anymore, especially if she changes partners every week. Although I must say, that one had a certain je ne sais quoi.”

  Diane did change partners pretty regularly. The boyfriend with the long dark hair returned to her place a few times but we always seemed to get back home just as the “show” was ending. Diane enjoyed herself—and how!—with this man for about two more weeks. Then one evening, I came home and caught them in the middle of a fight. He left shortly after that, slamming the door behind him, and we never saw him again. How disappointing.

  A few days later, I came home early from work and ran into Diane on the landing. She suddenly announced that she had a craving for sangria and was going out to get some. Off she went, and a short time later, she knocked on our door to invite me to join her. I accepted her invitation, as Steve wouldn’t be coming home until much later. I was also very curious about her, as I knew nothing about her except for a few interesting sexual habits.

  We drank the sangria on her terrace and chatted casually about different things. I learned that she had once been an actress, but faced with an uncertain future in that profession, she had decided to abandon it. As far as romance was concerned, she confessed to me that she had been very unhappy in love at one point in her life and now she “wasted no more time.” If after a week or two the guy didn’t please her anymore, she would find another one who did. She also confided that she was actually afraid to stay with any one man for too long for fear that the sex would become boring. I could barely repress a smile at that last remark.

  The afternoon went very pleasantly. Our conversation remained fairly superficial and I managed to keep my mouth shut about the bit of espionage Steve and I had perpetrated. After emptying a few glasses of sangria, which left me in an enjoyably relaxed state, I took my leave on the pretext that Steve would be coming home soon.

  The phone was ringing as I arrived at the apartment. Steve was calling to tell me that he was on his way home. I stretched out on the couch with a book and was about to start reading when the sultry sounds of jazz began filtering my way from Diane’s place. I looked through the living room window and saw her on her terrace. A towel was wrapped around her body and her hair was wet. She hadn’t bothered to properly dry herself and the late afternoon light gave her skin a golden gleam. Her eyes stared straight ahead, giving her an absent, almost melancholy expression. Lying down on one of her lawn chairs, she closed her eyes, and slowly pulled the towel off.

  She had an incredible body. I had already seen her naked, but now that she was alone, I could admire her without distractions. The feeling that she knew we had been watching her was unshakable. She turned her head toward me and smiled, having either caught sight of me or guessed I was there. Her hand slowly picked up the small watering can that she used for her geraniums and she coaxed out a lazy little trickle onto her skin. As her fingertips spread the droplets all over her voluptuous body, the breeze on her wet skin suddenly made her shiver. She closed her eyes and began tenderly stroking her now erect nipples. I could see the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, and the shivers that traveled up and down her arms, shoulders, and belly were making me very aroused. Diane raised her arms and began massaging herself. She started with the back of her neck, then slowly moved around to her throat, where those supple hands began a sensuous descent down to her chest and stopped to tenderly rest over each breast. A gently nostalgic expression filled her eyes. As if they fully appreciated the contact with her hands, her nipples had stiffened even more, allowing Diane to knead her breasts even more insistently with those long, apt fingers.

  I had never been aroused or attracted by a woman before, and I don’t know if I really was attracted to Diane, but her exquisite body and attitude of carefree sensuality stirred up a fire in me. I had no desire to caress her or make love to her, but at this moment I was very conscious of my own body’s need for a certain kind of touch. Staring at her now, I imagined myself in her skin, tasting the same sweet sensations she was giving herself as she ran her hands over her body. My eyes never left her as I undressed, and although I still had the unsettling feeling that she knew I was there, my body’s state of arousal wouldn’t allow me to consider my actions for even a second. I lay down, just like her, and placed my hands over my breasts, which were much more petite than hers but every bit as receptive.

  She was getting bolder now, curling her fingers through the tendrils between those tanned thighs. Spreading her legs apart, she dug her nails into the soft flesh, leaving scratch marks similar to the ones I was leaving between my own thighs. With the long fingers of her left hand, she opened her moist lips while coyly licking the fingers of her right. Both hands then joined forces between her legs to conquer that intimate region. Her fingers were slowly studying the contours of her pussy, which I knew must be soaking wet by now. She began to tease her clitoris and circle the opening of her glistening vulva, but she was stroking herself so slowly and my excitement had made me so impatient that I was having trouble imitating her rhythm. I always had so much difficulty containing the rushes of excitement demanding immediate release that my masturbation sessions always ended quickly. Through Diane’s tutelage, I was finally learning how to give myself more than just a momentary orgasmic release. I was becoming conscious of my body’s reactions to gentle and almost exasperatingly slow stimulation. Then, almost imperceptibly at first, she increased the speed of her movements. I watched her gentle fondling turn into frenzied stroking. Her face revealed every naked feeling; her sweetly distracted smile was soon replaced by a look of intense concentration before her face finally crumpled, fighting the unbearable pleasure of orgasm. Stopping suddenly, she forced her hands back up to her chest as she squeezed her thighs tightly together. Her face relaxed almost immediately. After a brief pause, she allowed herself to gradually reenter the orgasmic flow, her arms crossed over her shoulders as if she were lovingly embracing an invisible partner.

  Hesitating a little, she slid her hands back down over her belly and then further down still. She began dreamily stroking herself, her two hands united in a tender attack. I don’t think she had even come yet. I felt so close to her at this moment, I was convinced that she couldn’t—wouldn’t—come without me. As I began rubbing myself once more, I followed her rhythm so I could climax at the same moment she did. The water droplets sprinkled over her body reflected the warm glow of the descending sun. I watched her biting her lower lip. Low in my pelvis, the urgent stirrings of a huge, unstoppable orgasm were taking my breath away. I was just on the verge of letting it rip through me when Steve walked in.

  He watched me for a moment in silence and then stepped forward only far enough to see what exactly had put me in such a state. There was an immediate bulge in his pants.

  “Come here.”

  I interrupted my stroking before realizing that Diane had stopped as well when Steve arrived. She stopped her strokes, too, and waited for the next phase. Steve knelt down at my feet and began kissing and caressing my legs, my thighs.

  When his tongue slid inside of me, I could barely keep from crying out. My back arched—I was ready to explode. Diane was stroking herself faster and harder now. Her head was rolling from side to side as she struggled to contain the sensations. She got up and knelt on her chair, legs apart, back arched. Grabbing one of her breasts, she brought it up to her mouth while the other hand kept moving faster than ever between her legs. Knowing she was going to come any second now, I wanted to share the moment with her. I abandoned myself to the incredible sensations produced by Steve’s rapidly flicking tongue and I begged him for release. He slid his hand up my leg and shoved his fingers deep inside of me while his mouth continued to flood me with pleasure. When Diane finally drop
ped her magnificent breast so that both hands were free to rock her into orgasm, I came so violently my belly shuddered for what seemed like a full minute.

  Diane was lying down again now; her entire body quivering. Steve couldn’t contain himself any longer and in one violent thrust he was all the way inside of me. He impaled me with all his strength, shoving his cock deep inside of my body, encountering no resistance whatsoever as he pumped ferociously away. I got up and sat on top of him, guiding him inside of me so I could gain more control over the rhythm. I plunged him inside of me as deeply as possible and then sat very still, lovingly massaging him from the inside with skillful muscles. He allowed me to do this for about a minute before flipping me back onto the couch and draping my legs over his shoulders. He entered me brutally then, and didn’t stop pumping until he finally exploded.

  “So do you still think she suspects nothing?”

  “No….”

  “That really was a fine way to greet me.”

  “The pleasure was all mine!”

  Two weeks went by with no sign of Diane. As a matter of fact, we had seen nobody at her place since that last escapade. Steve and I were growing very disappointed, especially since that last “session” with Diane had been particularly mind-blowing. When we wanted to make love now, we always ended up peeping over at her apartment, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, but to no avail.

  As I was on my way to work one morning, I met the building superintendent, who informed me that Diane would be leaving her apartment. He asked me if I knew of anyone who might be interested in taking her place. I told him I couldn’t think of anyone at the moment, but that I would talk to Steve about it. I was saddened by the news that Diane would be going, and I knew that Steve would be as well. No more nights of pleasure on the “observation deck”—neighbors like Diane don’t show up every day!

  Well, we’d certainly lucked out for a while, but now we had to face the hard facts: Diane was gone. I must say, however, that we sure had a few good laughs during the following weeks, watching all those people visiting the apartment. We tried to imagine what they could offer us in the way of the fine entertainment Diane had so generously provided. How about that couple in their sixties who barely looked at one another and appeared to be scandalized by the bedroom mirrors? Surely not! What about the burly man with a huge beard and tiny dog? Definitely not! The single woman and her three cats? I doubted it. The mother and her adolescent son who fought like crazy? No way. The hand-holding couple in their thirties with that unmistakable glow of newlyweds? Well, well.

  It was in fact this couple who ended up renting the apartment. We never saw Diane again, not even on the day when an enormous moving van came to get all her belongings. A few days later, we invited our new neighbors over for coffee. They arrived looking tired, even a little haggard.

  “Please excuse us, we’ve just finished moving in. What an ordeal. And those windows! Wow, you’ve really done a beautiful job with yours.”

  “Yeah, we had to rack our brains trying to figure out how to cover ours, too. But the view up here is worth the trouble, believe me.”

  We chatted for a while and then they went back home. They were an adorable couple and were, as we suspected, newlyweds.

  Steve was surveying the apartment with a thoughtful air when his eyes suddenly came to rest on my cute little dress. They instantly lit up with mischief. He looked just like a naughty little boy.

  “Are you tired?”

  “It depends what you have in mind.”

  “I have an idea.”

  He went over to our curtains and pulled them wide open. Then he stuck on a blues CD and turned on our two favorite lamps. The room was filled with a soft amber glow. We heard the sound of our new neighbors stepping out onto their terrace to get some air.

  Steve took me in his arms and began nibbling my neck and ears.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Let’s give our new neighbors a warm welcome, shall we?”

  And with that, he began pulling me closer to the window.

  Feminine Impulse

  I admit it: my history of disastrous relationships was probably my own fault. Ever since I was old enough to be interested in boys, I’ve always been driven to control events instead of just going with the flow. A new romance rarely had a decent chance to develop—if my love of the moment didn’t correspond to my exact specifications, I’d get rid of him without further adieu. If, on the other hand, he turned out to be exactly what I wanted, then I’d quickly classify him as much too boring and predictable and he’d be gone soon as well. After all, why prolong a dead-end situation, right? I operated this way for most of my tantalizing teens, my terrific twenties, and a good part of my less-than-thrilling thirties as well. It was only quite recently that the sad and thoroughly depressing possibility dawned on me that there might not be—on this planet at any rate—an ideal man for me.

  Although merely hypothetical at that stage, it was a disturbing notion nonetheless. Up until then, I had managed to convince myself, even as each new affair became more disappointing than the last, that I deserved the best of what the male population had to offer and that I would find my soul mate eventually, the man who would “fit me like a glove.” My mother told me countless times that I would recognize Mr. Right immediately. So at each new encounter, I’d be looking for telltale signs (both physical and metaphysical), from stomach cramps to thunderclaps, from hot flashes to lightning flashes. When these omens failed to materialize, I just kept telling myself that the next one would surely be the right one.

  But, of course, it never happened. In fact, if anything, the men I met became increasingly wrong. This merry-go-round continued for a number of years as I moped, fretted, despaired, and witnessed, with infuriating helplessness, the appearance of my first wrinkles. I stubbornly insisted on believing in miracles and the power of positive thinking, but eventually I had to face the sad facts: what I was looking for hadn’t yet been created by God, or whoever it was that had planted the human race on this Earth.

  It couldn’t be that unobtainable, I told myself. A list of the most important qualities a man had to have if he wanted to leap into my life had long ago been drawn up. It was fairly basic criteria. My self-image is very positive and well justified, so I have a perfect right to demand a certain number of attributes before I accord a man my favors.

  This list of preconditions had been carefully recorded in a notebook so that I could refer to it whenever I forgot. This was to avoid the inevitable self-reproaching “I should have known!” that would come to taunt me after a few disappointing evenings with some candidate or other. To be fair, I did come across a few who measured up to some of my standards, but there was always something not quite right. Either he would forget that I hated broccoli and would make it for me three nights running (too bad, because the meal would have been lovingly prepared without me having to lift a finger), or he would infuriate me by giving me red roses after I had clearly indicated that I preferred white ones. I mean, were they doing it deliberately or what? Whatever.

  After ruminating on the situation for many long nights in the company of my favorite vibrator, I finally came up with the solution to my problem. I knew at that moment that it was imperative that I stop looking for “The Perfect Man.” It was essential for me to abandon the notion that I could find a single man, among mere mortals, who would fulfill my every desire and make me completely happy. So I ended up selecting three.

  Please understand that circumstances didn’t leave me much choice. Besides, nobody was getting hurt… and I was doing myself immeasurable good. The ultimate irony was that I met them all on the same day—at different moments and in different situations, to be sure—but that night, as I lay down in bed, I knew at last that some truly interesting romantic possibilities awaited me. Only now do I realize how endless the possibilities really are.

  For the time being, at least, the three men in my life are wonderful. They manage to fulfill me, emotionally and sexuall
y, in ways I never would have believed possible. They have absolutely nothing in common and that’s precisely what makes them so appealing to me. They aren’t aware of each others’ existence, but they complement each other perfectly. And no one knows this but me.

  One of them, Thomas, I compare to a waltz. He is tender and touching, romantic but solid. I met him at the supermarket and knew from one glance at his shopping basket that he was single. There was nothing particularly luxurious in that basket, to be sure, but I could still tell he would be right at home in a kitchen, and I was right. Our encounter was quite comical in its own way. His arms were loaded with cheeses, milk cartons, eggs, and butter. I wondered why he didn’t return to his basket to unload some of those items. He was concentrating so hard on his shopping list that he didn’t look where he was going and ended up tripping over my shopping basket. Eggs were broken, packages were spilled, and Thomas blushed crimson right up to his ears.

  Our eyes met uneasily for a moment and then we burst out laughing at the same time. He suddenly confided, out of the blue, that he was nervous because his mother and her new husband were coming over to his place for the first time that night. Then, to my surprise, he spontaneously invited me to come and have a cone with him at the new ice cream place nearby; after a few very pleasant hours of conversation, he asked me if I could save his life by coming over to help him through the upcoming ordeal with his mother and her new man. I accepted without hesitation and had a lovely evening.

  Our relationship took about a week to define itself—the time it took to weigh out his good points and bad. I came to the conclusion that he could easily assume an important role in my scenario. He’s an amazing cook and prepares me incredibly romantic dinners on a regular basis. Every three days, he brings me fabulous white roses or has them delivered to me—and I only had to tell him once what color I liked. Thomas loves going to the movies and he is one of those rare few—and so touching—men who can allow themselves to shed a few tears during a sad movie scene. He displayed real tenderness and understanding regarding my romantic fate. After attentively listening to the story of my painful struggle during our first rendezvous together, he tenderly massaged my back, shoulders, and neck with his expert fingers. When we meet at my place, he always arrives a few hours before me. He washes the dishes, runs a hot bath overflowing with bubbles, and welcomes me at the door with a perfect dry martini.