by Violet Blue
“Please tell me you packed a rubber when you decided to jump me,” Blayne groans.
I nod.
“Good.” His voice is a low ache. “Because I need to fuck you, Izzy.”
So I go on hands and knees to get the packet from my discarded trousers. I crawl not because I have to, but because I want to: I want him to see my scarlet ass, my wet, inviting split. And when I crawl back I smooth the latex skin down his hot hard length with my mouth as well as my hands. Greedy Izzy wants his cock, so bad.
“Oh,” says Blayne to himself. His belt is already uncinched; he draws it out through the loops and wraps the leather strap about his right hand, leaving the last six inches hanging like a tongue. I stop sucking dick and lift my face, the old nervousness reappearing in a flash. “Lick it,” he whispers.
So I take the leather tongue in my mouth and suck it wet. I think he nearly loses control just there, but he clenches his teeth and holds back. Blayne is his own master.
And mine, just now.
His hand is in my hair again. He uses my braid like a leash to take me on hands and knees across to the crash-mat, and the tug brings tears to my eyes; I’m scrabbling to keep up. Then he sets me on all fours on the plastic-covered foam and mounts me from behind, driving his cock deep into the hole I have wet and waiting for him. Oh, god, I’m stretched tight. With every thrust he snaps that six-inch strap on my spread cheeks, and it’s like being licked with a tongue of fire. I squeal in protest, my ass bucking, but it doesn’t make any difference. My front end collapses to the cushioning mat; I thrust one hand back between my legs and grab my clit for dear life.
And that’s how he fucks me the first time: riding me from behind, yanking my head back by my braided hair, whipping my buttcheeks with his belt. I’ve never been made love to with such exquisite care, such minute judgment. And every fucking second I think it’s too much, that I can’t take it, that I’m going to call a halt—in a moment—only that moment never comes.
Instead, oh, dear god, I do. And then he does too.
Jump or Fall?
Jump!
FIVE SENSES
N. T. Morley
I hear the door creak open. Then I hear footsteps, a mix of bare feet and, I suppose, high-heeled shoes on the carpet of our living room. I keep my hands pressed firmly on either side of me, the velveteen couch soft against them. I take a deep breath and smell a mingled bouquet of perfumes and female bodies. I look into the darkness and listen for the next cue.
The first thing I feel are lips against mine, kissing me. One tender, soft kiss, its taste familiar, the brush of your smooth cheek against mine, your fingertips tracing a path down my chest to the top of my boxer shorts. Then you’re gone, and I feel another kiss, someone else’s, the unfamiliar taste of a new woman, her tongue grazing my lips very gently. Her hand caresses my cheek, then my neck. Then there’s another kiss, from someone new, someone more aggressive with her tongue, forcing it deep into my mouth, kissing me hungrily, her teeth nipping my lower lip. Then two more kisses in rapid succession, one on my lips while someone else licks my ear with the tip of her tongue. I don’t know whether to count four or five, and I suppose it doesn’t matter, because I’ll never know.
The music starts, slow and sensual, chilled trance with a dark, erotic feel. I sense a body near me, then I feel her thighs on either side of mine as she climbs onto me.
Her breasts, naked, brush my face, their firm nipples teasing my lips gently apart. She dances in time with the music, her fingers stroking my face as she grinds on top of me. Slowly, she lowers herself into my lap and I feel the press of her pussy, through my boxer shorts and what feels like a G-string, against my crotch. My cock stretches hard against the shorts.
The music grows louder, rising in intensity. The woman atop me dances more vigorously, her body rocking back and forth as she presses her crotch to mine. I hear whispering, distantly, mixed in with the music, and a faint spray of giggles. There are five of you, total, I’m sure of it.
Then I feel someone leaning over the back of the couch, feel a kiss on the side of my neck. I take a deep breath and smell you just as the woman dancing for me leans forward, and I hear—or perhaps sense—the two of you kissing.
She reaches down and touches my cock, gently stroking it through the thin, damp fabric of my boxer shorts. Her fingers close tight around it, gently kneading my shaft.
Then again—maybe they’re your fingers. That’s the beautiful, terrifying part. I’ll never, ever know.
“Lap dancing is sexy,” I told you. “There’s something really erotic about not being able to touch.”
“But you can still see everything,” you said.
“Yes, you can…see, smell, feel with the rest of your body. You can hear her breathing, hear her talking to you. You can even taste her.”
“Taste her?”
“Well,” I said. “Sometimes they kiss.”
“Not in clubs,” you told me. “Do they kiss you in clubs?”
“Not usually,” I said. “But sometimes, if they’re breaking the rules. And they want a big tip.”
“Is that hot?”
“Incredibly.”
“And if you weren’t in a club—say, if a woman was dancing for you at home?”
“With the same rules?”
“Well,” you smirked. “I think if it was at home you’d be allowed to taste a little more. But not touch.”
I smiled. “Yes,” I said. “I think that would be hot.”
“Would it be hot even if you couldn’t see? If you were, say, blindfolded?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think that would be incredibly hot.”
“Because then you’d have to use all of your five senses?”
I laughed. “Four,” I said. “I’d only have four senses.”
And you smiled at me, looking mischievous, exceptionally naughty.
“No, you’d have five. Because you could imagine how good she looked on top of you.”
“Yes,” I said. “I guess I could.”
“I know you love to let your imagination run wild,” you said, caressing my face. “I think that would be the ultimate thing for you. Being lap-danced by more than one woman, say, never knowing which was touching you at any one time. Maybe never even knowing who they were, what they looked like.”
I looked at you suspiciously. “Why?” I asked you.
“Well,” you smiled coquettishly. “You do have a birthday coming up….”
She turns around in my lap, spreading her legs and sitting down on my cock. I can feel the strap of her G-string against the shaft of my cock. She grinds her smooth, full buttocks against me, wiggling her ass back and forth in time with the music.
The way she’s stroking me with her ass feels more incredible than I could have dreamed. She leans back against me, her back naked against my bare chest, her shoulders rubbing my face. Her skin drapes over me, curtaining my face in the scent of her. She reaches back and caresses my face. I hear her breathing heavily as she rocks against me, her soft sighs rising in time with the music.
I hear whispers, giggles. Apparently this first dancer is hogging all the fun.
She lifts herself off of me, and I feel another body against mine. Her breasts brush my face again. This one is wearing a lace top, her breasts fuller and heavier than the other. The lace feels rough against my lips, especially with her nipples stretching it so taut. She smells different, floral, more perfumed. I feel the press of heavier fabric against my cock, hear the creak of leather; she’s wearing a leather G-string, possibly, or maybe leather hot pants.
She lifts up her lace top and brushes her naked tits over my face. I breathe deeply of her scent, let my lips part slightly, let my tongue laze out to taste her flesh. She’s salty but somehow sweet. She pushes her nipple between my lips and I suckle it gently as she grinds her crotch down onto mine. I’m moaning softly, the sound muffled by her nipple. As she bends forward I don’t feel her hair at first; as she rubs the top of her head ov
er my face, I feel that she’s got short hair, cropped in what must be a cute little pixie cut. Is it your friend Shauna, I wonder, or is it some dancer you’ve hired for the evening? Would a dancer let me suckle her breasts like this? Would Shauna? Then I feel the hot pants grinding hard against me, her pussy deep inside them, and I remember how sexy Shauna looked in her little leather outfit that one time we all got dolled up for dancing. She squirms on top of me and I feel her upper body, bare against mine as she rubs the lace shirt over my face. I inhale deeply of her scent. She slips the lace away and discards it. Her lips press against mine and I feel her tongue working its way into my mouth; in that instant, I let it go, not caring whether it’s Shauna or a complete stranger, a college girl making two hundred dollars an hour. I only care that her tongue is warm, slick, soft in my mouth. And that her breasts, now naked, are gently brushing my chest, her nipples hard and inviting so that when she slides up my body and moves them into my mouth, they feel better against my tongue than anything I could have wanted.
When she eases herself off of me, I feel the caress of gentle fingers down my front, sliding into my boxer shorts and wrapping around my cock, stroking it. That must be you, mustn’t it? You would never let another woman, friend or stripper, touch my cock directly—would you? But when I feel lips against mine, taste the salt of a woman’s tongue, I know it’s not you—the way she kisses is different, entirely, than the way you do it. As she strokes my cock she dances in time with the music, rubbing against me. She’s wearing nothing but a crop-top she’s pulled up over her breasts, and when she slips her hand out of my shorts and sits in my crotch, legs spread, I can feel the moistness of her naked pussy rubbing up and down against my cock through my boxer shorts. I hear myself moaning uncontrollably; the touch of a naked pussy, even through the cotton of my shorts, feels so good I’m afraid I’m going to come. She sits down hard in my crotch, firmly wiggling her ass back and forth as she leans back and reaches to caress my face, her long hair sweeping across my shoulders. It’s so long I can feel it down my chest, almost reaching her ass. Monique, I wonder? Your friend from the office, who you once made out with at a bar after work? I inhale deeply, smelling the faint hint of hibiscus shampoo, the barest suggestion of sharp, musky feminine sweat. She moves in time with the music and I want to reach down, slip my cock out of my shorts, and slide into her. Except that those aren’t the rules, and I would never break them—because then this torment would end, and it’s the most delicious torment I’ve ever known, a torment for all my five senses.
Monique—or whoever—rises off of me and I feel another woman climbing into my lap, this one smaller, with very slight breasts she uses to tease my lips. Her nipples are very large and extremely hard, and it excites me to taste the new taste, so very slightly different from the last woman. I imagine her, cataloging your address book of adventurous friends—and knowing, all the while, that I probably don’t know her. Is she beautiful, I wonder? It doesn’t matter, because the touch of her nipples on my mouth is electric, sending a surge to my cock, and I’m quite clear that however beautiful she is, I’ll never know it. I suckle on her nipples gently as she settles down on me, rubbing her crotch against mine. She’s wearing shorts, possibly spandex, but they’re so skintight that I can feel the lips of her pussy against my cock, even through the boxer shorts. I smell her and detect the aroma of sandalwood, lost in a mix of feminine lust and the sharp scent of pussy. She swings around and sits in my lap, facing out, her ass slim and slight against my cock. She reaches back and parts her cheeks gently so she can slide my cock between them, the head popping free of my boxers to stroke her through the spandex. When she leans back, grinding in time with the music, I feel her hair, curly and long, caressing my face. It smells faintly of the smoke of clove cigarettes, sweet and exotic, and when she rises off of me, I miss it.
Then there’s another body on mine, unfamiliar. I smell sex, hard and sharp in the sweat-heated room. The woman kisses me, hard, her tongue plunging inside me, her ample breasts tight against my chest, nipples hard. She grinds her crotch against mine, and she’s so wet that I feel the front of my boxers soaking through. She’s naked—fully naked, not guarded by any of the scraps of fabric that each of my previous tormenters wore. She kisses me harder than you do, more insistent, more unforgiving. She tastes so salty it’s almost like blood, and she smells so sharply of sex any other perfume would be lost. When she reaches into my boxers and wraps her hand around my cock, she grips it hard enough to almost make me come.
But she knows men’s bodies well enough to keep me from climaxing, and she deftly slips my cock out through the fly of my boxers. What she does then shocks me.
I feel her pussy enveloping the head of my cock. Surely she’s teasing, isn’t she? You would never let another woman fuck me. Or would you?
Then she sits down, hard, forcing my cock deep inside her.
She moans so loud I recognize the voice immediately. She grinds her hips on top of me, pushing my cock up hard against the depths of her cunt. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me closer, her lips finding mine and her tongue delving deep into my mouth. She starts fucking me with a fury, a desperation, a passion you’ve never shown. She’s fucking me for her pleasure, and if I come inside her it’s only incidental. Her sighs and moans mount quickly toward a peak.
I think I’m going to hold back, to let her come first. But I don’t, because she comes so fast it surprises me when she grabs me and clenches me tight against her. Her body goes rigid for an instant, her hips immobilized in the explosion of pleasure. Then she’s fucking me again, her body sliding up and down the shaft of my cock, juice dribbling out and soaking my boxers. It’s only an instant more before I come, my ass lifting off the sofa, my mouth open in a cry of ecstasy.
She kisses my face all over, familiar kisses as I breathe a familiar smell. Why I didn’t recognize it at first, I don’t know—except that the five of you, or four, or six, or seven—had awakened my five senses so much that I smelled new things in the familiar aroma of your pussy.
When you rise off of me, I feel my cock slick with my come and your pussy. You sigh, whisper to me to keep the blindfold on. I hear whispers, giggling voices. Familiar, unfamiliar—who knows? With so many senses, I’m bewitched and misled at every opportunity.
I hear footsteps as you all leave the room. It’s only when I’ve heard the door close that I take a deep breath and pull off the blindfold. I squint into the light.
The dancers’ clothes, all of them, shoes included, rest discarded in a pile on the coffee table. When they walked out of this room, they were all naked—leaving me to wonder. Did I really recognize the sound of your moans, the feel of your pussy, the explosion of your orgasm? Or was it another woman who made love to me, as you watched, as you directed her, enjoying the sight of me lost in the oblivion of five senses?
That’s the beautiful part, you see.
Because I’ll never, ever know.
HER TURN
D. L. King
Lauren held her palm up to her mouth and slowly licked the first three fingers before starting at the top of her left breast and running them down and over the taut nipple. She skipped over most of her torso, making contact with her flesh again just under her navel. She looked out at the dark glass in front of her, tilted her head, letting her straight brown hair cascade down the side of her pale body, and smiled. She knew he was there and just on the edge of coming. The same guy had been feeding token after token into her meter; god knew how much he’d already spent, she wasn’t keeping track, but this was her last window. Her shift was ending.
The fingers moved steadily down her shaved mound to the very top of her slit. She opened her folds with two fingers and let her middle finger touch her clit, which was already erect and protruding. She heard a muted gasp. She also heard the movement of the chain as the metal wall began to slide down, covering the dark window. The way the booth was lit, she couldn’t see out, but she could hear her audience.
“N
o! No no nonononono… Fuck!”
Lauren got up to leave as Irina, her replacement, entered the booth and the metal partition, once again, rose on its chains.
“What? No. Wait! Wait a minute. Oh, fuck, oh, man…”
Lauren looked back at the glass and blew a kiss, then wiggled her fingers in a farewell wave before she stepped out, her long hair swinging, and closed the door behind her.
She’d started doing sex work when she was in grad school. She’d danced topless and stripped and made some very good money. Her student loan balance was extremely manageable and she’d been able to pay her living expenses without a problem. Now that she was almost finished with her dissertation for her doctorate in human sexuality, she was thinking that she might miss sex work, or at least this kind of sex work. As a sex therapist, she figured she’d still have her hand in, so to speak.
She’d been working the afternoon shift, from noon to four thirty, and she was getting hungry. She planned to get home about six o’clock. Sal, her boyfriend, would already be there. Maybe they’d go out for dinner after. After they’d gotten cleaned up and de-stressed from their separate workdays. Or maybe he’d cook.
Sal was gorgeous. He was six feet of muscled, Italian beef-cake. A trader by day, he was her private gourmet chef by night. He’d been taking Saturday classes at one of the city’s best culinary institutes because he preferred a kitchen to the exchange floor. He practiced on her. As soon as he had his culinary degree, he planned to quit the market and open a little Italian restaurant downtown. He had everything it took to be successful; business sense, looks, and real talent in the kitchen. He also had his restaurant nest egg stashed safely away for just the right time. Yep, he was a great Italian cook, but right now Lauren knew what she’d prefer to slather in his special red sauce, and it wasn’t cannelloni. Work always made her horny.