“Fuck me, darling,” I whispered, and Joseph pushed into my pussy. The deeper it went, the tighter it felt. It wasn’t easy – but I wouldn’t let Joseph stop. “Keep pushing,” I chanted. “It’s great, it’s gonna be great, so great, I’m so full, so full up, it’s so filling, keep pushing, keep filling . . .” And it was true; I felt so full and tight, and I wanted it, and I wouldn’t let Joseph stop until the tip of his cock met the tip of Sid’s cock on either side of the membrane inside me.
“So fuckin’ full!” I sobbed, almost shouting the word full, and then I trembled. “Come on, fuck me!” I commanded, and I moved and Sid moved and Joseph moved, and their cocks started sliding in and out a little – not much; with two cocks in you, you can’t pump the way you pump when you’re fucking – but we got a rhythm, the guys sliding back together and pushing forwards together, prodding.
And then it did start – the greatness – and I began to feel everything, everything, not just the pressure but the weight and power of the pricks and the eagerness of my orifices – I could feel the ridges of their cockheads as they trailblazed through my gooey pussywalls and clingy asshole and the shapes and tumescence of their cocks as they filled me, packed me and plugged me, and I could hear myself chattering, softly and languidly at first, “Oh God, oh God, oh God, is this nice, this is so nice, oh I love it, oh God, it’s so good, oh God, this feels so good, so nice.” And as they thrust and backed off and thrust, my responses came faster and harder, I talked louder and faster, “Oh I just love this, I love it love it love it love it, do it do it, do it!” And we did. Forget greatness; greatness was transcended. Prick in my cunt, prick up my ass, my dream-come-true, fucked all over and fucked through-and-through, not just my pussy, not just my ass but everything; my intestines were being fucked, my belly, my brain. Pins and needles of pure pleasure oozed from my pores and made my skin tingle. I squeezed, I twisted, I fucked with my tits smashing into Joseph’s chest; I fucked with my tongue shoving into Joseph’s mouth; I fucked with my ass jamming my buttocks against Sid and twisting; I fucked body and mind and soul . . .
And then I lost it – or found it.
With a sound between a sob and a cry I lifted a leg and flung it around Joseph; then, without thinking, I lifted the other leg. I would have fallen except that Sid grabbed my ass and held me up and pushed me into Joseph; I clamped myself to Joseph, the back of my heels against his calves, my arms around his neck; I pushed back hard as I could against Sid and I squeezed, clenched and wrung my innards around the two pricks wholly buried inside me – and came – came with strange, almost animal growling sounds through clenched teeth. Pelvis, ass, cunt all contracted and shot stars through my body. I was out of control, I couldn’t hold on, I flung my arms and legs outwards and bounced and trembled as if automatic rifle-fire were riddling me with pleasure bullets. My limbs flew and my torso banged and my skin buzzed, and I babbled a rat-a-tat-tat sound, part laughter, part choke, and part chant, “Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck oh God fuck!” And then I screamed a real scream that shocked me when I heard it, but then I screamed again, froze, shuddered, trembled, dropped my legs back to the floor. I spasmed so hard I began to cramp, and I made noises I know I’d never made before, gurgling and groaning. I heard the fuck-fuck-fucks turn to wait-wait-waits because the cramping was catching up with the ecstasy, and then to stop-stop-stops, even though I was the one doing the moving, not the guys, and I had to make myself stop.
It took a while. Though I stopped wrenching myself around the guys’ two pricks, my body continued spasming for a while, jerking and bucking, but finally the spasms became after-spasms, fewer and farther between, and I sank back and let it fade.
It was the orgasm of my life, the orgasm of the century, the orgasm of the millennium, maybe the orgasm of all time. The guys had been great – reading me right, really fucking me when I wanted to be fucked, letting me use them when I wanted nothing more than hard pricks. And when I came down from my orgasm, their pricks were still hard inside me, Sid’s a guest up my ass, Joseph’s at home in my pussy.
“God,” I breathed. My breathing slowed, and I put my arms around Joseph again and held him and squiggled back against Sid. I don’t know how long we stayed like that – it seemed a long time, though it couldn’t have been, for the guys were still hard and implanted, and hard pricks in tight places can’t stay still for too long. I felt them twitching inside me, and, God save me, I felt my inner walls fluttering around the pricks again and liking it.
It wasn’t over yet.
I straightened up, slid one hand around under my soaking oily ass and found Sid’s balls and pushed my other hand down between Joseph’s greasy belly and mine and found his balls, and I took both sets of balls in my fingers and gripped them. “Now fuck me!” I barked, and squeezed. Sid and Joseph pulled back together and rammed in together.
“Faster!” I said. “Harder!”
They fucked me faster and harder, and this time, even given that there were two pricks, it was more like conventional fucking with a real fucking rhythm – in, back, pump, pump, fuckers and fuckee, fuck, fuck, fuck! It didn’t take long; when I felt Sid climbing I commanded him not to hold back and he didn’t; I squeezed his balls harder and he jolted and jerked and shot my ass full of his cream, and while Sid was still shooting Joseph thrust so hard the dressing table slammed against the wall and the mirror shook and I squeezed his balls and he let loose, filling my cunt with his cream, and I don’t know who the hell was done coming or still coming when I came, a different kind of orgasm this time, more like a guy’s orgasm – jerk-jerk-jerk and then a bigger, harder jerk, a huge Mighty-Mouse Here-I-Come-to-Save-the-Day finale with a big cry of triumph. And then, absolutely drained, I collapsed like a ragdoll between my men.
Sid and Joseph held me between them until they slipped out. Slid out, really. Don’t even ask me about the liquids . . .
We slept till three o’clock in the afternoon.
So that’s it. My fantasy fulfilled. It more than lived up to expectations. It was easily the greatest, most intense physical sexual experience I’ve ever had.
Occasionally Joseph and I relive the event. We recall the details; I tell him how I felt, he tells me how he felt, and every time we talk about it we get more deeply into the nuances of those feelings. We talk to turn ourselves on, and it always works.
Now and then Joseph fucks me in the ass, but not that often: it’s always a novelty. Sometimes we do it when I have my period. Or when we’re in Europe. There’s no special reason for that: we’re just in the mood for it in Europe.
Sid’s with us in spirit then, but in body it’s just the two of us.
Sitting Uncomfortably
Sarah Veitch
Model Tenants Incorporated had few rules, but the rules which it did have were strictly adhered to. Linda was told this when she applied for evening work there.
“Are you always punctual?” the interviewer asked.
Linda hesitated, then reminded herself that people invariably lied at interviews. “Oh, yes, Miss Breeson. I detest lateness in others,” she replied, forcing her lightly-glossed lips into an amenable grin.
There was a silence. The interviewer seemed to be not so much looking at her as looking through her. Linda glanced at the desk and squirmed in her seat. “In fact, if anything I’m usually too early,” she babbled on. “Sometimes I’m so punctual for my night class that I end up helping the tutor to arrange the chairs.”
“At least you talk a lot,” the older woman said drily. “That helps show potential burglars that the property is occupied. You can talk to yourself as much as you like while you work.”
She went on to explain exactly what the Model Tenants agency did. “Basically you house-sit when a property’s owners are away for a week or two. You only work for a few hours at a time so it’s not too restricting, but you don’t leave till another employee comes along to relieve you of your shift.”
“And I just sit there?” Linda queried, unable to believe that she wa
s to be paid so handsomely for so little output.
“Well, you switch lights on and off at irregular intervals. You put on the TV and radio in various parts of the house.”
“Sounds like a home from home,” the blonde girl joked. Again she saw that the vaguely masculine-looking interviewer wasn’t smiling. Miss Breeson’s demeanour spoke business, from the unadorned cut of her navy skirt suit to her feather-cut dark hair.
One week later Linda began her new evening job. It sounded foolproof. By day she worked her usual hours as a market researcher. By 6 p.m. she was ensconced in the otherwise unoccupied hotel or sprawling house. There she played music and switched on and off the conversational tapes and watched television. At midnight she went to bed. By 8 a.m. the next day one of the other guards arrived to start the day shift, and Linda left the house in his or her capable hands.
But excitement soon turns to apathy. Newness dulls into routine. After a few nights Linda was bored with looking at the oil paintings and Chinese statues she was supposed to be guarding. She wanted dancing, drinking, life. She could sneak out of the back door and hurry along to the Mon Ami Club for an hour, she told herself, brightening. Her best friend worked in the cocktail lounge there. If she kept the lights on in the house and left her car outside then potential burglars would never know she’d sneaked away.
She went. The music was soft but the drink was harder. The hour stretched into two hours, as it usually does when you’re having fun. Half-laughing to herself as she remembered her friend’s gossip, Linda eventually returned to the Tudor-style house. Quietly she let herself in the triple-locked front door and strolled nonchalantly into the living room – then she screamed.
Miss Breeson sat there on the long leather couch. She was staring off into the middle distance. “You’ve let the firm down badly, my dear. You’ll have to be punished,” she said.
“Miss Breeson! I didn’t mean to . . . I . . . em . . . had a headache so went for a walk,” Linda muttered faintly.
“If a guard needs to leave the house there’s a procedure to follow, as you well know,” her boss replied.
The drill involved phoning Head Office to ask for a replacement guard to be sent. Linda cleared her throat. “I . . . uh . . . didn’t think about the rules for a few moments.”
“And Model Tenants doesn’t employ unthinking people. I’ll have your P45 ready by next weekend.”
Linda stood, dismayed, in the centre of the room. She stared at her boss’s somewhat Teutonic features. She’d heard rumours that the woman was attracted to slim fair-haired girls like herself. Now she wondered if a little flirtation would make all the difference. She had to keep this job.
Slowly she sidled over to the elongated couch, shrugged her jacket and shoes off, then sat next to the older woman, thigh side to thigh side. Her sand-washed silk dress looked very girlish beside MissBreeson’s black denim suit
“I’d love to make amends,” Linda whispered ambiguously.
“In that case,” the older woman retorted, “get that disobedient young arse over my knee.”
There was a pause, an even more awkward pause than Linda remembered from her interview. The woman had unnerved her then – but she was positively shaming her now!
“You mean you’re going to . . .?” she started, but couldn’t bring herself to add the words “spank me”.
“I’m going to turn your arse the colour of a Macintosh Red apple,” Miss Breeson replied.
Linda stared at the carpeted ground. She tried to think of some clever wordplay about fruit but her imagination failed her. Instead, she began playing desperately for time. “How about if you give me extra unpaid shifts?” she asked.
“You’re incapable of meeting your current work tasks, so I hardly want to entrust you with extra hours,” her employer answered.
“Dock my wages, then, Miss?”
“Either you accept that this is your last wage or you bare your bum.”
Another laboured silence ensued. Linda looked at her boss’s firm hands. She looked at the hem of her own silk dress and imagined it being lifted. She tried to remember which panties she had on.
“Just a . . . a few smacks and I keep my job?” she queried breathlessly, trying not to picture such a scenario.
“Just two well-thrashed cheeks and you get to continue working for me,” Miss Breeson confirmed.
Linda knew that she really needed this evening job. It had lifted her out of debt and was indeed now providing luxuries. And how many people got paid to live in wonderful Tudor-style houses filled with intricate antiques?
“All right,” she said in a dazed small voice. Then she quivered as the stronger woman rolled both her sleeves up and pulled Linda over her dauntingly muscular knee.
For a few moments she lay there breathing heavily as her employer told her how bad she’d been and stroked her dress-sheathed buttocks.
“I’d like you to answer ‘Yes, ma’am,’ when appropriate,” Miss Breeson added sternly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Linda muttered, gritting her teeth with humiliation. Her face burned at the thought of the spanking which was to ensue.
Miss Breeson was obviously thinking of the spanking too. Leastways she said, “Let’s lift this skirt up.” Linda closed her eyes more tightly as she felt the lower half of her dress being lifted away from her bottom and thighs. It was a warm August night so she wasn’t wearing any stockings. Now all that there was between this woman’s hard palm and her own soft bum was her lace-edged flimsy pants. “After the skirt goes up, the pants come down,” the older woman continued matter-of-factly. The 25-year-old skulked ashamedly on her tummy as she felt her briefs being dragged down her thighs.
“Mmm, quite a spankable looking spread,” Miss Breeson continued, hoisting Linda’s backside more firmly onto her lap. “It’s small, but those little round cheeks are nicely fleshy in the centre.” She fondled both spheres as she spoke, and Linda groaned. “Ask me to spank this bum hard if you value your employment,” the forty-something woman continued. Linda forced out the words then moaned some more. An hour ago she’d been laughing and dancing at a club – now she was across this woman’s lap with a totally bare bottom. Her only consolation was that no one else could see.
But she herself could certainly feel. She gasped as a heavy palm lashed down on one fair cheek. She was just recovering her breath when the woman smacked her other pale round buttock. Linda automatically reached her hands back to protect herself as the woman started up a veritable tattoo.
“Ah, ow, that hurts!” she muttered, trying to pull her employer’s hands away. Those same hands caught her wrists and brought them together behind her back.
“I’d hoped that you’d be obedient,” Miss Breeson said softly, “but as you’re not I’ll have to tie your naughty hands out of the way.”
“But that hurts my shoulders!” Linda protested as the woman started to wind something round both wrists, thus imprisoning her hands above her buttocks.
“I’ll tie your hands in front, then,” the older woman said conversationally. “The only thing I want to hurt is your bum.”
She half-lifted Linda and set her on the floor, then took hold of her arms and tied them loosely before her. “That’s better,” she said with obvious satisfaction. “Now we won’t have any little fingers trying to shield those naughty globes.”
“Please don’t make the other spanks so hard,” Linda pleaded piteously as her boss hauled her over her firm knee again. Her rotundities trembled.
“When you’ve failed in your work duties and potentially brought my firm into disrepute? I have to make the remaining spanks very harsh indeed.”
Miss Breeson raised her palm. Linda buried her face in the leather couch. She wished that her bum wasn’t such a vulnerable target. She howled as her employer began to whack alternate buttocks again. “Oh, please,” she spluttered, writhing helplessly on her silken belly. She kicked the little she could with her equally bare slim legs. Why didn’t Miss Breeson fondle her breasts o
r peek at her blonde-haired pudenda? Why was she so obsessed with beating her disarmed writhing bum? Linda moved her hips from side to side. She pressed her belly into the ungiving lap beneath her. She tried to pull in her buttock muscles to make each cheek a smaller target, but to no avail.
Then suddenly Miss Breeson stopped. “I think this arse and I should have a little chat,” she said coolly.
Linda nodded, then uttered a belated. “Whatever you want.”
“Is the arse sorry that it left its post without permission?” the older woman murmured.
“Oh yes, ma’am,” Linda said. She searched for the words which would grant her release from her supine state. “This bad bum is truly humbled and will never again leave a house it’s supposed to guard.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Miss Breeson said matter-of-factly. “Now we just have to punish it for its earlier lies.”
Linda felt her heart sink. Her reddened hemispheres jerked of their own volition. They were already invested with a rosy glow.
“What lies did I tell, ma’am?” she whispered raggedly.
“That arse lied about having a headache,” her employer retorted, “when in truth it went to a nearby club.”
“You watched me?” Linda asked weakly, knowing that her bottom was in for a further warming.
“Of course I did. We at Model Tenants have to keep a firm eye on our trainees,” the dominant woman replied. She reached for a plump cushion and pushed it under the younger girl’s lower tum. “Let’s get that backside raised to its very utmost.”
“Please have mercy,” Linda whispered, puckering up her anguished flesh.
But her boss seemed to have a pre-determined number of spanks in mind. Leastways she whacked at Linda’s lower curves and at her middle cheeks, ignoring her gasped-out promises that she would do better. She spanked the dark divide of the girl’s posterior. She smacked the delicate fold at her nether thighs.
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