“Yes, naughty girl, come for me.”
The keening, screaming feminine noise that is flowing down the phone into my ear just makes me erupt. I roar loudly as mycum explodes from my cock. It splatters on my stomach and over my fingers and I wonder what she looks like, post orgasm.
“Fuck Tina.” I pant.
“Exactly,” she purrs back. “Thanks Pete. I needed that.”
“No Thank you. Damn woman you’re hot.”
She giggles and I can visualise the blush on her cheeks.
“Pete. I’m gonna go sleep now. I feel so calm and relaxed. You don’t mind do you?”
“Of course not, love. Sweet dreams.”
“You too, can I call you tomorrow?”
“Sure, you can.” Making up porn with Tina was more fun than surfing for it, any day.
Valentine
Vanessa de Sade
Valentine runs away to join the circus but finds a fulfilment she didn’t expect....
She stood breathing in the shadow of the heavy velvet drapes listening to the ringmaster introduce her, the bone-white sawdust clinging to her bare feet like hoar frost in winter. And the very feel of it made her shiver, though the air was warm and heady with the scents of popcorn and frying onions, interlaced with the baser, more animal smell of the big cats who had pawed angrily around the ring just ten minutes earlier, their defiant amber eyes heeding only the sharp crack of Captain Zero’s razor-like whip.
“From the jungles of the Congo and the blue waters of the Nile,” The Great Sonaro was crying to the gaping crowd, “more fearless than a gladiator, more beautiful than Cleopatra herself, I bring you Princess Zara, the crocodile woman!”
The band struck up a chord and then launched into the reedy aphrodisiac whine of the Little Egypt theme which was her cue, and she felt the familiar rush of adrenalin as the huge sparkling tabs swung open and the spotlight picked her out, tall and proud like a Zulu warrior, her long muscular legs athletic and sinewy, her naked feet on point like a ballet dancer. Mother Guttenberg had designed a special cloak for her entrance, made of ancient midnight blue velvet with hundreds and thousands of tiny glass beads sewn into its weave so that it shimmered when she walked, the whole costume set off with thickly encrusted gold epaulets gleaming like old treasure chests on her proud shoulders.
“A warrior princess captured in the depth of the mighty Amazonian jungle,” Sonaro’s voice boomed out over the seductive beat of the music, “where she cavorted naked in the tropical forests and daily fought the savage beasts of the Congo in a deadly battle for survival.”
She was central in the ring now and the music had faded into a drum roll as she raised her athlete’s arms just as the old woman had instructed, the follow spot narrowing down to blot out all but her lithe young body as every eye focused on her trembling fingers fumbling with the catch at her throat. “Ladies and gentlemen, cover your children’s eyes, I give you the primal naked savage of the Congo, the legendary Crocodile Woman of the Mekononga River, her royal highness, Princess Zara!” And then the fastener was undone and the cloak fell to the ground and she stood nude before them, an ecstatic gasp ringing out around the rows and rows of country bumpkins as a little girl’s voice exclaimed, “Mummy, that lady’s naked!”
Endless church committees had tried to have her banned, and petty officials from every county council in the land had frowned over their spectacles as Guttenberg’s advance parties had plastered the walls of derelict factories and bomb sites with lurid posters of her undulating nude body. But old Mother Guttenberg had always allayed their fears by a showing of the costume, an intricate work of art in mocha sateen, hand-sculpted to fit her by a fleet of blind gypsy seamstresses and gilded with sequins so fine that it shimmered like the body paint the trapeze artists applied to their limbs. But she never let the committees see the girl in the skin-tight leotard until it was too late and the crowds were assembled and gawping, every man’s cock up like a tent pole, every woman wet and remembering fumbled kisses with best friends on hot and sticky summer nights.
And she stalked through the sawdust like a predatory panther as the swell of the orchestra became deafening, feeling the sexual tension in the big tent like a pulse as men and women alike devoured her with their eyes. And then the familiar gasp that was more like a moan when the lights came up and they saw the ultimate thrill revealed. Its ominous bulk like a giant jar of formaldehyde in a freak show tent; a ten foot tall rusted iron frame supporting a foreboding glass aquarium of thick green water the colour of absinth, but alive with the glint of yellowed teeth and topaz eyes lurking in its murky depths.
“The crocodiles are hungry, ladies and gentlemen,” Sonaro’s voice boomed as he watched her mount the ladder, her firm pointed breasts nippleless but oh so naked nevertheless. “We keep them so deliberately. They can snap your limbs with one bite of their mighty jaws, sever your neck like a razor. So, absolute silence, please, for the Princess Zara as she prepares to dive into their midst...”
They gasp again, and there’s a quick intake of breath as if the entire tent is on the brink of coming and any slight squeeze or touch will throw them over the brink and have everything sticky and wet. Then there’s the barest caress of the snare drum, like a locomotive speeding along a track on a frosty night, its song building up to a pulsing rumble and then a scream as she dives, her smooth ebony body cleaving through the green water of the tank like a knife, flashes of crocodile skin and bubbles as she flips like a dolphin, threading through the minefield of glinting eyes and rapier-like teeth, a symphony of foam and limbs and claws as the beasts greet her as one of their own and join in her aquatic ballet of death.
And the music is loud and triumphant now as she soars out of the bubbling mire like an obsidian Venus ascending, her nipples hard from the cold of the water, the wet costume clinging to her and showing every secret curve and camel toe as she takes her bow, wet and gleaming, the entire audience up on its feet and lusting for her.
“Princess Zara,” Sonaro repeats, his voice a heavy pounding sound like the roar of blood in her ears each time she emerges from that death trap unscathed. “Captured royalty from the dark continent, harnessed, angry and naked for your pleasure like all of the other savage beasts of the famous Guttenberg Brothers’ Circus!”
***
Of course, she was not a princess and she had never set foot in either Africa or the Amazon. She had been born Valentine Elizabeth Margaret on the 14th of February, 1950, at St Kitts in the West Indies, and had been named in honour of the day and the two beautiful princesses of England. Her father was a carpenter, her mother a cook, and they lived in a tiny house by the azure blue ocean with a fine tin roof and whitewashed plaster walls. And life should have been idyllic but her father was an ambitious man and dreamed of walking, like Dick Whittington, through the city of London where the streets were paved with gold, and so when Valentine was only two years old the family boarded a steamer for England and the guarantee of a hospital porter’s job.
The reality, however, was somewhat different with the promised employment never materialising, and after two years in a cramped basement in Notting Hill he went out for cigarettes one freezing February morning and never returned, leaving Valentine’s mother alone to fend for her small child in this inhospitable land many miles away from the security of her family structure back home.
It was a crushing blow for a young woman already struggling, but she soldiered on stoically for her daughter’s sake, feigning indifference to the malicious whispers of her unwelcoming neighbours as she trudged to her under-paid cleaning jobs early each morning. However, on February fourteenth 1968, Valentine’s eighteenth birthday, she announced that enough was enough and that she was going back home, and her daughter was ready to follow her when the Guttenberg Brothers came to town and stole her sad heart from under her on that fateful Valentine’s Day.
***
> There were always hopefuls in every town, usually girls, and all of them hungry for adventure and imagining that they would find it in circus life. And, of course, he knew that they wouldn’t, and that if he was ever to be mad enough to take any of them on they wouldn’t last more than a day or two at most, and, damn it, times were hard. Back in his father’s day it had been easier to find things to amaze the hicks. Two-headed babies, lions, tigers, women in skimpy clothes. But nowadays he had to compete with bare tits on television and free love and men on the fucking moon, for fuck’s sake, so please don’t come to me on Valentine’s Day with your bleeding hearts and tell me that you want to join the fucking circus.
But the Jamaican girl was different. Sexy as hell and ripe for plucking, but with a fire and a dignity that marked her as something more than easy prey. Sonaro had been tempted before but had always managed to keep his dick firmly in his pants, but knew that he’d have to tread very, very carefully with this one.
“So, what can you do?” he’d asked gruffly, looking her up and down, her hair cut short and sculpted to her head, the tiny red, green and yellow tee shirt riding up just enough to show her taut belly button, and then those skin-tight yellow jeans. Fuck, he’d died and gone to heaven.
“I can dance a bit, some gymnastics, swim...” she’d said, sounding unsure of herself but defiant at the same time, as if daring him to find fault or put her to the test.
Sonaro’s head jerked up. “Swim? Can you dive? I need someone who looks good and can dive.”
“I can dive,” she said. Emphatically.
***
The water in the tank was thick and cloudy but she could still see them circling like something out of a bad dream. Like the flying furies in the pantomime one year when she was tiny, and even with the tell-tale hiss of wires from the fly tower she had believed that they were real and had screamed out to Peter Pan to beware.
“You have to be kidding,” she said, dumbfounded, but Sonaro shook his head.
“The trick is in the dive,” he explained matter-of-factly, “if you go in and out cleanly they won’t touch you.”
“Uh-huh. And what happened to the last girl?”
“She didn’t dive cleanly.”
Valentine looked at the water and the gleaming yellow eyes. “I haven’t got a suit with me,” she said tonelessly.
“You don’t need one,” he’d replied, equally flatly.
***
She slithered out of her clothes in an instant like a lizard shucking its skin, and there was a haughty pride to her as she walked naked across the sawdust and mounted the ladder, knowing full well that he would have a grandstand view of her tight slit as she ascended. And her body was magnificent, skin like the blackest chocolate ever blended, small high pointed beasts with nipples like black olives, stomach like a washboard, and her cunt... Fuck, he had never seen one like it. A taut high pudenda, short dark hair but thick, oh so thick, like the jungle that had grown up around the Sleeping Beauty’s castle, thorny and impenetrable but worth the effort. And that ass. Poetry, pure poetry.
“A clean dive? That’s all?” She was standing on the little platform above the water, looking calm but the rise and fall of those pert little tits was giving away her fear. Or was it her excitement?
He nodded, nonchalant, but watching her like a hawk. Of course, she would never go through with it.
***
She could see him standing there studying her from the ground, pretending that he was above it but his feet making those little horse-like movements in the sawdust. He was dressed in an old sweater on top, but he had been rehearsing with the bareback riders all morning and still had on his tight white ringmaster’s pants below, and she could see the shape of his big hard cock under them as if he was already naked. Valentine smiled. She liked getting guys up, loved to watch her beauty changing their very bodies. It gave her a warm feeling of power, as if she could do magic. Voodoo, like her grandmother was supposed to be good at. Well, grandma, I hope you’re rooting for me now, she thought, as she took a deep breath and dived into the deadly brew, her cunt already wet at the thought of the danger and the hot hard cock of her audience of one.
***
He let out a cry as she cleaved into the water like a blade, saw the ripple of her inky skin through the thick glass as she swam through the teeth and claws like an enchanted mermaid. And then she back was on the ladder, looking down on him as she dripped water, trembling with cold and adrenaline and something else. Arousal.
“You idiot! Get down here!” he yelled, realising that he was shaking, and he grabbed a horse blanket and tried to wrap her in it but she shoved it aside and stood there naked and trembling beside him. Pushing him down to his knees.
“I’ve never been so turned-on in all my life,” she groaned. “Eat me! Push your tongue deep in my slit and lick me out, suck all my juices, taste my arousal and my fear...”
And the water was running from her in rivulets and making a damp patch in the sawdust as he grovelled at her feet, and she tasted of the beasts at first, but then her own musk began to prevail and he kissed her thick tight bush lustily, her cunt hot with arousal as his tongue felt her heat and then tasted her salty sweetness.
“Fuck, you know how to get a girl hot,” she moaned, thrashing hither and thither as he licked, her big ass squashed against the cold glass of the crocodile tank. “That’s right, taste me, I’m sweeter than honey, salty as the sea. Now stroke my clit with your tongue, yes, that’s right, tease it, feel how hard it is with your finger tip. Perfect. Now suck it. Slowly, it’s not a cock, just take your time and I’ll come beautifully for you and cover your face with my hot and sticky spendings...”
And Sonaro’s head was moving with her rhythm by now, mouth fucking her eager pussy as if they’d been lovers for years and they’d done this a million times before, one hand on her flank, the other in her ass crack, teasing at her tight little starfish as she started to come, her hips swaying with it as she thrust her cunt into his face, smothering him as the orgasm wracked her and tossed her around like a ship in a storm, her thick musky spendings all over his mouth and face as she came again and again and again...
***
She pulled him roughly to his feet and threw him against the glass as she ripped the buttons off his trousers and pulled them to his ankles, his cock springing up like a huge beast, his pale skin snowy white on his legs, dark on his shaft, his thick mop of pubic hair undulating from sandy brown to flame red.
“No, not like this, I want to fuck you!” he gasped.
“Later, I can’t wait that long,” she barked back, going right down and taking him deep into her mouth and sucking hard, swallowing him up, tasting him, making him her own.
And he groaned like a school boy as his cock slid out of her big full lips, slick with moisture and saliva and pre-come, and then she took him deftly between two fingers and began to work him up and down. Not fast, but very, very hard and he knew that it would only be a matter of minutes, if not seconds.
“So, my man, will you be my Valentine?” she asked, planting butterfly kisses on his monster when he didn’t reply, licking up all the tiny pearls of semen that formed around the deep little slit on his prick like a hungry animal.
“Are you mine?” she repeated, pressing the head of his cock firmly between her slim fingers, feeling him shiver.
And he was lost. “Yes, I’m yours,” he finally breathed, making to throw his head back and close his eyes as he came, but she shook him alert and made him watch as his cock erupted and covered her dark skin with huge globules of his translucent white spunk, soaking her face and her breasts and her hair, binding her to him in their unholy ritual of the flesh.
“Just think. I’ll do that to you after every dive,” she promised quietly. For it seemed that Guttenberg Brothers’ Circus had found a new star.
The Sp
oon
Rigel Madsong
A chance meeting, lunch and the magic of a spoon lead the way to romance
“Let’s see how sexy a spoon can be,” he said.
He had walked into the downtown office of Barniky and Garfield, sauntered the long hallway past the desk where the legal assistants sat, then turned to the project board. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the red blush of a string of construction paper hearts someone had cut remembering the little tricks of kindergarten and paper and scissors. Valentine’s day later this week. His eyes kept on moving. He was not in the mood for Valentine’s day.
He surveyed the board. Turned away, glanced at the assistant’s desk, then back at the board.
A young woman watched him a few seconds and then approached.
“May I help you?”
“I’m looking for Castillo.” He pronounced the name with the American “LL” sound.
She came and stood by his side, pausing within his left shoulder as they viewed the board. He was acutely aware of her nearness. . . it felt like old friends, family, a long ago lover maybe. He puzzled at her affectionate position within the intimacy of his outer circle. A sizzle coursed his chest.
She reached above her head, stretched her arm and tapped the board. “Here he is.”
She turned and looked directly at him while keeping her finger on the name Castillo, her torso twisted in his direction. “It’s Castillo,” she said, applying the lilting Y sound to the Spanish double “LL.” Then she removed her finger, walked around behind him and stood at his other side, again within his shoulder.
He examined her. A trace of the Mediterranean. Black hair, thin face, prominent cheekbones, a small but prominent chin. She was close enough to have his arm around her. She smiled under the pressure of his gaze.
“Ah, the native language,” he said. “So much better.”
She nodded.
XOXO Page 5