Watching Me, Watching You

by Gwennan Thomas

  It must feel like he is fucking himself.

  Again, I am tempted to share the experience but force myself to hold back. I will chose my moment, ride the rush, maximise the impact.

  Greg is losing control. Steve too. The rhythm builds and I can wait no longer. I jump into Steve – no, Greg – no, Steve. I realise I am being buffeted back and forth between them. Greg slams into me and I overflow with pleasure. Steve’s moans send heat racing through me and I work my cock even deeper, pump my hand even faster. Steve wraps his legs around me and pulls me to an impossible depth and I am gasping, yelling, coming with a force I have never known before. Then I am Steve again and I too am coming harder, more violently than I have with any woman.

  And then I am evicted by the sheer force of their climax, their energy too much even for me. But I don’t mind, as I duck and dive between them, writhing and rolling in the swirling, white hot energy that pours from them.

  What a rush. What a fucking rush.

  I love this planet. I love humans. The scope of your emotions, your limitless imaginations. And those fantastic bodies you take so much for granted.

  Steve and Greg rest, entwined, unable to believe their luck at finally finding each other. But as the sweat cools on their bodies, already I am restless. Already I crave more.

  Without a backward glance I glide towards the door and out into the night air. There I look up and down the empty street.

  All those closed doors. So much going on behind them.

  Who knows? Maybe I’ll visit your street next?

  Cheating Made Easy

  by Lynn Lake

  We’d invited Jiri and his wife, Ivanka, over for a barbeque. They attended the same church we did, lived just a couple of streets over, and since they were fairly new to the country (as well as the church and the neighbourhood), Roger thought it would be a good idea to get to know them better. He wants to go to Europe at some point in time, so he was interested in learning more about the Czech culture from the couple.

  Well, it didn’t take him long to see what a loving, open culture it is. Because, while we were in the kitchen preparing the salad and prepping the steaks, Roger suddenly said to me, ‘Hey, look, Beatrice. They can’t keep their hands off one another.’

  I dropped the salad tongs and moved over to where Roger was standing, peered over his shoulder. Sure enough, Jiri and Ivanka were passionately kissing one another in our backyard.

  They were seated at the picnic table on the patio right next to our deck, facing one another, their arms wrapped around each other, their mouths locked together. Roger and I could see it all clearly through the tinted, plate-glass picture window that looks out onto the backyard. I gripped my husband’s shoulder and followed after him, as he moved out of the kitchen and into our open dining room, closer to the window, to get an even better, more close-up view of the action heating up under the hot summer sun in our backyard.

  Jiri and Ivanka are both tall and lean and blond and blue-eyed. In fact, they look more like brother and sister than husband and wife. They have high cheekbones and full lips, long, smooth limbs and taut, mounded bottoms; Ivanka a pair of high, firm-looking breasts. But while they may look like siblings, they sure weren’t acting like it, kissing up a storm at the picnic table.

  ‘Those two are hungry – and not just for barbeque,’ my husband remarked, his eyes glued to the sexy scene.

  I bit my lip, my fingernails biting into Roger’s shoulder, watching Jiri slide his hands off Ivanka’s back and around onto her breasts. He squeezed her tits, their tongues flashing together. And she dropped a tanned, slender hand down into the man’s lap, pumped his obviously hard cock up and down in his jeans.

  ‘Boy oh boy!’ Roger breathed, gripping the back of a dining room chair.

  Jiri cast a quick glance over his shoulder but he couldn’t see us through the tinted glass, with the sun so bright. And I don’t know if he thought we couldn’t see him, or what, but he pulled the green tank top his wife was wearing out of her jeans and rolled it up over her breasts, exposing the woman’s tan, conical boobs. Then he grasped the bared pair, plied the hot flesh, bent his head down and lashed a pointed, caramel nipple with his wet, pink tongue.

  ‘Boy oh boy oh boy!’ Roger yelped. ‘Maybe we’d better take the food out before all their clothes come off? It isn’t that kind of buffet, is it?’

  He looked back at me, at my glaring violet eyes which were fastened upon the pair of lovers. Still pinioning his shoulder with one hand, I slid my other one around his waist and onto his crotch, gripped his cock and pumped it like Ivanka was pumping her husband’s shaft.

  Roger jerked, and gulped. His erection was as hard as iron, forged out to its full length in the front of his pants. I shifted my hand up and down, feeling the throbbing heat, adding to it. My pussy was a wet mess in my white short-shorts, my nipples pricking into Roger’s back with arousal.

  Our breathing became heavy and ragged, as we watched Jiri suck one of Ivanka’s jutting nipples into his mouth, tug hard on it with his red lips, do the same to her other stiffened nipple. She tilted her head back and we could almost hear her moan, her blonde hair streaming down her arched back, her one hand digging into Jiri’s shoulder, the other pumping his jeaned cock.

  Jiri sucked, tongued his wife’s tits, bit into her nipples. Her boobs shone at the trembling tips with the man’s saliva, the flesh reddened where he applied his hands in vigorous groping. I ground my pussy into Roger’s heaped buttocks, pumping against him, tugging on his hard-on, pressing against his big, strong, hot body. He gripped the back of the chair with both hands, his knuckles burning white. Then we both groaned, when Ivanka shook her tits free of her husband’s hands and mouth and freed his cock from his pants, dipped her blonde head down and took the swelled-up tip of Jiri’s enormous dong into her wet, red mouth and sucked on it.

  My fingernails dug into my husband’s cock, palm pumping harder, my breath rasping in his burning red ear. I thumped my brimming pussy against his butt, rubbing my tits up and down his back in rhythm. He swallowed hard and pulled his hands off the chair and tore his pants open, freeing his cock to my gripping, ripping hand.

  I jacked his bare erection, stroking and twisting up from his ginger-dusted balls to the bloated hood of his raging cock, giving him a heated handjob to match the torrid blowjob Ivanka was giving her husband. Because the woman was making no bones about it now, bobbing her head, inhaling Jiri’s cock three-quarters of the way down and then sucking back up his gleaming, veiny shaft. He played with her tits with one hand, rubbing her pussy through her tan shorts with the other, as she sucked his cock with an urgent passion.

  I guess they were racing against time, thinking Roger and I were going to pop out of the back door at any moment and spoil their early-evening delight. Although I’m not sure they would’ve stopped even if we had.

  But we had no intention of interrupting their sex show. Instead, we were feeding off it. I pulled on Roger’s prick, jammed my other hand up under his T-shirt and pulled on one of his rigid nipples. He grunted, pumping his hips to thrust his cock back and forth in my shunting hand, reaching back to plant a palm of his own on my sodden pussy and rub it. Like Jiri was rubbing his wife’s pussy.

  Our hands moved faster and faster, timed to Ivanka’s excited cocksucking, Jiri’s heavy petting. Her blonde hair flew, her red lips blazing up and down his cock. He yanked one of her nipples out taut, snapped it back, his hand a blur on her pussy.

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ I hissed in my husband’s ear, riding his rubbing hand, wildly tugging on his cock.

  Jiri jerked. Roger spasmed. Semen spilled out of Ivanka’s sucking mouth. Semen shot out of Roger’s cock, my wrist burning as I torqued out the hot, sticky ropes. Then Ivanka shuddered, bucked on the picnic table, Jiri’s jumping hand shooting her full of ecstasy like he was shooting out his joy into her mouth.

  ‘Oh God, Jiri!’ I cried, shivering with my own wild orgasm, Roger’s flying fingers and the super-erotic visual stimul
ation making me come as hard as my hunky husband and the handsome pair of lovers outside.

  The food tasted all the better because of what we’d all gone through. We didn’t say a word about what we’d witnessed to Jiri and Ivanka, but they must have sensed our satisfied satiation. Because they extended an invitation to us to come over to their house the following evening, where they’d play host – first in their backyard, and then in their bedroom.

  I was more than a little hesitant at first. But Roger was more than eager and willing. Especially when Ivanka stripped off her sheer yellow summer dress and stretched out on her back on their bed, naked. I could see the excitement in his big blue eyes, bulging the front of his black pants, as Ivanka spread her long, lithe legs and gripped her ripe, succulent tits. And Jiri shed his clothes and dived in between his wife’s legs, started licking her blonde-fuzzed pussy.

  Ivanka moaned, then smiled at Roger and me. ‘You come share your love with us, too?’ she said, looking from Roger to me.

  The guy was already stripping off his shirt and shoes, pants and briefs and socks, anxious to experience Jiri and Ivanka’s “culture” of open, uninhibited sex. I saw no harm, just much pleasure, as long as we kept to our own partners. And the sight of Jiri lapping at his wife’s pussy, his cute bubble-butt stuck up in the air, burned away any other inhibitions I might have.

  Roger helped me off with my dress and bra and panties and sandals, helped me lie down next to the lovely Ivanka. She and her husband had a large bed, built for multiple partners. Ivanka grasped my hand, as Roger pushed my legs apart and dove tongue-first into my pussy.

  I moaned, my eyelashes and pussy fluttering. It wasn’t often that Roger performed oral sex on me but the guy was obviously inspired – by the nude Ivanka so close, by the lewd tongue action Jiri was laying down on her pussy. He was slurping his wife’s slit full-length, painting her sex with wide, dragging strokes. Roger replicated, tonguing up my twat. It was quite the performance, all right. I squeezed Ivanka’s hand, staring down over my heaving breasts at the two men.

  They lapped our pussies, dazzling our senses. Then Jiri popped Ivanka’s pink clit up between his fingers and sucked on it. Her fingernails bit into my hand. She thrashed her blonde head back and forth, arching her taut body up into her husband’s mouth. Roger pinched my clit between his blunt fingers and blew on the button, then took it between his thick lips and sucked.

  I tremored, squealed, my entire body flooding with a wet heat that made me dizzy and desirous. So much so that when Ivanka turned her head my way and kissed me on the cheek, I turned my head and kissed her on the lips. Her mouth was moist and soft and warm. We pressed our lips together, our husbands sucking on our clits. Her tongue darted deep into my mouth and I welcomed it, along with her hand cupping and squeezing one of my breasts.

  Our amorous girl-girl adventures impassioned our hunky hubbies still more. Jiri jumped on top of Ivanka, plunged his cock into her mouth and juice-wettened pussy. She moaned into my mouth, then turned her head and took Jiri’s tongue in hers, as his cock pumped into her pussy. Roger was quickly on top of me, inside of me, stretching and stuffing my overstimulated pussy with his big cock. The men fucked Ivanka and me, all four of us bouncing together on the bed.

  I’d always thought sex was something you did in private – one-on-one. But I had to admit, as I twined my tongue around Roger’s, thrilled to the beat of his cock drilling deep into my pussy, and watched Jiri fuck his wife, that there was much to be said about sharing one’s passion for each other with others. The situation was incendiary, the sensations incredible; making love next to another couple making love.

  Jiri pulled out of his wife and turned her over. Ivanka sprang up on her hands and knees on the bed, thrusting out her butt at her husband. He grinned at me and Roger, and then ploughed his glistening organ into Ivanka’s pussy from behind, gripping her hips and fucking her. She grasped the bedspread and urged him on, rocking back and forth.

  Roger couldn’t follow sexual suit fast enough. In no time at all, he was banging me from behind, cocking me in the doggy position. I gripped Ivanka’s clutching hand, kissed her bouncing mouth. The passion was as intense as I’d ever experienced.

  The men pumped us harder and faster, smashing into our butt cheeks, pounding into our pussies. I had my eyes closed and my teeth clenched. Then, all of a sudden, the fucking abruptly stopped, leaving me and Ivanka empty and speechless on the wallowing bed … until I felt a cock re-enter my gaping cunt, and Ivanka twisted her head around and smiled.

  ‘Fuck her, Jiri!’ she implored him. ‘Fuck our good friend, Beatrice!’

  That’s when I twisted my own head around, and saw Jiri in behind me, grinning. It was his huge member swelling my tunnel, surging back and forth. And I saw my husband, also grinning, as he inserted his erection into Ivanka’s pussy, and drove it home.

  I wasn’t sure what to think, nor how to react. But there was no time for deep thoughts, nor any course of action other than to hang on, because Jiri was blasting his thighs against my buttocks, pistoning pleasure into my pussy with his thundering cock. It was wicked, wild, amazing. Getting fucked by Ivanka’s hung, handsome husband. How could I deny my man the evil pleasure of fucking Jiri’s wife?

  Ivanka and I entwined our fingers again, holding on to one another, jerking together with the pounding beat of the cocks in our pussies – her husband’s cock in my cunt, my husband’s cock in her cunt. We kissed, frenched, our men’s grunting and groaning sounding over the smack of flesh against flesh. They were racing one another again, driving into us, each wanting to be the first to make the other man’s wife come on the end of his cock.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, the steamy pressure building and building inside of me, stoked higher and higher by Jiri’s pole hammering into me from behind. His fingers dug into my fleshy waist, his wiry thighs thumping against my gyrating buttocks. And then I heard him roar, felt his cock jump inside me, spurt. He thrust wildly, spraying my tunnel with heated juices. It was more than I could endure.

  I screamed, shuddered, blazing with my own unleashed utter joy. I quivered violently on the end of Jiri’s shooting cock, surging molten with ecstasy. I vaguely heard Ivanka shriek, and Roger bellow, as they shared their own brutal, beautiful orgasms.

  Everything was going fine; fantastic, in fact. I didn’t mind Roger having sex with Jiri’s wife, as long as I was there to share in the erotic experience. But then, one night, Jiri suggested that we all go to a “party” at a friend’s house. Apparently, there would be about a dozen other couples there, all willing and wanting to wantonly share.

  I was furious at the guy. You see, I’d been having an affair with Jiri for over three months, long before he and Ivanka had got together with Roger and me as a couple. And I sure as hell didn’t want him cheating on me with anybody but his wife. That was just taking the concept of “openness” to the point where marriage has no meaning at all any more.

  To where forbidden fruit becomes tasteless.

  Come Underground

  by Demelza Hart

  The doors of the end carriage shut with that inevitable, inimitable judder and swish, and the Tube train moves out of the easternmost station on the Central Line, heading west. With a lurch of the carriage, I sway on my heels and sit quickly.

  As usual, I haven’t managed to escape the office before 10 p.m.; next month’s edition is proving temperamental. I settle myself and glance around, taking note of my fellow passengers. Along the carriage, a well-toned man in his early twenties, his jeans and T-shirt splattered with copious amounts of paint and varnish, stares blankly ahead. Opposite me is an African-Caribbean in a designer tracksuit. His eyes are closed and an incessant hip hop beat breaks through his headphones. He moves his head rhythmically, tuned into his own world.

  It could be a late-night Tube journey like any other.

  Seated next to me, so close I can smell his subtle, spiced aroma, is a man whose dark hair curls loose about him like a pirate, but it’s in st
ark contrast to his clothes – he’s wearing white tie and tails. He loosens the bow tie and tugs it off before undoing his top button and exhaling in relief. Beside him rests a violin case. A musician fresh from a concert.

  As I shift in my seat, I can already feel that familiar tingle. Because, despite appearances, this is not a Tube journey like any other. A half-sigh floats from my tense body, not so much in exhaustion as anticipation.

  When the train reaches the next station, the doors of the carriage don’t open, just like I’ve been told they won’t. On the platform, a confused girl, chewing rapidly, her hair scraped back into a high ponytail, frowns before hustling to the next carriage. I glance to the connecting door at the end; as I expected, the window has been blacked out.

  The train starts again. My gaze turns to the remaining occupants of the carriage.

  Further along is a guy of about 30, vaguely scanning the Evening Standard with his vividly blue eyes. His dark blond hair keeps falling rebelliously in front of his face and his gorgeous upper body is concealed only by a tight Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirt. Two seats away is an older man, mid-forties maybe, but with an elegant distinction which tightens my belly. He scrutinises the Financial Times as if his future depends on it. His suit is clearly tailored and his black shoes, so highly polished I could do my eyeliner in them, reflect the bright lights.

  Judder and swish. The train continues along the track. Judder and swish. Expectation hangs thick in the air. The hip hop guy with the headphones opens his eyes briefly and meets mine before retreating back to his music.

  Again, at the next station, the doors fail to open. It’s just the six of us, five men and me, and it will stay this way for the duration of the journey. That’s the deal. That’s the arrangement. It helps to have friends in high places.