by Landon Dixon
‘Darling, it’s me,’ I whispered.
‘Who? Speak up?’ he yelled.
‘John it’s me, Melissa. You’ve got to come down here and see what’s happening. It’s Sheila, she’s been tied up and there’s this big orgy going on,’ I babbled.
‘What? What did you say?’ he asked, obviously disbelieving me.
‘It’s Sheila. She’s tied up to a post ...everyone’s naked ... men ... women ... you’ve got to come down here ... you won’t believe it until you see it.’
‘You’re bullshitting me,’ he said. ‘Hurry up and get home. The football’s half over. You said you’d make me supper.’
‘Are you listening to me? I don’t give a flying fuck about your stupid football. There’s an orgy going on and I’ve got front-row seats. Now get your arse down here before I go and join in the party.’
I gave him the directions demanding he had better hurry. Back in the warehouse – or should I call it a whorehouse – they’d untied Sheila and had her laid out on a table. One guy was fucking her while another had his cock in her mouth. She was sucking as though starved, while another two guys were at her breasts.
You’ve got no idea what it’s like to see someone you know, someone who you’ve always assumed innocent and sweet being ravished in such a raw and sexual way. I’d never seen a live sex show so to see a friend participating in this way was mindblowing to say the least.
The guy from the throne said something and then she was turned over, her legs placed neatly on the floor with her gorgeous arse twitching in front of him. One guy began to tongue her hole while hands held her down, then the guy inched his cock into her hole for a few seconds before pulling back and ramming it into her. She screamed out loudly and I looked about hoping no one had heard.
This was way too wicked and deliciously sinful!
Sheila lifted her head to peer over her shoulder and, if I hadn’t seen her face, I would never have believed it. She was wild, her hair tousled about her face, her mouth open, breathing hard, searching for something, yelling out something.
‘Give me a fucking cock to suck,’ I thought I heard her demand.
Two guys rushed over to oblige. She went from one to the other, sucking and licking like crazy. The guy from the throne pulled himself out and tore her away from the guys. He lay on his back, his massive cock pointing up in the air. Sheila threw herself onto him, impaling herself on his cock, riding him like a wild bull at a rodeo.
This was too much for me. I rummaged through my bag, looking for something, anything to fuck myself with. I located a hairbrush. The handle wasn’t very long, but it was hard and I needed something firm inside me. My fingers just weren’t enough.
I looked back to witness a guy pulling open Sheila’s cheeks as she lay half over the guy she was fucking. This guy rammed his cock into her arse and sandwiched her there like that as they both fucked her mercilessly. Her hands shot out and grabbed a cock, pulling it into her mouth.
I didn’t know how she managed to balance herself; my eyes were glued to the image before me.
I heard a car coming and hid by the side of the building, watching in the shadows. It was a taxi. Finally! I was desperate to have John. I held my breath as footsteps came closer and then he rounded the corner. I grabbed him, threw him against the wall and grounded myself into his body while attacking his clothes.
I tore at them, wild for a fuck, ripping his shirt and throwing it onto the ground. His hands were all over me, tugging at my breasts, up under my skirt and I heard the intake of his breath, the approval in his moan as his fingers sank into my saturated pussy.
Throwing me to the ground he fell on me, his huge cock sinking straight in. I wrapped my legs around his back, bucking into him, my fingers tearing into the flesh on his back. We were wild, like two dogs fucking. I couldn’t get enough of him as my orgasm gushed around his cock. He roughly rolled me over, pulled me up by the hips and fucked me doggy style and why not? We were like animals – wild, untamed, savagely fucking each other in the darkness as though our lives depended on it.
Finally, with my knees scraped and bleeding, he collapsed onto my back, his breathing ragged in my ears. I didn’t want him to stop and pushed back at him, demanding more, much more.
‘Oh God,’ he whispered, barely able to speak. ‘You’re fucking amazing.’
This voice! This voice didn’t belong to John. I turned around, pushing him away from me, staring hard into the blackness. This guy was blond. John was dark. Who was this guy I’d just allowed to fuck me? On shaky legs, I tried to stand, unsure of what to say or do.
‘Who are you?’ I asked, horrified that I’d just been fucked by a total stranger.
‘The taxi driver,’ he said, searching for his clothes.
The taxi driver. Where the fuck was John? I thought he’d brought John here, that I was fucking John. Oh, my God, what had I done? I heard footsteps in the darkness and another figure came closer. He lit a cigarette. It was John. He was grinning from ear to ear.
‘What the hell ...’ I began.
‘What are you up to?’ he asked.
‘He – he seduced me,’ I mumbled, terrified of John’s reaction to what he’d just witnessed.
‘Seduced you? You’ve got to be kidding. After what I just saw I’d say you practically raped him.’
He seemed serious and I was scared, scared of losing him.
‘I thought ... thought that he was you ... that it was you I was making love to,’ I mumbled nervously.
‘Relax. I told the driver what you’d told me and we made a bet,’ John laughed.
‘What?’ I couldn’t comprehend what he was saying.
‘I said I had the horniest girlfriend in the world and if what she’d just told me over the phone was true then she’d fuck anything on two legs. He’d dropped you off earlier, remembered you and said, “No way”. So I let him come first and it looked like I was right. You didn’t even ...’
I cut him off. ‘You bastard,’ I gasped.
‘Bastard, nothing. You loved it. Admit it?’ he said, reaching over for me.
‘How ... what?’ I didn’t know what to say.
He grabbed my hand and put it on his rock hard cock. The taxi driver had only put on his shirt. I’d always wanted to have a threesome and with John obviously not upset with what had happened it was the perfect opportunity to live out my fantasy, andI was still as fucking horny as before.
‘In the taxi, quick,’ I said, running naked to the car. ‘I want to be sandwiched between the two of you.’
John lay on the back seat, his cock jutting up out of his trousers. I flew on it, throwing myself down on his shaft, screaming out as he thrust it fully inside me. I was like a wild woman, riding him, grinding my pelvis into him, punching his chest as he bucked up into me.
‘Fuck me,’ I screamed over my shoulder to the driver, who was standing in the doorway watching.
He pushed me over and my mouth latched onto John’s, my tongue snaking into his mouth as the driver’s fingers dipped into my pussy, wetting them. Then he was smearing my hole and his knob was probing, trying to force its way in.
‘Hurry up. John, pull my cheeks apart,’ I breathed into his mouth, desperate for this fantasy to come true. ‘For God’s sake, make him hurry up and fuck me.’
With a couple of quick hard slaps on my cheeks, his cock pushed deep into my backside. It was heaven. I’ve never felt anything so wonderful before. The car was rocking while sweat poured off me. We fucked, sucked and then fucked some more. On and on, I just couldn’t get enough.
Eventually we dressed and John made his way over to the crate, peered in the window and watched. I sidled up next to him, my arms holding him tight.
‘Fuck, I love you,’ I whispered in his ear.
‘You’d better,’ he said. ‘There aren’t many guys that would share you. You’re one hot woman, you know.’
‘And what do you think about our Sheila?’
‘I can’t believe it’s her
. If I hadn’t come I never would have believed you.’
‘I know. That’s why I rang. I can’t believe you allowed the taxi driver to fuck me like that,’ I said, slapping him on the arm.
‘Well, we’d talked about it long enough and I thought it’s now or never. I must admit I was nervous. Thought you might hit the roof.’
‘It was an amazing experience to be surprised like that. Never in a million years would I have thought you’d initiate something so erotic.’
‘I wonder who these people are,’ John said, his attention back on the action in the warehouse.
‘Probably lawyers and doctors who can’t get their rocks off with their wives at home.’
‘Well, that’s something I’ll never have to worry about, is it?’ he laughed.
‘We should go,’ I said.
‘Yeah, don’t want to get sprung by anyone.’
Back in the cab we invited the driver in when he dropped us off. He reneged, saying he had to actually get some work done but wondered what we might be doing next Friday night. John and I both looked at each other.
‘Pick me up at 9 p.m.,’ I said, as he dropped us at home.
‘I’ll be here,’ he called out the window, tooting as he rounded the corner.
John and I ran up the stairs and into our bedroom. We tore off our clothes and ravished each other again. I’ve never been so fucking horny in all my life. The thought of doing it all again next week had my pussy on fire. After another few hours of lovemaking we finally lay in each other’s arms.
‘Finger me, please,’ I begged.
‘Haven’t you had enough?’ John laughed.
‘I don’t know what’s come over me,’ I said, rubbing my clit.
‘I don’t either, but I sure like it and if it means we’ve got to do this every Friday night then I’m all for it,’ he laughed devilishly.
Eventually I fell into a fitful sleep. I dreamed of being tied up, having all those men staring at me, wanting me and I wondered what Sheila was doing now. As exhaustion finally took over I made myself a promise. I would get Sheila to initiate me into her world and then I’d have everything. Everything I’d ever dreamed of. I couldn’t wait to have another woman’s mouth on me, tasting me and then allowing me to be able to taste them ...
I wondered how John would react to all that.
What an awesome Friday night! I couldn’t wait until the next one.
Table Stakes
by Elizabeth Coldwell
Karin always gives me the worst assignments. You know where you are in an editorial team’s pecking order when your colleagues are jetting off to interview George Clooney in LA, or to spend 48 hours in Stockholm for a travel feature. Meanwhile, you’re taking the tube to Hampstead to talk to a woman about a piece of furniture.
‘It’s human interest, Casey,’ Karin said, handing me the brief. ‘That’s what sets Personal magazine apart from everyone else, those stories that make our readers feel, “Yes, she’s just like me.” And you always find the best people to interview ...’
Her words weren’t even remotely persuasive, but she was the editor, and if she wanted me to put together a feature called My Kitchen Table and Me, that’s what I had to do. Quelling my looks of envy at Jo, the senior staff writer, as she tucked a Swedish phrase book into her overnight bag, I started the process of finding three women with interesting stories to tell about a table.
Surprisingly, I had two cracking interviews in the bag within a couple of days. I spoke to Jenny in Kettering, who’d gone into labour unexpectedly on Christmas Eve and given birth on her kitchen table, and Rita in St Ives, whose table was a family heirloom, made from the planking of a tea clipper that had been lured on to the rocks by wreckers. But a third story proved elusive, so I turned to one of my best contacts, Lizzie Warrington, the PR officer for Partridge Publishing. They were a small, independent company producing everything from cookery books to high fantasy sagas, and Lizzie was usually able to find me one of their writers who was happy to answer my questions on just about any subject.
Within an hour of her firing off a quick email outlining my request, amessage appeared in my inbox. “My kitchen table has some special features I’d be very happy to demonstrate to you.” It was signed “Sienna Joy”.
A quick exchange of emails and I’d set up an interview with Sienna for the following Monday afternoon. It was only as I approached her basement flat on the fringes of Hampstead Heath I realised I’d neglected to ask her what she actually wrote.
The sun beat down on my shoulders as I rang the doorbell and waited for her to answer, pop music blasting out from a builder’s transistor radio across the street. Vaguely oriental-sounding chimes rang through the flat. Whatever mental image I’d built up of Sienna during our brief correspondence wasblown away the moment she opened the door.
Somewhere around the age of 40, she was tall, even without the addition of the black spike-heeled boots that helped her tower over me by a good foot. Not the most practical footwear when you’re spending hours in front of a computer screen, but Sienna didn’t strike me as the practical type. Her severe ebony bob and tight-fitting red velvet dress lent her a Gothic air, reflected in the flat’s overpowering décor.
‘Casey, darling, how lovely to see you. Do come in.’
The warmth and light of the July afternoon disappeared as Sienna closed the door firmly behind us. With the deep burgundy walls and heavy drapes, stepping into her hall felt like nothing so much as entering a giant womb. Leafy plants trailed down from holders high up on the walls, and bookcase shelves were packed to bursting. Sienna was clearly not just a writerbut an avid reader and collectortoo.
‘Do come through to the kitchen,’ she said.
As I trailed after her, I paused for a moment, my attention caught by a pair of drawings, rendered in thick charcoal, that hung on the wall by the kitchen door. The first was a stunning rear view of a naked woman, kneeling so her buttocks rested on her heels, her hands cuffed behind her. What I assumed to be the same woman appeared in the second drawing. This time, she had been joined by someone I couldn’t fail to recognise. Clutching the woman’s head to her crotch, wearing nothing but a corset that left her breasts bare, was Sienna. Were these drawings plucked from the artist’s imagination, or had Sienna and her mystery female companion actually posed for them? And how would it feel to be in that position, stripped, bound and subservient to another woman?
Sienna interrupted my musings before I could ponder too closely on the fact I was identifying with the servant, rather than the mistress. ‘Coffee?’ she asked. ‘I got a fresh delivery of Kopi Luwak only this morning.’
I didn’t know the blend, but it sounded good, and as Sienna ground the beans the most seductive aroma permeated the air. While she was busy, I took the opportunity to study her kitchen table for the first time. It was, after all, the reason I was here. In truth, I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary about it, except that it was painted black, which really shouldn’t have surprised me at all.
Sienna handed me a mug, waited for me to take a sip of the coffee, which she’d laced with a generous swirl of cream, then said, ‘You do know how Kopi Luwak coffee is produced, don’t you?’
I shook my head. Whatever was involved, it created a truly delicious brew, so much less bitter than the brown sludge that trickled out of the percolator in the Personaloffice.
She smiled, revealing small, pointed teeth. ‘The beans are eaten by civet cats. They pass through the animals’ digestive system, but they come out intact at the other end. That’s when they’re collected. It makesthe coffee fiendishly expensive, but you can tell for yourself whatthe process does to the taste.’
If she was waiting for me to spit the coffee out in disgust at learning of its origins, she was wrong. Instead, I asked her, ‘So how do you know so much about this? Are you a cookery writer? Is that why your table is so important?’
She laughed. ‘This seems like a good time to start the interview. Why don’t you
turn your tape recorder on, or whatever it is you journalists use these days, and we can get down to it.’
I took out my little digital voice recorder and set it up on the kitchen counter. In that position, it should capture both our voices clearly, even if Sienna was moving around, showing me whatever it was that set her table apart from the norm.
‘To answer your question,’ she began, ‘I write what’s become known as erotic romance. Specifically, I write about relationships where one partner – usually female – is dominant and the other – also usually female – is submissive. The coffee is just my little treat to me, to smooth along the writing process ...’
She gave me a moment to let the words sink in. So her stock in trade was women dominating women? Though Sienna hadn’t yet revealed whether, as the drawings in her hall suggested, she liked to mix business with pleasure.
‘So tell me why this table is so important to you?’ I ran a hand absentmindedly along its smooth black top.
‘Well, as I’m sure you’ve already gathered, the original table itself is nothing special. I found it in a skip when one of the houses further up the street was being renovated. It’s the modifications that make it stand out.’
‘Modifications?’ Conscious of the rule that a journalist should always ask open questions, rather than ones inviting a simple yes or no answer, I quickly added, ‘Please tell me more.’
‘Actually, it would be much easier to show you.’ Sienna set down her coffee mug. ‘Take your shoes off and lie down on the table.’
Her tone was sharp, issuing an order rather than making a suggestion. I didn’t think to disobey. Kickingoff my sandals, I hopped up onto the table and lay back.
‘Not too comfortable, is it?’ When I shook my head, Sienna added, ‘Lying with your head flat like that never is. This is where the first of the special features comes in.’ She reached under the table, and for the first time I realised she must have some kind of storage box attached to its underside. ‘This little pillow just clips on to the edge of the table here, if you could lift your head up for me ...’