by Violet Blue
Still quivering from her orgasm, Brooke curled up beside me and nuzzled the back of my neck as I pumped into Gina. “Fuck her good, baby.”
I was close to coming but Gina was even closer, and her hand came away from her clit just as she came, wrapping me in her arms and grabbing my ass to pull me roughly into her. I pounded faster and faster, feeling Gina’s cunt tightening around my shaft as I thrust into it—and then she moaned loudly, the moan turning into a scream as her intense arousal drove her over the top.
I went rigid as my second orgasm ripped through me. I came in Gina’s pussy, clutching her tight as Brooke stroked her hand down my sweat-sticky back. When I’d finished coming, Brooke put her arms around both of us and kissed Gina hard on the lips. Gina was so ruined from her orgasm that she could barely respond. As my soft cock slipped out of her she gasped.
“How’s that for an anniversary celebration?” asked Gina. “As rough as you hoped?”
“Rougher than I’d imagined it could be,” I said. “And everything I’ve ever wanted.”
Brooke’s hand found my ass and gingerly stroked the tender, moist hole, still oozing lube.
“It’s true,” she said. “There’s nothing like old friends to keep a marriage interesting.”
“You’re lucky it’s only five years,” said Gina. “Just wait till your silver.”
“I’m quivering in anticipation already.”
Brooke playfully slapped my lube-slick ass.
“Just ’cause the scene’s over, don’t start getting smart,” she said. “You’re still my bitch.”
I rolled off of Gina and took my wife in my arms.
“Of course I am, darling,” I said.
“Don’t get cute.”
“Never,” I said, snuggling close to her. “Never, ever.”
Alice
M. CHRISTIAN
It started with the laundry—now how ironic is that?
It obviously was a kind of blind spot for Al. Ask him to take out the garbage, drive five hundred miles to help out a friend, weed the backyard, vacuum, even cook (he made a mean-ass clam chowder he was particularly proud of) and it would get done—so quick and so neat, in fact, that half the time jaws would drop and eyes would pop at how well done it was. No muss, no fuss: just a well-executed chore or perfectly performed task.
Just don’t ask him to do the laundry. Domesticity might not be pretty, but the way Al faced stripping the bed, picking up crumpled clothing, hauling baskets downstairs, stuffing the washer, adding soap—the whole laundry procedure in fact—you’d think he’d been asked to give a sponge bath to Karl Malden.
Jeannine hadn’t been bothered by it at first. “Your usual breaking-in stuff,” she thought to herself, said to some of her friends when they asked how their experiment in living together was progressing. “Nothing to worry a war crimes tribunal about.”
Four months later it was, “Okay, it’s starting to really bug me,” she thought and said as she clenched her smooth hands into tight, white fists.
At six months she was wondering how to dispose of his body.
To be honest, he tried—and in many ways that simply made it worse. Huffing and puffing like a kid asked to eat his broccoli he’d make such a big production out of it that Jeannine didn’t know whether to make him stand in a corner or give him a Golden Globe for overacting. Even when Al seemed to want to do it, earnestly “helping out around the house” on her birthday or when he’d done something spectacularly dumb and needed to do some housework Hail Marys, it didn’t work out. Her favorite red dress, white shift, socks, the linen, dry clean onlys, even a suede jacket went in—and what came out went straight to Goodwill.
Despite Al’s laundry issues, he and Jeannine had it pretty good: Al’s underground comic, “The Snitch,” was doing remarkably well—well enough that he didn’t need a real job yet; Jeannine’s store, Deco Mojo, was paying their rent and a little more; and unlike a lot of their friends, they’d been together for a little over a year with no sign of breakup or even nasty drama.
In all their time together, the months before and then after making the big leap of cohabitation, Jeannine and Al had a pretty cooperative relationship: some gives, some takes, fair play all the way around. Al did the shopping this week, Jeannine the next. This month Al paid the phone bill, next month Jeannine did. Except for the issue of the laundry, they kept everything fair and even between them.
That’s not quite true, though. Everything was fair and even except for the laundry and one other place: the bedroom.
That’s also not quite true—mainly because for Al and Jeannine the bedroom was only one of the places where they fucked around. The outdoors, you see, did it for Jeannine. The more out the better, especially when there was a real risk they’d get spotted by someone—extra especially when they could be spotted by more than just one someone. Parking garages, baseball games, movie theaters, hiking trails—they’d tried them all.
Al called it “eye-porn”: the way Jeannine reacted to people looking was just like the way most guys reacted to looking at anything and anyone sexy. He loved it almost as much as Jeannine did: crawling up the fire escape to the roof, giggling and whispering like schoolgirls; laying out a blanket on gravel still warm from sunlight; a kiss, more kisses, clothes off, hands roaming, cock very hard, pussy very wet; fucking long and slow, then hard and fast knowing that either someone could be looking at them at any second or that hundreds—maybe thousands—were doing just that.
But what did Al like? “I’m not complaining, mind you,” she thought and said to some of her friends when they’d first moved in. “Not at all.”
Four months after that, “I just can’t figure him out,” was the order of the day.
At six she was wondering what terrible secret he was hiding, what skeletons he had in his closet.
Then, one lazy Saturday afternoon—chores completed, laundry carefully ignored—they curled up together on their plush, painfully bright orange sofa (that Jeannine had never been able to sell) and started flipping through mail, stopping in the middle of the bills, the miscellaneous flyers, to glance at the Victoria’s Secret catalog.
“Wow,” Al said, brown eyes wide as Jeannine flipped through the glossy pages. “Pretty.”
When they went to the museum—and after they snuck in a quick blow job in the French Impressionists—all Al said was “Nice.” When they went to friends’ gallery openings—and fucked ferociously in the grimy bathroom—all Al said was “Eh.” “Good” was what Al called his world-renowned chowder, and how he described their sex life. In all their months Jeannine had never heard Al call anything else by that one word of praise. Until, that is, page seventy-nine of the Victoria’s Secret catalog.
That night, after much thought, Jeannine smiled to herself. The next day, with the dreaded laundry, it was time for Al’s skeleton to come out of the closet—and play.
“Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Or else,” she said, obviously uncomfortable with even the idea of a threat—but even more obviously excited by it.
“Or else?” he said, as uncomfortable as she was with the threat—and just as excited.
“Or else you’re going to be very intimate with some of my more intimates, Al. Do you get me?”
Al was speechless. But his face said what his voice couldn’t.
“Good. Now, get it all done right, Al: fabric softener, the right temperature, no mixed colors, no running, nothing wrong. Perfect. No mistakes, Al.” She cast him a cool glance. “I’m going out for a few hours—got some store stuff to take care of—and when I get back I expect the laundry to be done like it’s never been done before.”
Then she went out, with even a wider, more wicked, smile on her lips.
“Let me see,” she said, four hours and some-odd minutes later. “Show me what you’ve got.”
“Ah, sure—” Al said, nerves making him hesitate, stammer. “Sure thing, babe.”
“Don’t call me ‘babe’—not yet, at any rate. Now show me. And
this had better be good.”
“Yes—” he started to say something that started with b but caught himself, substituting a quick “be right back,” and a smile.
The first basket was full to overflowing with sheets, pillowcases, blankets, and towels. Jeannine tried to keep the smile off her face as he pulled out each neatly folded bundle. Creases almost made her giggle with joy, seams made her flash some pearly white teeth—but she fought to keep her face stony and firm.
“Now the next one,” she said.
The next basket was packed with slacks, jeans, blouses, socks, boxers, bras, shirts, and panties. Al may have screwed up every other attempt at laundry, but this time he gleamed, shone, sparkled, was absolutely spotless. She may have barely kept the smile from her face before, but now it took every ounce of her control to keep from laughing and giving him a big hug—and the laundry had nothing to do with it.
But she had to find something wrong. That was the game, after all. “What’s this?” she said, holding up a pair of panties.
“Um, er—it’s your…panties.”
“That’s right, it’s my favorite pair: soft, pearlescent, pure white with the frilly waistband and the tiny blue flower right in the middle. Right there. See the flower? But there’s something about this flower, Al—something very, very bad.”
Al swallowed hard but didn’t say anything.
“You see, Al, my favorite pair of silky panties has four little green leaves next to that sweet little flower. Four. Not two, not three, not five—four. Now, Al, I want you to take these and tell me how many little green leaves there are next to that so-sweet little flower.”
Al took the panties in suddenly moist hands, turned them carefully until the little flower was turned toward him. Just as Jeannine had never heard Al use the word pretty before—not at the museum, not in a gallery—she’d never really seen him hold something reverently before.
“Three,” Al said, glancing up from the panties to look her in the face. His eyes were wide and gently moist.
“That’s right, Al. Three. Not four—three. One of my leaves is missing. That’s not a good thing. Not a good thing at all. I asked you to do something and you didn’t do it. I’m afraid, Al, that you’ll have to be punished.”
Al’s face lit with a soft smile. “I understand.” He seemed to want to add something else (Ma’am, Sir, Mistress, something like that) but didn’t know what to say—yet.
“Good. Now strip.”
Al’s smile grew, took on a sweetness and a subtle thank you, and he did as he was told.
Next to one of the baskets went his hurriedly shed shirt, shoes, pants, socks, and underwear, until he stood in front of her, tall and lean, all long bones and tight muscles, and very, very hard.
Jeannine looked at his gently bobbing cock. It took a lot of control not to reach out and stroke it, suck it. “Very good,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. She doubted she’d ever seen him as hard. “Very, very good. Now, Al—” she tossed him the sheer panties “—put these on.”
At first Al didn’t do anything. He just stood in front of her, very hard, with a strange expression on his face. Later, when she had time to really think about it, Jeannine would realize that among the emotions that were zapping around inside her boyfriend’s mind—desire, suspicion, shame, fear, to name a few—the one that finally won out, that made him reach down and put one foot, then the other, into the satin undies and slowly, sensually draw them up his body, was relief.
“Very nice,” Jeannine said, surprising herself at her own sincerity. He really did look…not pretty, but definitely very sexy: his very hard cock tented the white material like he was trying to shoplift a javelin, and the sheer material was already growing damp at the end with pearly pre-come. Again, it took all of Jeannine’s control not to just lick the end, taste the salty bitterness. “Very sexy, Al—no, that’s not right. You’re not really Al, are you? Not right now.”
Al hung his head slightly, pulled his elbows and knees in, shrinking, getting younger, the rough and tumble Al fading away as Jeannine watched.
“Alice?” Jeannine said, the inspiration like a small shock. “Your name is Alice. Isn’t that right…Alice?”
Al—no, because her boyfriend was gone; Alice, her girlfriend with the white satin panties, very big clit, and very small boobs, nodded slowly, happily.
“You’re very pretty, Alice, in nothing but your white panties. Very sexy. Do you feel sexy, Alice?”
Alice smiled, radiantly, saying, but not with words: Yes, very much so.
“Turn around, Alice. Show me your sexy little body. Show me what you’ve got, slut.”
Alice chewed a thumbnail, eyes wide and moist.
“Do it, Alice—or do you want me to be upset?” Jeannine wanted to laugh, to cry at how excited they both seemed to feel. It wasn’t a game she’d played before—or would ever have thought about playing with Al—but with Alice it seemed right, natural, and most of all, way too much fun.
Alice’s eyes grew even wider. Then, slowly, shyly, she turned around, giving Jeannine a hesitant view of her boyish body.
“Very sexy,” Jeannine said, suddenly aware of her own wetness. “I really like you in my panties. In fact, I think you look even better in my panties than I do. They’re yours now.”
“T—thank you,” Alice said; even her voice was soft and almost innocent.
Jeannine leaned forward and grabbed hold of Alice’s huge clit in a powerful grip. Alice was startled, but Jeannine hung on and wouldn’t let her pull away. “You forget your place…Alice. Do you want me to be displeased?”
“N—no,” stammered Alice, hands falling to Jeannine’s. Touching, but not trying to pull them away.
“‘No,’ what? Who am I, Alice? What do you call me?”
Alice’s face burned bright red. Her lips quavered but no words came out.
“Say it, Alice—or I put you to bed without any supper.”
“Mistress…” whispered Alice. Then, with a bit more force: “Yes, Mistress,” like a weight had been lifted.
“That’s right. I’m your Mistress. Don’t you forget it, either.” She let go of Alice’s clit. The thin girl took a half step back in response.
“No—no, Mistress, I won’t forget,” Alice said, composing herself.
“You’d better not.” Jeannine reached out and ran her fingers up the length of Alice’s very hard, rhythmically flexing clit. “So beautiful—” she said, almost whispering. Shaking her head slowly, as if to clear it, she said in a louder voice, “Now then, slut. Where were we? Oh, yes, that’s right. You were giving me a show. I like a good show.”
Jeannine leaned back as if to inspect her new plaything. “Why don’t you show me how hard that clit of yours really is. Rub it for me, stroke it through your new panties. Do it. Do it now.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Alice said, her voice honey and all manner of sweetness. Palm down, she dropped one hand to the front of her panties and slowly started to rub herself.
“That’s it,” Jeannine said, gently parting her own legs in response, as if Alice’s clit was somehow connected directly to her own. “That’s it.”
“Thank you, Mistress, ” Alice said, her eyes glazing over in pleasure. As she rubbed, stroked herself, the front of her panties got wetter and wetter. Soon, the pale material was almost transparent, giving Jeannine a perfect view of the thin girl’s monstrous clit. “Thank you…” said Alice.
“Oh, yes, you slut. You love this, don’t you, slut? You love it, being the nasty little girl, putting on a show just for me. Yeah, that’s it; rub it, rub that sweet clit for me. Make those panties nice and hot and wet and sticky. Stroke it for me, stroke it….”
Alice bit down on her lip, her breath coming in shorter and shorter hisses until, finally, she didn’t make any sound at all but her body tensed as if a kind of wonderful voltage slammed through her. Rigid, locked tight in a shuddering orgasm, the front of her panties were suddenly soaked with her sticky juices.
>
In a barely controlled fall, Alice dropped down first to her knees and then face-first onto the carpet. She lay there for a long time, her body quivering and quaking with release, breaths now heavy and slow.
“Very, very good, slut,” Jeannine said reaching up under her simple skirt to hook a thumb into the waistband of her own everyday panties. “That was quite a show. Quite a nice show. I’m very impressed.” The panties came off, soaked through. She tossed them aside. “In fact, come here, Alice,” she said, her voice a husky whisper, “and taste how impressed I am.”
Slowly, weak only in body, Alice got to her knees and moved over to Jeannine until her face was parallel with Jeannine’s downy pubic hairs.
Now it was Jeannine’s turn to really smile, as the game got even better for her. Leaning down, she parted her plush lips, giving Alice a view of her very wet folds and pulsing clit. “Taste,” she managed to get out before her voice got completely caught in her throat.
Alice did. Alice did, indeed. Nuzzling up between Jeannine’s strong thighs she flicked her tongue over her clit. Hard and fast, slow and soft, Alice licked. Jeannine, standing above her but at that instant miles way, moaned and bucked, dipped and swayed in response.
Finally, the pressure that Alice had been applying to her peaked and she cried—her version short and sharp and loud compared to Alice’s almost silent and long one—and slid down to sit, hard, on the floor at Alice’s feet.
While her body was still working, she threw her hands around Alice, her girlfriend, and Al, her boyfriend, and cried hot tears of pleasure and wonderful discovery.
Some stories really do have happy endings. Al’s comic work continued to do well, receiving both critical and financial success. Jeannine’s store became a hallmark of the neighborhood. Al and Jeannine, and Alice and Jeannine were very happy together—and their whites were whiter, their colors brighter than ever before.