Sweet Life 2

by Violet Blue

“Doesn’t your husband like getting his dick sucked?”

  Julie stiffened, her pussy clenching as she thought of Brian, hiding in the closet, watching, stroking himself.

  “He loves it,” she said. “I do it every chance I get. But it’s still been too long.”

  “Fuck, Julie. Suck my cock anytime you want.”

  She took the stranger’s cock back in her mouth, both thrilled and haunted by the fact that he’d called her by name. She gulped him down again, into her throat, but she could sense that he was going to come already—and she wasn’t finished with him yet.

  Gracefully, she slid up his body and pressed herself against him. She could feel her breasts falling out of the thin minidress, her nipples poking through and rubbing against his rough shirt. She kissed him, feeling a rush of excitement as she felt his tongue going into her and understood that he had no compunctions about kissing her right after she’d sucked his cock. She wanted him, she wanted him inside her, against her. Their lips parted slightly and she looked into his eyes again.

  “What was your name again?” she whispered. She knew he’d told her in the bar—it was Dave, Tom, Ed, Mike, one of those manly one-syllable names—but all she’d been able to hear were the words Brian would say if he knew, the words he would say if he discovered her in the arms of another man. The fear and excitement had prevented her from hearing anything except Brian’s voice in her own head.

  The man didn’t answer her, didn’t tell her his name. Instead, he grabbed her and spun her around, slamming her against the motel room wall and kissing her again, harder this time, while he yanked up her skirt and slipped his hand between her legs. Her arms went up, reflexively—not in front of her, to ward him off, but straight up, against the wall, palms spread, in a gesture of desperate surrender. She felt him plucking the crotch of her skimpy thong out of the way, felt two of his thick fingers sliding into her, discovering her wet, wetter than even she thought she was. He kissed her harder, slid his fingers deeper into her, and with his other hand grabbed the front of her flimsy, almost see-through minidress. She didn’t believe it was going to happen, didn’t believe he’d really do it—until she heard the long, low rip and felt the fabric falling away in two pieces, leaving her revealed, exposed, wearing nothing but her barely-there push-up bra her tits were already falling out of, and a tiny, tiny thong. A shudder went through her as the air-conditioned air hit her nipples and the gooseflesh spread suddenly across her breasts.

  “Oh, fuck,” she panted. “You ripped my dress.” She didn’t mean it as an accusation, or a complaint, but simply as a statement of overwhelming fact—this stranger had literally ripped off her clothes, and now he was going to fuck her.

  While her husband watched.

  The remains of the dress blew in the draft from the air-conditioning vent as the fabric hung in tatters around her. The stranger bent low and took her nipple in his mouth, sucking hard and bringing a sharp gasp from Julie’s lips. His tongue flicked over first one hard nipple and then the other, his unshaven face prickly against her breasts as he pulled the cups of her bra down, tucking them under the curves of her full breasts. His fingers went into her again, three this time, his thumb pressing expertly on her clit, and Julie knew she was going to come—she always came eventually when someone played with her nipples and clit at the same time. She knew it was close, so close, and she begged the stranger not to stop. But there was no need—he wasn’t going to stop, not by a long shot. Julie felt herself dissolving into what felt like sobs as she came hard, her upthrust arms curving around the stranger’s muscled back as he fingered her deeply and suckled on her breasts, as his thumb pressed her clit in time with the rhythm of her orgasm. She wanted to scream, “I’m coming!” because she wasn’t sure he’d know she was—but she couldn’t. Instead, she collapsed against him in a shuddering mass of release.

  She felt as if she was floating as his hand slipped out of her and he cupped her ass, lifting her against his big body and swinging her around to set her down on the motel room bed. Julie lay there staring up, the afterglow of her orgasm bringing on a sudden thrill of guilt and fresh arousal—Brian. Brian can see me. He knows. He knows I’m with another man. Oh, god, this is so wrong. She felt the stranger’s hands on her thong, pulling it down her thighs, over her knees and calves, over her feet. Then she felt the stranger gently pushing her legs open, felt the rush of desperation from not knowing if he was going to fuck her or eat her out—and the ecstatic pleasure as she felt the scratch of his face against her inner thighs, felt his fingers opening her up, separating her lips. Then she succumbed to the push of his powerful tongue against her clit as his fingers slid into her again; he fingerfucked her as he started to go to work on her clit with the tip of his tongue.

  “Oh, god,” Julie gasped as she felt the rush that told her it was too soon after her orgasm—she was too sensitive. She wanted to tell the stranger to stop, it was too much—but she didn’t. Instead, she spread wide and accepted the intense sensations as they flowed through her body, as she ached and moaned. His tongue flicked faster and she knew she was going to come again. She never came this soon. Never. Never with Brian. Brian, she thought. He knows. He knows I’m cheating on him.

  She was right on the edge of orgasm, and she would never know if the stranger sensed it or it was merely a fortuitous coincidence that he chose that moment to slip his fingers out of her body and mount her, sliding his body up hers until the head of his cock slipped neatly between her pussy lips, his cock sliding into her body. He was thick, thicker than Brian, though shorter—and he had an unusually bulbous cockhead, shaped not unlike Julie’s favorite dildo. Her back arched and she came as she felt the head popping in, and the slide of his shaft all the way into her made her utter a desperate moan as her climax heightened with each millimeter he entered her. He started fucking her slowly, and she kept coming until she was almost delirious with the pleasure, totally dissolved into the sensation of being done. She wrapped her thighs around his body and clutched him tight, coaxing him deeper inside her as he pumped, holding back in case she wanted to come again. But she was quite finished coming, her pussy swollen and sensitive, her clit raw from sensation. She gripped him tight, wrapping her arms around him, and whispered, “Come, baby. Come inside me.” It felt strange to call him “baby” when she didn’t even know his name—or, more to the point, when she’d known it and forgotten it. But she didn’t care—she just wanted him to come inside her, to sow her with his stranger’s seed. She begged for it, and he kept thrusting until he let out a shuddering groan and she whispered, “Yes, yes, yes, come inside me, baby, please, I want it.” When he sighed and went limp on top of her, she knew it was over—and she knew that Brian knew, knew every moment of her transgression, every instant of her violation, every sight and smell and taste of what she’d done—or, at least, he would.

  The stranger rolled off of Julie, kissing her politely and embracing her tentatively. She kissed him back, but didn’t move to cuddle him. Instead, they lay there in the sweaty darkness as Julie imagined Brian watching, understanding that she’d done this for him.

  “Listen, I gotta get back to work,” the stranger said. He got off the bed and pulled up his jeans, buckling them. Julie realized she’d never even unbuttoned his dark-blue work shirt; it was still fastened, the silver-white “Cross-State Trucking” logo glistening in the slanted light from the window.

  “All right,” she said. “Thanks.”

  He stood there, looking at her, his eyes nervous as they took in Julie, stretched across the bed, her dress ripped and unraveled, tangled around her mostly naked body.

  “Sorry about the dress,” he said.

  “I liked it,” she smiled. “No problem.”

  “Do you have another dress or something?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, I’ll see you,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Thanks.”

  He came over and bent down, pres
sed his lips against hers, his rough hands slipping between her legs, cradling her pussy.

  “Bob,” he said. “My name’s Bob.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bob,” said Julie, and patted him on the crotch.

  Bob turned and left the motel room, closing the door behind him gently.

  As soon as he was gone, Julie got up, turned the deadbolt, slid the chain home. When she turned around, Brian had slipped out of the closet and was lying on the crisp, starched motel-room bed, his cock hard against his belly.

  Julie moved to slip off what remained of the minidress, but Brian said, “No, don’t. Leave it on.”

  She reached the bed quickly, not even stopping to kiss her husband before taking his cock in her mouth. She took him deep, his taste mingling with that of the stranger. She felt his fingers going through her hair, caressing her as she let his cock slip out of her mouth and mounted him, spreading her legs as she fitted his cockhead into her come-slick pussy and sank down on top of it, moaning.

  “Oh, god,” Brian moaned as Julie began to fuck him. “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  It had been Brian’s fantasy, his whole life. To watch his wife fuck a stranger in a motel room. It had never been Julie’s—until she had done it.

  Just once, she had told Brian. I’ll do it just once. Once, for you, because it’s our anniversary, and I love you.

  “Thank you,” Brian whispered as Julie pressed him deeper into her. “Thank you thank you, thank you….”

  “Happy anniversary,” she moaned softly. But she knew that in the instant she’d felt that stranger’s lips on hers, her gift had ceased to be for Brian—and she knew such behaviors would never again be restricted to special occasions.

  As they fucked, as she felt Brian’s cock inside her, felt herself coming again, felt Brian coming too, releasing himself inside her, Julie imagined the bar across the street, the long line of semis parked, desperate men sleeping in the cramped cabins inside—desperate, horny men.

  “What time is it?” she asked as they finished, their bodies still entwined on the bed.

  “It’s early,” said Brian, and smiled.

  Lucky

  ELLE MCCAUL

  It’s only eight o’clock in the morning, and already I’m making goo-goo eyes at the older man sitting across from me at the chrome-topped diner counter. He’s distinguished-looking, with silver-white hair combed back off his head and the air of a rebel about him, even if he has probably outlived most of the rebels of his generation. There’s a certain movie-star style to the way he moves, a self-assuredness that I find incredibly attractive. He’s like Gene Hackman in The Firm, or Paul Newman in The Color of Money. Sure, matinee idol Tom Cruise was in both of those flicks, but I’ve never gone for guys my age. I always crave a man who has seen the world, who has the real-life experiences to know how to take care of a trouble-making minx like me. Because I do like to make trouble. Everywhere I go.

  After enduring several minutes of my teasing glances, he walks to my table and pulls out the red vinyl chair opposite from where I’m sitting. This restaurant is one of my all-time favorites. Not an updated version of a ’50s diner, but an actual diner from the ’50s. The sparkly red chairs are now considered vintage. The menu is filled with real, hearty American food—big portions, blue-plate specials. The man fits easily into the surroundings. Even without a verbal invitation, he makes himself comfortable at my table, stares at me, and waits.

  “You’re very forward,” I say, my lips pursed coyly.

  “No,” he disagrees, and I catch the edge of dark humor in his voice, see the crinkles around his intense green eyes from years of smiling. “It’s you, naughty girl. You’re the one who made the first move. That’s not appropriate behavior at all.”

  “Oh, really?” I ask, knowing that I sound exactly like the smarty-pants brat I am, but unable to change my tone. “In your world, I’ll bet girls are expected to be sweet and shy and demure, right? So who makes these rules up? Do you?”

  He won’t rise to the challenge in my voice. He sits there patiently for a moment, then lifts my heavy white porcelain coffee cup and has a sip of the hot liquid as if he has all the time in the world. I get the feeling that he’s not going to speak again until I behave myself. But I won’t apologize, and he can’t make me.

  “A girl who comes on strong seems desperate,” he says finally. “You don’t want to appear desperate, do you?”

  Now I run my fingers through my short black hair, pushing it off my face. I hold his gaze, telling him my response with my expression alone. No, I don’t want to appear desperate—but there’s no man around who would think I was. Looking away, I catch my reflection in the polished silver mirror behind the counter. I’ve got smoldering dark eyes, full red lips, the rarest pale skin. My hair is glossy and thick, cut in a boy’s style with a lock that falls intentionally in front of my eyes. As I reach to push my hair away again, he shakes his head once and does it for me. The brush of his warm fingers against my skin makes me tremble.

  Still, he’s lucky to be sitting across from me, and I tell him so.

  “Lucky,” he repeats. “You think I’m lucky?” He almost laughs at the ridiculous quality of the question, and then he reaches into his pocket for his battered leather wallet and sets down enough cash to cover my meal. I watch him, mesmerized, as he stands and reaches for me, not helping me by the hand, but solidly grabbing me by the wrist in his firm, powerful grip.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask, and now there’s a vicious sneer in my voice, a hard-edged timbre that I can’t shake. Even I want to give myself a smarting smack across the face for that tone of voice.

  “This way,” he says, pulling me after him. I only have time to grab my cinnamon-brown leather hobo bag, and then he leads me from TJ’s 24-Hour Diner, out the back way to the gravel parking lot. The gray slivers of stone and rock crush under his heavy footsteps. “Lucky,” he repeats again, practically spitting out the word, “do you believe for a second that I’m lucky to be the daddy to a bad girl like you? The games you play. The way you misbehave. Girl, do you honestly think I’m lucky?”

  My heart is pounding so hard that I find it difficult to breathe. We’ve played out versions of this scenario in our bedroom before. James always is in charge when we fuck. He’s been my master, and he’s been my “Sir”—as in “Yes, Sir,” and “No, Sir”—but he’s never been my daddy before. That’s the one taboo—the last taboo—left for us to cross. Now, my pussy spasms with urgency as he drags me toward his car.

  “Misbehaving,” he sighs, “just asking for a spanking. Asking for it with those dirty looks of yours.” He glances skyward dramatically as he poses a question to the heavens, “And she thinks I’m lucky?”

  Then the back door of his huge American car is open, and he has me over his lap across the deep blue back seat. My short, red-and-black plaid schoolgirl skirt is hiked up in the back, my white cotton panties are tight on my ass. He strokes me once, twice, before he lets his firm hand connect fiercely with my panty-clad bottom. “Such a tease,” he says, “and so fucking forward.”

  He doesn’t swear very often, and I stiffen when I hear the obscenity because I know what that means. It means I’ve pushed him to his limits, and I’m in for a long, blistering-hot session over his sturdy lap. My bottom is going to be red and raw when he’s finished. I recall from experience just how much heat he can bring to my nether regions. James knows how to do it. He concentrates on spreading out the blows evenly—punishing the whole of my ass so that it’s hot and throbbing when he’s done. Spankings from James last much longer than the actual time of discipline. I feel the aftereffects for hours—sometimes days.

  Not caring at all that someone might see us, he slides my panties down past my lean thighs and begins to truly spank my ripe, round ass. His calloused hand connects firmly with my bare bottom, and I can tell that he’s not holding back. My ass quivers with the blows, and I close my eyes tight and try to absorb every sensa
tion. Although each spank stings, I raise my hips upward to meet his hand, and I kick my heels out when his palm meets my blushing asscheeks.

  As he punishes me, I think about our first time together—me standing outside of the hair salon where I work, catching a quick smoke break between clients. I had long sapphire-blue cornrows back then, and an attitude that was as wildly willful as my hair color. The day we met, I was wearing my favorite pair of skin-tight shiny black leather pants and a long-sleeved metallic silver sweater with no bra beneath. My nipples were cold and hard from the chill in the air, but I refused to go into the salon for warmth until I’d finished the butt.

  When he saw me standing there, he pulled the huge red Cadillac into the space in front of me and got out. Without a word, he walked to my side, then stood looking me up and down. When you live in the city, you learn how to deal with strangers. Without a thought, I adopted my best go-fuck-yourself expression, and I stood erect, readying myself for anything. But I wasn’t ready for what he did. Gently, he reached for the cigarette from between my lips, and then crushed it out onto the cracked gray sidewalk.

  “You’re killing yourself with those,” he said. “Someone ought to be looking out for you.”

  “Someone?” I snarled. “Someone like you?” My hand was already on my half-empty Marlboro Reds, fingers ready to pluck the next fag from the pack.

  He smiled, as if he could read my every thought with perfect ease. “You need a little authority in your life, don’t you, bad girl? You need someone to take care of you.” He was so close to me, and I thought I saw dark promises in his eyes. The way they gleamed with a hidden knowledge, as if he understood me. My clothes had suddenly felt far too restrictive. All of my cocky, hardcore confidence had disappeared, and I looked down at the ground, stammering something incoherent. He’d transformed me from savage to servile in seconds.

  “No,” he said, tilting my head upward. “You don’t look away from me. Not when I’m talking to you. Not unless you want to feel the kiss of my leather belt against your naked skin.” That’s all it took. Dinner at a fancy restaurant that night after work and a spanking back at his home afterward. He made sure my ass was warm and red all over before fucking me. Made sure that I was on the verge of tears before sliding his cock between my legs.