Sweet Life 2

by Violet Blue

  She feels him ease up on the gas and move to the brake, but it’s only a stop sign, which doesn’t count either way. You have to stop. There’s no chance to it. No fun. They continue, nearing the residential area by the beach where they live, the streets well-shaded with purple-blossomed jacaranda trees. There are only a few more lights until their turn-off. He misses the first one.

  “My turn,” she sighs, “Or rather, your turn.”

  He assumes the position, reaching over her to hit the lever that sends her seat all the way back. She giggles as he tickles her pussy with his tongue, then moans at the feel of his stubble brushing the outer lips…then she sighs as he finds the right spot, the perfect spot, and begins to make those dizzyingly tight circles around her clit.

  “Mmm,” a dark moan, and the sound of her voice gone husky and whisper-soft works to excite him even more. He dips his tongue deeper inside her, going for the very source of her pleasure.

  “Green,” she sighs, stretching the word out as if it’s some kind of release, “Greeeeeennnn.” He swallows hard, sits upright, and hits the gas, pulling into the intersection as the car horns behind him begin to blare. Molly stays in the same position, sprawled out in the passenger seat, one hand in her lap, covering her nakedness, like Venus as she stepped free from the ocean, her hand so modestly in place.

  He makes it through next light, the last light, and without a word from him, Molly swivels around and takes up where she left off. Her mouth is hungry and open and willing on his cock. She takes him in deep, one of her little hands squeezing the base of his shaft, the other caressing his balls. What he wants most to do in this world is close his eyes and wrap his hands in her hair, letting her work him until she’s finished.

  But instead, he makes the left turn into their complex. In effect, it’s still his turn because he won the last round. Molly blushes becomingly, waiting for his command. He could make her cross the parking lot to their apartment totally nude, if he wanted. He could hand her the keys and follow a few steps behind her, watching the pretty jiggle of her hips as she tried not to run.

  He doesn’t, though. Instead, he says, “Get back to work, darling,” and he revs the engine, switches into reverse, and backs the car out of their space. She shoots him one puzzled glance, but doesn’t question him, and in an instant he is back in heaven, with her head bobbing up and down between his legs.

  “That’s the girl, that’s my sweetheart.”

  He drives down Seventh Street in Santa Monica, looking for a place to stop, and finds it, finally, a cul-de-sac off the road, in one of the unknown pockets of wealth. There are no sidewalks here, just huge houses surrounded by acres of trees. He misses the second to last light, and at Molly’s instant smile he buries his face between her legs again and feels her pressing down on him from above, holding him in place with both hands, rocking her hips forward and hard against his tongue. She has a difficult time murmuring the word “Green,” and he has a harder time leaving that warmth, the delicious feast, and sitting upright again. But he does.

  The tables are turned again. Molly is now the winner. He can tell from her smirk that she’s got a few things planned once they stop. That is, if they miss the last light. It turns yellow as he cruises through, and he doesn’t bother to meet her gaze.

  They both know what yellow means….

  They turn at a stop sign and park beneath a pepper tree, and Jason motions for Molly to get out of the car. She smiles as she does, moving quickly. As he gets out of his side and walks around to her, she turns quickly, facing the car and offering him her ass—her beautiful, perfect, heart-shaped ass. Jason grabs her around the waist, not checking to see if she’s wet enough. He can smell her scent from where he stands. He thrusts forward, impaling her instantly, and they begin a new ride. Beat for beat, her hips swivel against his, and her breathing catches each time he pushes forward.

  She tries to regain her balance by leaning against the car, but he lifts her off her feet and pulls her back down on him, impaling her on his cock. How she sighs when she feels him enter, how she moans when he finds that perfect spot within the tight walls of her pussy, the pleasure spot that takes her to a higher level.

  As the ride escalates, she calls out his name, bucking against him wildly. She fucks like that only when she is really turned on: aggressively, dominantly, even with him behind her. It makes his cock grow harder to feel her pulling at him, squeezing with the powerful muscles of her pussy.

  Before he knows what is going on, she pulls off him and turns, face to face, motioning with a flick of her coal-black hair for him to switch places. He does, without speaking, and she comes into his arms and then nearly climbs his body, straddling his rock-hard cock, wrapping her legs around his waist.

  “Now,” she says, moving him against the car, pounding into him, the blush of her cheeks caused by lust, not embarrassment. The glow to her eyes pure and simple, golden in the fading light, violet with the heat of it all.

  “Yes,” he says, more of a sigh, a whisper, than a spoken word. “Oh, yes, Molly, yes.”

  They come together, holding each other, moving back and forth with the rhythmic pounding of their climaxes. A sweet, soft breeze picks up around them, stirring leaves and fallen flower petals into a gently fragrant whirlwind. They can smell the ocean. They can smell the heat of their bodies and the silver scent of their sex, mingling. Jason’s arms are tight around her body, and for a frozen moment it seems as if he’ll never let her go.

  But then a car pulls down the street, and they hurry to get into the VW, to hide themselves in the flurry of dressing. As Molly pulls her dress over her head, she smiles at him. “I like that best,” she says, crashed out beside him, reaching for his hand.

  “What?”

  “I like it when the game works out like that.”

  He grins at her and strokes a wispy curl away from her glistening cheek. And together they say, “A tie.”

  Domestic Service

  N. T. MORLEY

  When Heather agreed to take the job as my maid, she knew she was going to get fucked.

  Maybe it was the way she looked during the interview, flirting with me as if she wasn’t sure she was flirting. The way she would lock her green eyes in mine and then drop them shyly, not turning her face down—just dropping her eyes, humbly, meekly, as if to beg for the job. Her tight little sundress was too short and too low-cut; I could see the outline of those gorgeous tits of hers right through the fabric, and her smooth, slim legs looked so good crossed nervously as she sat on the living room sofa. I never took my eyes off her, though she kept her eyes down most of the time; whenever she looked up, she’d see me eating her alive with my eyes. She looked so cute, hungry for approval, desperate for the job. I could see her nipples hardening through the thin fabric of her sundress, and something told me she was wet under that little dress. She wanted the job bad—and she knew, I could tell, that she wasn’t getting hired for her skills at dusting.

  Just to make sure, though, before I said she could have the job I mentioned that she might like to try out the pool. She giggled and said she hadn’t brought her suit. When I told her that wasn’t a problem, she blushed deep red and said she’d pass—this time. She was breathing hard.

  I knew she’d be skinny dipping before too long. And not in the pool.

  Do you think me a bastard? I am one, I suppose, but the temptation to manipulate and degrade such a luscious piece of faux-innocent ass was more than I could take. If you consider me a ruthless, horny, dirty old man and a heartless, hateful son-of-a-bitch, I’m flattered. But you’ve got me all wrong. I swear you do.

  Because the little cunt was asking for it. Begging for it, from the first moment she laid eyes on me. If I know one thing, it’s that my new maid’s pussy was gushing wet from the first time she rang my bell. And, however hard-to-get the little tease liked to play, she was aching for the time when I would ring hers.

  I offered her the job at a salary of $20,000 a year. It was a stretch with my
salary, but more than worth it. I would provide room and board, all meals, and she would have the servant’s bedroom on the first floor. I also told her she could use the pool anytime she wanted, and not to bother bringing a suit. “I’m very casual around the house,” I told her. “The neighbors almost never look.”

  It wasn’t until she moved in that she found out there wasn’t a lock on the door to her room. Or that I provided a uniform for her to wear—clean, starched, black cotton muslin too small through the bust to avoid the gaping I found so fetching, right between her breasts. And short, torturously short, decent by perhaps an inch. Or that I expected her to shower in the pool house, where there just happened to be no curtain on the shower stall and no door on the hinges. Or that the only towels I provided for her to use were just a bit too short to wrap around her slim body, just a hair too narrow to cover her from nipples to crotch. Or that I planned to watch her as she cleaned.

  She accepted this all meekly, glad to have a job—and finding, despite herself, that this arrangement sat well with her unspoken needs. She never complained about the way my eyes followed her everywhere, or that I expected her to bring me a nightcap each night while I lay in bed, naked, my hard-on evident underneath the single white cotton sheet as my eyes followed her across the master bedroom. Even if she’d already changed into her night clothes.

  She didn’t complain, either, when I came up behind her while she was bending over the Queen Anne credenza to adjust the painting behind. She gasped and yelped when my hand drew slowly up the inside of her thigh and slipped between her legs, my middle finger stroking up her slit and finding it bare.

  “You’re not wearing any underwear,” I said, which I’d noticed several times before—the uniform I’d provided for her was exceedingly short and her job required a lot of bending over.

  She blushed. “You won’t let me do my laundry in the house washing machine,” she said meekly.

  She stood up and I spun her around, popping away the already strained buttons of her top. They rolled across the hardwood floors audibly. She shied away. I left her like that, her dress hanging open wide enough to show me the full swell of her cleavage, but leaving her nipples barely covered by the edges of the neckline. She blushed a still-deeper red.

  “You know the rules,” I said. “Only house linens, my clothes, and your uniform.”

  “Yes, Sir, I know,” she said. “I ran out of clean underwear last night. I’ve never been to a laundromat before. Perhaps I could bend the rules and do just one load of panties?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Rules are rules. But I would be willing to provide you with uniform underclothes, as well. You could wash those in the house machine.”

  “That…that would help,” she said. “I…I would appreciate that.”

  I left her to do her work and went to make a phone call, then quickly sought out the sewing needles and thread in the kitchen utility drawer and locked them in the safe. The next day, several large express packages arrived at 8:00 A.M. I signed for them and went into her bedroom while she was out skimming the pool. I opened her top drawer, now empty since all her bras and panties were in the hamper. I unwrapped the packages, filled the top three drawers of her dresser with the new items, upended her hamper into a black garbage bag. I looked through the remaining two drawers of her dresser, finding T-shirts, jeans, shorts, sweat pants, socks, two sets of flannel pajamas, a white string bikini for sunbathing, a one-piece swimsuit for swimming or beachgoing. Tucked into the bottom drawer, and wrapped in a T-shirt, I found two battery-powered vibrators, one sheathed in a large-headed phallic sleeve.

  I took everything out and dumped it into another black garbage bag, then added the casual dresses that hung on wire hangers in her closet, along with the flats, ankle boots, and tennis shoes from her closet floor. I took her terrycloth robe from the peg near the door and stuffed it in, as well. She’d purchased the garment with her own meager funds on one of her trips to the drugstore—shortly after she discovered I intended to watch her entering and leaving the shower regardless of the insufficiency of the household towels in covering her body. I thoroughly disapproved of the garment.

  I knotted the black garbage bags securely and left them by the front door. I could hear the roar of the garbage truck as it edged down the suburban street, servicing the houses leading up to mine. I waited until its mechanical arm was lifting our big black garbage can into the great maw of filth.

  “Heather, the garbage needs to be taken out,” I called out to her as she bent over the edge of the pool, seeking the company of a struggling bee. “Hurry—the garbage truck is coming!”

  “Yes, Sir,” she said agreeably, and trotted past me into the house. She ran fast enough that I could see she still wasn’t wearing underwear. She had safety-pinned her uniform closed, as I had broken off the buttons when I tore it open the day before. She picked up the bags and ran down the concrete path to the street, a challenging task in the four-inch heels that were part of her uniform. She caught up with the garbage truck and handed the workmen the bags as they leered at her. She walked back to the house, breathing hard. I watched her come up the path, flushed and glistening with sweat.

  “Thank you, Heather,” I said.

  “Yes, Sir,” she told me.

  Heather never mentioned the discarded clothes, nor did she mention the reading material with which I had filled the third drawer down—probably proving quite problematic since I had taken away her vibrators.

  Heather did, however, thank me for my kind gift of underwear to match her uniform. Though, she said with a blush, “they don’t exactly match.”

  “Show me,” I asked her.

  She lifted her uniform dress and displayed, her embarrassment as obvious as her excitement, the see-through white mesh G-string I’d provided for her.

  “You’ve shaved,” I said.

  “Otherwise it shows,” she said. “My hair, I mean. They’re very see-through—the things you bought me.”

  “Indeed they are,” I said. “Show me all of it.”

  She unfastened the safety pin holding the top of her dress together. I took it out of her hand and tucked it in my pocket. She held her dress open, showing me the push-up bra I’d given her, its bottom half, of white lace sprinkled with pink flowers, stiff to assist in the elevation of her already perky C-cup breasts, its top half, of white mesh, as transparent as her sexual needs.

  “All of it,” I said.

  “Yes, Sir,” she whispered, and began to wriggle out of her uniform. With the garment as tight as it was, it took quite some doing, but I didn’t move to help her. I heard the hint of a tiny rip as she pulled the skimpy thing down over her shapely hips. She looked down, no doubt frightened of a reprimand from me for damaging domestic property.

  When the black garment pooled like midnight around her high-heeled shoes, she stood in it awkwardly as I looked at her, glorious and pale in her high-priced white and pink lingerie, so virginal in color, so slutty in presentation.

  “Turn around,” I said.

  She obeyed, making several circles, each one slower as I instructed her. The back of the G-string barely rose to the top of her rear cleft; it was so thin that it disappeared quite fully even between Heather’s slender cheeks.

  “I think they match just fine,” I told her.

  “Thank you,” she said, and reached down to pick up her dress. When she pulled it on, I saw the place the rip had occurred—at the terminus of the neckline, the place where the top of the dress met the waist. It was a small rip, perhaps an inch long, but I could tell Heather was worried I’d noticed.

  She held out her hand for the safety pin, to pin her uniform closed.

  I smiled.

  “I’ll be having a swim if you need me,” I told her, and left, the safety pin still safely in my pocket.

  Over the next few days, the rip in Heather’s uniform slowly grew; though the uniform’s tightness was compromised by the top remaining unclosed—and while my employee slept I ha
d scoured the house for any stray safety pins to ensure that it remained so—its waist was sufficiently snug that the slightest bend or twist of Heather’s body created an inaudible tear in the fabric, and soon the dress was all but split down the front. It fell awkwardly off Heather’s shoulders and left the top of her G-string revealed. I didn’t mention it but watched her more closely than ever as she went about her domestic duties. She pretended not to notice, but I could see her blushing as my eyes followed the uniform’s open top and the slowly growing rip.

  When she finally came to me, her eyes were downcast.

  “Sir, I’m afraid…I’m afraid I need a new uniform.”

  “Why can’t you mend the one you have?” I asked, eyes flowing hungrily from the swell of her lace-clad tits to the top of her shaved pubis.

  “I can’t find any needle and thread,” she said. “Or safety pins. You don’t still have the one I was using before, do you?”

  “I believe the teenage punk rocker next door put it through her eyebrow,” I said. “Why not go to the store and buy a needle and thread?”

  “Well, Sir,” she said, her voice quivering. “You’ve been having the groceries delivered, so I haven’t been out. And… and this is the only uniform you’ve provided, so….” Heather’s voice trailed off.

  “Yes?”

  She cleared her throat.

  “Well, Sir,” she said. “I can hardly go to the store like this.”