Sweet Life 2

by Violet Blue

  Watching Zach strip the banana was like watching a porn show, live, happening in real time on the foot of her bed. Her boyfriend casually discarded the skin and then began to stroke the fruit up Marla’s lean legs.

  “What are you doing, Zach?”

  “What do you think?”

  She arched her brows at him, her body stiffening. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “But it’s sort of strange—”

  “Strange in a bad way?” he asked, watching her face carefully for her response. He trailed the banana to the very split of Marla’s body, then ever-so-slowly spread open her kitty lips with his fingers and slipped the first bit of the fruit inside her. “Or strange in a good way?” he continued, his tone husky.

  Suddenly, Marla found that her voice was gone. She wanted to tell him to stop horsing around and climb on top of her. She was wet and ready for him. They could start their morning off with a bang, no fruit necessary.

  “Come on, Zach,” she murmured. This was too bizarre, wasn’t it? Even for Zach’s standards, and he was a man who seemed to own no serious boundaries when it came to X-rated activities. She thought of their various escapades. He had no problem going down on her in a movie theater, making love in the single stall of a restaurant bathroom, doing it against his shiny vintage motorcycle on the side of a road. But this was different—this was brand-spanking new, and the oddest experience yet. Amazingly to Marla, as she turned the concept around in her mind, she realized that she didn’t really want him to stop, did she? No, because she couldn’t believe how it felt. Cool, moist, firm. What was happening to her? She was actually letting her boyfriend caress her with a piece of ripe fruit.

  And it was turning her on.

  With ease, Zach pulled out the banana, licked off her sex juices, and then slid the fruit back inside Marla, a little further. Oh, man, it was good. Who would have guessed it? She would never be able to make it through the produce aisle again without turning as red-faced as one of the vine-ripened tomatoes. Never would she be able to heft an innocent bunch of bananas without thinking of this moment, of what Zach had done, of how much she’d liked it. Oh, did she like it. Her body contracted on the yellow tubular fruit, searching for purchase. Her pussy squeezed tight on the impromptu all-natural dildo. Not quite yet ripe, the banana made the perfect sex toy—thick and hard. She had a collection of similarly shaped devices in her nightstand drawer. This wasn’t so different from playing with a vibrator, was it?

  Yes, it was. Because this toy was edible.

  To calm herself, she grabbed hold of one of the down-filled pillows and held it to her chest, needing support. Her body came alive with the pre-orgasm shudders that always told Zach exactly how aroused she was. He knew, and he played with the fruit for a few more seconds, before discarding it in favor of a sliver of honeydew melon. What was he going to do with that? More of the same, apparently, but this was a different feeling entirely. The melon had been cut into a thick crescent, the rind removed, forming a pale green, watery spear. Again, Zach held her lips open with one hand and slid the length of the melon into her. It was colder than the banana, and the fruit’s sweet juices seemed to bring forth her own, mingling together until she could feel them seeping to coat her inner thighs.

  “You’re so wet,” Zach sighed, observing her sex before bending, licking her skin, pulling out the melon with his teeth, and taking one bite after another until it was gone and his lips were sealed for a moment to the bridge of her body. Marla felt empty without the fruit inside of her, and she hoped that Zach would have something else to fill her with. And quickly.

  Instead, he leaned over the bed and plucked a strawberry from the white porcelain plate. Where he was going with the berry, she could only wonder. But she didn’t have to ponder the impending erotic mystery for long. Zachary was already making commands. More than almost anything else, Marla liked to obey her boyfriend. When he issued sexual demands, the one concept in her mind was that she needed to please him.

  “Spread your legs wide for me.”

  Was she ready for this?

  “Do it for me, baby.”

  Something did a flip-flop inside Marla’s stomach, but she followed his request, parting her legs as Zach ran the bumpy edge of the strawberry along the split of her body. He worked gently at first, then used his fingers to squeeze a river of juice from the deeply ripe berry. As soon as she felt the cold drops falling like red rain onto her skin, Zach bent to lick away the liquid. Then he squeezed more, and licked more, until she could feel the climax building again inside her. Her body felt loose and long. She began to breathe more quickly, nearly panting. How many times would she be able to come in a twenty-four-hour period? Zach, the sexual scientist, seemed ready to find out.

  Pulping the berry with his fingers until it was a sticky mess, he spread this fruity lotion along her skin and then licked Marla clean. She closed her eyes and gripped into the pillow, trying so hard not to come. She knew that there was more, waiting for her. With Zach, wasn’t there always more? She didn’t want to let him down, didn’t want to let herself down. Knew there were other fruits waiting for her on the plate and wondered what uses they could possibly have.

  Then she had to stop wondering about anything as Zach slipped his tongue between her thighs and began to tickle Marla on the inside. This was too good, too much, and she moaned and ground her hips upward. Hard. All she hoped was that he wouldn’t stop. That he would continue with the inspired ministrations of his tongue for hours. Those dreamy circles, those endless spirals. But, of course, he did stop. Nothing was ever simple with Zach. He wanted to stretch out her pleasure, wanted to make everything vibrate within her. To do this, he had come well-equipped with several new playthings.

  While Marla prepared herself to beg him, he pulled his secret toy out from under the napkin on the tray. It was a can of whipped cream. Instantly, Marla realized that Zachary was going to turn her into a fantasy sundae, and she also realized instantly that she was going to like it.

  “Ready, baby?”

  Marla made some animalistic groan in response.

  “Good girl.” He started slowly, still wanting to play, pressing the nozzle on the can of cold cream and shooting a river of the sweet white fluff in a line down the basin of her belly.

  Her breath caught in a half-sob, half-sigh as Zach devoured the cream and reached again for the can. It was like having a mountain of bath bubbles, of meringue, of the fluffiest white clouds, spread over her pussy. No other previous sensation that Marla had ever experienced was like it. She tried to think of true comparisons, but failed. The combination of the whipped cream and Zachary’s warm tongue made Marla think she might actually faint with pleasure. She no longer wanted to come. She wanted to linger forever on the teetering precipice of pleasure. Don’t push me over, she wanted to beg him. Don’t let me fall.

  Again and again, Zach brought the white corrugated nozzle forward, sprayed the whipped topping along the intersection at the tops of her thighs, and then licked it away with his perfect flat tongue. Marla felt the coldness of the whipped cream followed immediately by the heat of Zach’s mouth, and she couldn’t help but moan even louder. This was what whipped cream was meant for. The inventor must have known it from the start, must have thought “sex toy,” as he or she named the tantalizing stuff “whipped cream.”

  But just when Marla thought she would come from this experience alone, Zach upped the intensity of the encounter. Now, he had Marla position herself on all fours, faced away from him on the mattress. As she was following his instructions, he removed one final hidden item from the second plate, not letting Marla see the item, but letting her hear the sound as he undid the cap.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Guess—”

  “Tell me, Zach,” she begged.

  “No,” he said softly, his voice almost a laugh. “I’ll let you feel it and then you’ll know.”

  Whatever the mystery item was, it came in a jar with a screw-on metal lid. She heard
the sound of the jar unsealing, and then she felt the thick liquid pour in a sensuous stream, slipping down her thighs, sticky and sweet.

  “Honey,” she said, naming the treat instantly.

  “Baby,” Zachary teased her.

  “It’s honey—”

  “Yes, darling,” he said, in his sexy, slight drawl. “Of course it is. Sweets for the sweet.”

  He topped it with more spritzes of the fluffy whipped cream and went to work. His full, hungry mouth tricked up and down her pussy lips, his tongue dipping forcefully between them to catch every last bit of the sweetness that lingered there. He wouldn’t leave even one drop remaining.

  She’d become a dessert, a fantasy confection, and Marla knew from passionate experiences in the past that Zach enjoyed desserts more than any other part of the meal. He truly savored his honey-covered lady, licking slowly at the decadent treat that had spread to her inner thighs, lapping his way up like a hungry cat, and getting his face wet and creamy with the mixture of sauces that included her own.

  As the pleasure built within her, Marla realized that Zach hadn’t brought her breakfast in bed—she was breakfast in bed. And she came when his tongue touched her center of pleasure.

  Just touched it.

  Cutting Class

  XAVIER ACTON

  “You ever fucked a virgin before, Mister?” the blonde asked me, her breath hot on my ear, the smell of grape bubblegum sickly-sweet in my nostrils. She was leaning against me, standing behind my chair. Her two friends, the brunette and the redhead, sat on the couch passing my $150 bottle of Scotch back and forth between them, swilling it and occasionally dribbling some on the sofa as they flicked ashes from their Marlboros onto the floor. The redhead with pigtails was sitting cross-legged, her thighs spread just wide enough so that I could see, as her plaid miniskirt skirt rode up, that she was wearing a Mickey Mouse thong along with her white stay-ups. The thong and stockings clashed with her pink lace bra, which I could see because the middle button of her white blouse had come undone right where the half-unraveled knot of her thin navy-blue tie dangled carelessly. The pigtailed redhead smoked her Marlboro absently, maybe not noticing that the ashes kept falling onto the couch between her legs. She was kind of distracted, after all, staring at the brunette.

  The brunette had her mary janes up on the coffee table, leaning back hard on the couch as a dribble of Scotch glistened her red-smeared lips and ran down her chin and onto her pink-flushed cleavage, soaking the edge of her open blouse. Her D-cup breasts hung out of her black lace bra, and the nipples were still erect. I already knew that the brunette wasn’t wearing panties. But in case I’d forgotten, she had her skirt pulled up and her legs spread, pointed straight at me. And her hand stroking lazily up and down in her pussy, up and down, to the rhythm of The Donnas on the Bang & Olufsen stereo.

  The blonde smelled of my Cuban cigars and my exgirlfriend’s Chanel No. 5, and I had no idea what kind of underwear she had on under her school uniform—yet. I could feel her skirt draping against my hands, cuffed to the chair behind my back. I could feel her hair brushing against my shoulders, taste the blood in my mouth from where she’d punched me. The blonde leaned forward and curled her arms around me. She held up the switchblade, made sure I was watching, and pressed the button. It made a sharp, audible click, and five inches of steel hovered in front of my face, glittering and deadly. It swayed under my nostrils, smelling like oil and steel and death.

  The blonde giggled, a musical sound, as she brought the blade closer and closer to my face, her other hand coiled in my hair and holding my head still—real still.

  “You eat pussy pretty good, Mister—doesn’t he, Amber?”

  “Yeah,” said the brunette, her voice hoarse and her breath coming short. “Pretty good.”

  The blonde giggled. “Yeah, you eat pussy pretty good. But how do you suck cock?”

  She held the knife close.

  I saw the redhead turn her head to look at me, her eyes wide as she caught her breath. She stared, fascinated.

  “You want to see him suck my cock, Becca? You want to see him suck my steel cock?”

  “Yeah,” said the redhead breathlessly.

  “How do you suck cock, Mister?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “I’d like you to suck my cock, Mister. Do you want to suck my cock?”

  She stroked my lips with the tip of the switchblade.

  “I think you want to suck my cock,” she whispered to me, like a lover.

  “N-no,” I gasped. “Please!”

  That musical giggle again, as the redhead watched me, transfixed. “Open up,” she whispered, nuzzling my ear. “Open wide, Mister. Open real wide.”

  They’d caught me as I came home in the middle of the day, my arms filled with groceries. I thought Tricia was home already. I was wrong.

  The satin pillowcase went over my head from behind. A hand hit me twice in the face. Somebody grabbed my wrists. I felt two bodies against me. Somebody kneed me in the crotch and brought me down, landing hard on top of me with their knee in my back. I smelled Love’s Baby Soft and the trace of those scented markers you use on love notes. I heard the ratcheting of handcuffs as I felt them close around my wrists. Somebody was pulling off my shoes. I heard a click and felt something sharp against my throat.

  “Don’t move, Mister,” came a feminine voice as hands fumbled their way under my body, undoing my belt. “That’s a switchblade you’re feelin’. You move or scream and we’ll kill you, got it?”

  “Why are you doing this? You girls cutting class?”

  “Yes, we’re cutting class,” she said. “What are you, the fucking truant officer? You ain’t dressed like a nun, asshole!”

  “Take anything you want,” I rasped, my mouth tasting of blood. “There’s some cash in the top drawer of my dresser. My wallet’s in my back pocket.”

  They pulled my pants down and kicked me in the balls. My head swam as the one with the knife sat straddling my back and slipped the knife under the neck of my shirt. She started to cut.

  “Yeah, you bet we’ll take anything we want, Mister. And you’ll do exactly what we say. You cooperate real good and maybe we’ll just waltz out of here with big smiles on our faces. And you’ll have a smile too, Mister. That’s if you cooperate real, real good. Otherwise the only smile you’ll have will be across your neck, Mister. Understand?”

  Panting, I nodded. My shirt was split down the back. The girl settled back onto me, straddling me, and I could feel her against my shoulder blades. Her crotch. Her pussy. She wasn’t wearing any panties.

  “You ready, Amber?” she asked.

  “Ready as hell,” a female voice chirped.

  The one on top of me grabbed my wrists and wedged a knee between my legs. “Crawl,” she growled.

  “But my wrists,” I groaned.

  “Crawl!” she said again, kneeing me in the crotch, hard enough to make it hurt.

  I started pushing myself forward, using just my knees, the naked top of my body rubbing against the carpet. I crawled about ten feet as the girl followed me, kicking me in the crotch to keep me moving while she laughed. Then she came down on my back again, grabbed the pillowcase, and yanked me up to my knees again.

  She pulled the satin pillowcase off my head and shoved my face forward.

  A second girl was in my big armchair, her legs spread wide, her plaid schoolgirl’s skirt pulled up. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath and her pussy was shaved. She had her hands between her legs and she was spreading her lips apart, showing me the glistening entrance to her young pussy and the hard, swollen nub of her erect clit.

  I stared up at her face and she smiled cruelly back down at me. She was pretty—young, no doubt, but gorgeous. She had her dark hair in pigtails and way too much makeup on. My face was inches from her pussy, but I could still smell her perfume—Love’s Baby Soft—even over the faint scent of her juicing cunt.

  She blew me a kiss, and flipped me off.

 
; The girl behind me bent down low and put the switchblade to my throat again. I could feel her loose hair dangling around my face and I could see that she was blonde. She didn’t smell like Love’s—she’d been dabbling around in my wife’s things, and she was wearing Chanel No. 5. I saw Christine’s jewelry on her wrist. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a third girl, sitting cross-legged on the sofa, her hair a pigtailed mop of flame. She looked younger than the other two. I could feel her bare breasts against my naked back as she growled in my ear.

  “You any good at eating pussy, Mister? You like it? You like it a lot?”

  I stared, hypnotized, into the brunette’s shaved pussy.

  “Well?” She jabbed the tip of the switchblade against my throat.

  “Um, I don’t—I don’t know,” I blurted. “I guess so, maybe, I don’t know.”

  “Wrong answer!” giggled the blonde, and put the edge of the blade against my carotid artery. “Want to try again, Mister?”

  Almost hyperventilating, I gasped: “Yes! Yes! I’m really, really good at eating pussy!”

  “You like it?”

  “More than anything!” I said. “I love it more than anything.”

  “More than getting your dick sucked?”

  I hesitated, felt the pressure of the switchblade against my throat.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I love eating pussy way more than getting my dick sucked.”

  “And you say you do it real, real good?”

  “Yeah! Yeah, I’m good at it! My wife comes all the time! She comes and comes!”

  The three girls started laughing musically. The blonde was giggling hysterically. “That’s a laugh! I bet your wife just pretends she comes!” They kept laughing, and the brunette blew me a kiss again as I looked up at her desperately. “But you better hope that Amber here doesn’t hafta pretend, Mister, ’cause the only way we walk out of here with you alive is if she comes as many times as she wants to. How many times do you want to come, Amber?”