Sweet Life 2

by Violet Blue

  Being a closet exhibitionist, however, I felt the idea of screwing around in front of an audience (even a one-man audience) had some appeal. It didn’t take long for me to get on board with the girl-on-girl fantasy-weaving, so long as I knew he was watching. So long as he knew it was only a fantasy and that I had no intention of really doing any of it. We came up with some really sexy scenarios about camping with his college buddy and his wife, where the guys sat on a log jerking themselves off while us girls got naked on a blanket by the fire. Another story we created involved a woman he worked with and her husband. We’d have them over for dinner, then, when we were all sitting around the living room having a glass of wine, she and I would kneel on the big, oak coffee table and start making out, undressing each other and rubbing our tits together.

  But, in the end, I guess I was no better than one of Pavlov’s dogs. I had a couple of orgasms imagining it was a woman’s tongue on me instead of Brian’s, and lo and behold, I was feeling…ready. Before I knew it, we were scoping people out at clubs and taking a closer look at friends and colleagues. Unfortunately for us, this was the early ’90s, before everyone with a telephone had Internet access. We soon discovered that the people who featured prominently in our bedroom fantasies were not really the people we could invite into our new reality. “How could I look my boss in the eye after you had sex with his wife?” he asked me once. “What if she hated it? He could fire me.” “What if she loved it? He could promote you,” I pointed out. It was a quandary.

  We got the perfect idea while planning a trip for the holidays. We were going to spend Christmas at his parents’ house outside L.A., then head to Vegas for New Year’s Eve. That’s when the neon lit up. What do they have in Vegas? Gambling, free alcohol, Siegfried and Roy. Yes, and what else? Legalized prostitution! Problem solved. Right?

  Jesus, you can’t imagine how hard it was to spend Christmas at his folks’ house, knowing we were just a few days away from Really Doing It. Every time we made eye contact I could feel my face heat up as I read his mind. I know I got some gifts that year. No frigging idea what they might have been. Thoughts of our impending Vegas trip were all-consuming.

  December 30th, New Year’s Eve eve, found us on a plane en route to Fantasyland. As soon as we’d dropped our luggage in the hotel room, we raced down to street level, to those little sidewalk newspaper vending machines, and grabbed a rag from each box. Back in the room, we each sat on a double bed perusing the ads, discussing them as if we were looking for a dinette set or a used car. It seemed surreal.

  “This one looks good.”

  “I don’t know. That looks like a stock photo or something. What do they call it? Bait and switch?”

  “What about this one? She has a money-back guarantee!”

  “She looks like your Aunt Erlene.”

  Being fairly petite, I was hoping to find someone near my own size. I thought I’d be more comfortable with a brunette. (Don’t ask me why—maybe because I’m a brunette and Brian was always into blondes before me. Maybe it was a jealousy thing; I don’t know.)

  Finally, we found her. She was just what we had fantasized about: long, brown hair; nice body; nice tits. (Sue me. Since discovering my bi-curious self, I’d also discovered I’m a tit-woman.) Brian placed the call. I sat nearby, nervously chewing a cuticle. There was something so unreal about the conversation, or maybe it was the culmination of all the months of story-painting and wondering. Whoever was on the phone quickly set Brian straight on the fact that he wasn’t calling the woman in the photograph (shit), but a sort of hooker dispatch service. (My words.) The good news, however, was we could order up anything we wanted and they’d send her over. Brian essentially described the woman in the ad, gave our hotel info, and made the appointment for ten o’clock the following night, New Year’s Eve.

  When he hung up the phone, it was as if we’d spent the last couple of hours on foreplay. We attacked each other like rabid wolves. Instead of weaving a fantasy, we just kept panting, “Tomorrow.” “Yeah, baby. Tomorrow.”

  To say I spent New Year’s Eve day in a state of breathless anticipation would be an understatement. Dropping quarters into slot machines at an alarming rate, I’d occasionally forget, for a moment, our plans for the evening. Then something would trigger my memory (like this one cocktail waitress whose miniskirt was so short that when she bent to clear a table we could see her pussy through her panties), and my heart would race all over again. My cheeks would grow hot, my undies damp. I hardly ate all day, which was a shame because they had some really good deals at the casino restaurants.

  The day dragged on, then suddenly it was time to get ready. I put on my black satin teddy, as planned, had a drink, and tried to relax. As if that was going to happen. At least I wasn’t the one pacing a threadbare path in the carpet.

  And then there was a knock at the door. I looked at Brian. He looked really sexy in loose, faded jeans and a black knit shirt. He still had the hard-on he’d been sporting since debarking the plane in Vegas. His eyes were kind of heavy and his lips looked full and flushed—sexy and cool. By contrast, I felt like a horny deer caught in the headlights—I imagine I looked like one, too.

  Now, okay, I realize that New Year’s Eve is probably the height of season for prostitutes, and maybe we didn’t put our order in early, but the person at the door in no way resembled what Brian had ordered. She was tall, slightly overweight, with stringy blonde hair and the bored attitude of a grocery-store checkout girl with ten minutes left on the clock. At least she looked somewhat groomed. Brian and I had a whispered conference on the far side of the room, as she stood by the door staring at an ugly painting on the wall. I decided that we’d come this far, I wasn’t going to back down now, even though I didn’t find her remotely attractive.

  Brian paid her $300 cash while I sat on the edge of one of the beds. She pasted on a smile for me as she approached. “Hi. I’m Heather,” she said. Brian sat on the edge of the other bed as if he had a seat on the field at the Super Bowl. Without prelude, Heather reached out and unlaced the front of my teddy, taking a tit in each hand. More than a handful for Brian was much more than that for Heather. Brian breathed, “Kiss her.” He already had his hand on the crotch of his jeans. Heather said, “I don’t kiss clients.” Which was really fine with me, since I wasn’t attracted to her, but Brian was disappointed, I could tell.

  Heather pulled my teddy down my legs, then removed her own blouse and denim miniskirt. No underwear. No surprise. She instructed me to lie face down on the bed. I snuck a peek at Brian, whose jeans were unzipped, hand working inside. Heather knelt over me and brushed her heavy breasts down my back. Wow. I couldn’t see her, which was a good thing, but it felt spectacular and turned me on. It also gave me an idea of what Brian felt when I did that to him. Very cool. I’m sure I flinched a bit when she started fingering my pussy, but I was starting to get into it, knowing we were being watched—that Brian was watching us, getting off, just a few feet away.

  Heather nudged me to roll onto my back and then she lay down next to me. She put my hand on her large breast and let me feel around a bit. While I explored another woman’s chest for the first time, she started to finger-fuck me. Not my favorite thing, especially at the hand of a bored and jaded $300-an-hour hooker. I stole another glance at Brian. He was still working it, but his eyes didn’t have that glazed-over look I expected to find. I did see his nostrils flare when Heather went down on me, though.

  Poor girl. I bet she’s still seeing a chiropractor. She must’ve been at it for forty-five minutes before looking at her watch and saying she needed to go. Just as well. I was about to give her “the tap” anyway. She was licking me numb and getting me nowhere. Who’d have believed a Las Vegas call girl would be so bad at eating pussy? Certainly we weren’t the only people to think of this. Brian and I did, finally, have our orgasms, as we got soapy in the shower. I was glad to have him wash the tired hooker off me.

  The next morning, Brian, salesman that he was, placed a
call to the hooker dispatch service. He explained that we weren’t exactly happy with Heather and asked if they would honor their guarantee. Unfortunately, the guarantee was only good if we had sent her on her way before anything happened. They did offer, however, to send us someone else that night, at a $100 discount. When Brian relayed this to me, I shrugged. Why not? I’d tried it once and was nonplussed, but the idea still turned me on. Besides, we still had a couple of days left in the City of Lights.

  We hung around the casinos again that day, mostly playing nickel slots since the bulk of our cash was earmarked for our lady of the evening. I didn’t feel much of the anxious expectancy of the day before, probably because my hopes were so low. Or maybe more realistic. I was certain some tired career girl was going to show up at our door. This time, I told Brian, we send her back if we don’t like her.

  That night, I waited for our guest dressed-down, in a pair of jeans and a button-down shirt. My only concession to sexiness was a white lace demi-bra and matching panties, although I was sure Brian would be the only one to see them. Our eyes met when we heard her knock. Brian answered the door while I sat cross-legged on the bed.

  She called herself “Sasha.” She was gorgeous. A little shorter, a little thinner than I, she had a mane of wavy, black hair (yes, a mane—like lions have) and big dark eyes. Beautiful caramel-colored skin that proclaimed her to be half something-other-than-Caucasian. Brian glanced inquiringly at me and I glared back a “Pay the woman!”

  Sasha greeted me with a hug and I felt the press of her smallish tits against mine. Looking at me, she told Brian, “She’s beautiful.” Once again, Brian made himself comfortable on the other bed. Sasha and I sat on our bed and chatted a few minutes. She was nice, someone I could see being friends with under different circumstances. Apparently she was a dancer but took a few “odd jobs” like this on the side. She had a serious girlfriend who, she said, would like me, too. For some reason, that really turned me on.

  As we talked, Sasha began unbuttoning my blouse. I guess she saw me watching her mouth, because she kissed me then. I’d never french-kissed a girl before. She slid full lips across mine in what I guess is called a “soul kiss.” It was the softest kiss I’d ever felt. I pulled her knit T-shirt over her head just before she slid my blouse down my arms. I tossed them both on the floor. We made out for a long time in our bras and jeans, feeling each other through our clothes. I don’t know how long we kissed and touched each other, I just know that the contours of her body—and being able to touch her, like in my fantasies—was amazing. Time stopped. I think Brian was having palpitations as he watched us.

  Sasha unhooked and removed her own bra, then mine. Seeing her breasts was as much of a turn-on as touching them through her bra. She had my dream tits, the ones I always wished I had: small and perky with chocolate-kiss nipples. You know, the kind that look great in a tank top. We knelt on the bed and kissed softly. Her nipples were hard when they grazed mine—my first skin-to-skin contact with those fabulous nipples. It was as if an electric shock went from my nipples to my pussy. Our excitement cranked up a notch, and we both kicked off jeans and drenched panties and lay boob-to-boob on the bed. I could even smell how turned-on we were. Somewhere in the distance, I heard Brian grunt quietly. I knew without looking that he had his cock in his hand.

  I hesitated for a moment. Understanding that I was new to this, Sasha directed me, encouraged me to take her nipple in my mouth. God, I felt like a teenager again! It is a completely different sensation to suck a woman’s nipple when you’re used to sucking a man’s. Experimentally, I pulled on her with my lips, sweeping my tongue across the tip. She seemed to like that, so I did it again, just as Brian had done countless times to me. She brought my hand to her pussy and let me feel how wet I’d made her. It was a strange tactile adventure for me—the curly hair, moist folds, and hard clit felt familiar, like my own, but I wasn’t touching myself. It was almost like being outside my body. And it was making my pussy pound.

  After I’d had a few minutes to explore, Sasha smiled sweetly and pushed me back on the bed and set to work kissing her way down my body. I had never been so aroused in my life as I was with this beautiful woman licking my tits, her long hair falling all around us, and my aroused boyfriend looking on from four feet away. I’m pretty sure I heard a quiet whimper from him as she slithered down my body to bury her tongue in my aching cunt.

  Holding my legs apart with small hands, she lapped at me, her hair brushing my inner thighs. I’d never felt anything like it—I was seeing colors, for chrissake!—and was powerless to do anything but buck against her mouth, caressing my own breasts. Brian was naked now, standing beside us, raging hard-on in hand. I turned my head a bit so that he could push the tip into my mouth a couple of times, before he retreated to a vantage point at the end of the bed. I was hungry for more of him, and could’ve come easily with his cock in my mouth—and my fantasy girl between my legs.

  Sasha licked and sucked me for maybe another minute before I shattered into a million pieces, all focused into Sasha’s pretty little mouth. I felt her move away, and Brian took her place. He filled me with what had to be a painfully stiff prick, and fucked me hard, and fast. When Sasha had replaced her bra and panties, she came back over to me, cradling my head and giving me hot, deep kisses as Brian pounded into me. I came again on the fullness of his cock, lightheaded now, and whimpering into Sasha’s mouth. Brian moaned and came, watching our tongues dance.

  Brian and I just lay there, spent, entwined in twisted, sweaty sheets, as Sasha finished dressing. After a few minutes, she winked at me over Brian’s shoulder and, with a small wave, let herself out of our room.

  “Well?” I asked, a bit muffled with my arm over my face.

  And Brian, purposefully obtuse, asked, “What?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Was it good for you?”

  “Shit, yeah,” he grinned. “You?”

  “Shit, yeah.” I laughed. And then I said, “Let’s do it again sometime.”

  Aftercare

  PETER ALLEN

  Julie looks a little nervous as she gets out of the car.

  I walk around the front of the car, take her in my arms, and fix her with that gaze that says, Now or never. I’m talking about her safeword.

  She looks back at me, shakes her head. “I want to do it,” she says. But her voice is shaking.

  She kisses me once on the lips, and we walk over and knock on the door.

  Eric unlocks the door. He sees Julie and smiles broadly. He’s more excited about today’s plan than Julie or I. After all, he’s getting payment in trade.

  “Hello,” he says, and takes Julie’s hand. He kisses her once on the lips, and I know he’s soon going to be doing much more.

  Eric leads us into the small waiting room. The tattoo parlor is warm; they always keep it warm because they do a lot of backroom jobs here. That’s Eric’s specialty. People tend to get chilled when they’re laid out on a table, naked.

  “You’ve already shaved?” he asks Julie.

  She nods, her face reddening slightly.

  “All right,” says Eric. “Undress as much as you feel comfortable. You can leave your clothes on the pegs.” It’s what he always says, but this time he grins wolfishly.

  Julie looks at me—as if to ask whether she really has to, but I know it’s just for moral support. As if for show, she shyly steps behind the medical screen. I watch her shadow as she takes off her tight T-shirt, kicks off her shoes, unzips her leather pants and wriggles out of them.

  I already know what she’s wearing underneath: a white cotton thong under the pants. And nothing at all under the shirt.

  Normally, she’d leave the shirt on while she was being tattooed. This, however, is anything but a normal tattoo.

  I can see Julie’s shadow against the screen as she bends over, taking off her thong and hanging it neatly on the peg.

  She walks out from behind the screen and into the tattoo parlor. Naked and barefoot.

&nbs
p; She looks at me shyly. She knows this is the moment when she should turn back, should utter her safeword. But she also knows she won’t, because this is a turning point in our relationship: It’s now or never.

  I look back at her, love in my eyes—and something else. Lust. She’s gorgeous, her slim pale body toned and pristine. She’s never had a tattoo, never had a piercing. Despite her proclivity for pain, she’s afraid of them. The idea turns her on incredibly, but she’s afraid.

  Eric looks her up and down, too. Normally, it would be highly unprofessional for him to do what he does. But this is anything but a normal day.

  He whistles, showing his appreciation as he looks at Julie’s firm tits, slender hips, long legs, and shaved pussy.

  “Damn, Steve, I can see why you’re marrying this fine piece of ass.”

  Julie blushes, but manages a shy smile. And I can see her nipples hardening, firm pink nubs even in the warm parlor.

  Eric gestures toward the table. It’s not a normal tattoo table; this one has a sling for her legs and stirrups for her feet. It reclines straight back and can be cranked up to put her in a half-sitting position or a position sitting straight up.

  Now, Eric fits Julie’s legs into the stirrups and buckles the leather bands around them. He sits her straight up. Then he cranks the stirrups wide apart so that he can stand between her legs while he pierces her.

  There are also ring bolts on the side of the chair, so he fits restraints around her wrists and padlocks them to the chair.

  Julie is a bondage fiend. I can tell she’s already getting incredibly turned on. I move toward the table.

  There’s no need for Eric to turn his back. Instead, he watches shamelessly as I stand between Julie’s forcibly spread legs and finger her bare pussy. I kiss her deeply, my tongue tangling with hers. I lift my fingers, slick with her juice, to her face. I put my fingers in her mouth and she obediently licks them. Then I start to play with her tits.