Sweet Life 2

by Violet Blue

  Cameron instantly pushes me back and reapplies the lipstick, just as she does when she’s the one sucking me. I feel the fresh coat of color on my lips, and I begin to intentionally leave marks on her. On the flat of her belly. On the skin of her inner thighs. I work her until she needs release, and suddenly she moves away from me and pushes me down into proper position over on the bed.

  Then Cameron is behind me, lifting the robe to reveal my naked ass, and I feel the lube spilling down between my cheeks. I tremble, knowing somehow, an instant ahead of time, exactly what this is going to be like. My sweet pretty fancy girlfriend is going to fuck my ass and I am going to like it. How do I know? I’ve lived this scenario in jerk-off scenes my whole life.

  “Ready?” my deep-voiced lover hisses at me. “Ready, Sammi?”

  I think I say, “Yes.” I must say something. But it’s as if I’m already gone. Sam, the big hulking guy who was a wrestler in high school, who works as a volunteer fireman, who climbed Half Dome—Sam is gone. And Sammi has never been ass-fucked before and doesn’t know how to relax.

  Cameron knows what to do. One firm hand comes around my body, to play with me, and I close my eyes and pretend that I have a clit. That those fingertips are stroking up and down my clit instead of milking my shaft. Life is sweet as I feel myself getting wetter. I sigh as I finally start to let go. At that moment, Cameron pushes forward and enters me. A gentle press, a long slide. I lower my head to my chest and moan. The intrusion is welcome and breathtaking. Now, Cameron uses both hands to hold my hips, and I think of those hips as curvy rather than straight. Of luscious rather than hard.

  With the slip-slide of the lube, and the pressure of Cameron’s hands on me, I give in. I find myself working on the pole of my lover’s cock, working myself, and then one of my hands is suddenly playing with my own sex. Taking over where Cam left off. I probe between my legs, picturing my pussy as cleanly shaved, ready and wet. Even as my hand moves up and down my shaft, I think of my clit getting engorged, of the orgasm spreading through my body slowly, like rippling water, rather than rocket-fast and eruption-angry.

  As soon as I come, Cameron pulls out of my ass and pushes me onto the bed. She pulls off her harness and slides her slippery-wet pussy in front of my mouth. I eat from her with abandon. I give over everything I have to the taste of her sweet cunt. All man again, I am. Or all woman. Or maybe both. Maybe it doesn’t fucking matter what I am, as long as I get the taste of her on my face and in my hair, and on my skin. If I could, I’d climb inside her. As it is, I drink from her sweet-tasting pussy until she slams her hips against me, and then I keep tickling her clit with my tongue until she comes a second time.

  When she reaches for me, pulling me up next to her, I know that she’s ready for a breather, a little downtime between sessions.

  Cameron looks down at the lipstick imprints that cover her naked body. “What’s good for the goose—” she murmurs. She doesn’t have to finish the statement. I already know the rest by heart.

  Key Party

  SCOTT WALLACE

  He’s not sure, but he thinks when he takes off the blindfold and holds up the key chain that he can see a hint of disappointment in her face. The room is filled with hoots and hollers as all the partygoers shout their suggestions to the new ad hoc couple. He glances around, seeing the men wink at him, the women cast flirtatious glances—he might have ended up with any of them.

  He walks across the room to where she’s sitting, looking divine in her long black skirt and sleeveless blouse, holding a glass of red wine. She fixes him pointedly with her stare.

  “If you don’t want to, we don’t have to,” he blurts. “I can put it back and pick another set of keys.”

  She sighs—again, disappointed, or is it his imagination? Then she sets her wine on the coffee table, stands up, and puts her arms around him, planting an open-mouthed kiss on his lips.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she says, amid the applause of all their friends. She plucks the keys from his hand. “Let’s go.”

  A rhythmic and salacious chanting, strictly junior-high stuff, follows them out the door.

  “Your place or mine?” She sounds sarcastic, but the smell of her perfume in her small Audi is exciting him.

  “I have a reservation at the hot tub place near here,” he says. “It’s for nine o’clock. Two hours.”

  “You came prepared.”

  “I figured…I mean, if nothing else, we can just have a soak.”

  “I didn’t bring my suit,” she says coldly. “Besides, two hours in a hot tub and I’ll be so wrinkly no one would want to fuck me. Not even my husband.”

  “Well…you know what I mean.”

  She shrugs, smiling wryly. “Then I guess we’re skinny dipping. It’s all right, I’m not shy. Besides, what’s the point of going to a key party if you only get wet in the tub?”

  “If you don’t want to—”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t you think reluctance is kind of a turn-on? Wouldn’t it be hotter if I didn’t really want to but I do it anyway because I know my husband’s getting fucked by my best friend tonight?” She laughs, leans forward, kisses him again. “Well, I think it’s a turn-on. And you won’t know if I really want it until I come—if I come.”

  “I guess not.”

  “Where’s the hot-tub place again?”

  He gives her directions.

  Maybe it’s the way they’re dressed, but the girl at the front desk gives him a nasty look. He knows from rumor and innuendo that more than a few call girls use this place to avoid the expense of a hotel room. Does she look like a hooker, with her long black dress, a little too tight in the hips, and her blouse, tight enough to gap slightly between buttons where it pulls at her dress? He’s wearing a tie, which he never does—so he feels more than a little like a trick.

  “Now, you promise you don’t have anything nasty?” she says to him in a stage whisper while the college student rings up his credit card.

  “I promise,” he says, and the college student turns several shades of red.

  He’s got to hand it to her—she doesn’t smile.

  The whole way down the sterile, chlorine-smelling tiled corridor, he’s wondering whether he’s supposed to take the lead. He picked the keys; does that mean he should throw her against the wall and tear her clothes off as soon as they’re in the door? Or give her time to undress, put on a robe, get her bearings? Should he avert his eyes while she takes her clothes off? Should they flirt as they sink into the hot tub together? Should he wear his boxer shorts?

  He’s relieved when she begins stripping off her clothes before he’s even locked the door. The room is furnished in tile and smells slightly dank and chemical; there’s a hot tub, a sauna, and a waist-high padded vinyl table that, he’s quite sure, was placed there with a single purpose in mind.

  The blouse comes off and she hangs it on a peg; she kicks her shoes into a corner; she wriggles out of the dress and he sees she’s wearing a thong and garter belt. No bra, which doesn’t surprise him especially; he’d been able to see that from the way her nipples showed through the silk blouse. She doesn’t even look at him as she unhitches the garter belt and pulls down her stockings. But she turns to look at him and holds his gaze like a cobra waiting to strike when she slides the thong off her body.

  He feels his heart pounding, a sudden rush.

  “Do those hurt?”

  “Do what hurt?”

  “Those Brazilian thingies.”

  “Like a motherfucker,” she says, and tosses him her thong. He catches it and feels a wave of excitement as he realizes that it’s damp. Sweat, maybe?

  She sits on the vinyl table, leans back, and smoothly spreads her legs as wide as she can, her eyes locked in his, her knees bent, and her feet tucked against her firm ass. Now he can see the wax job up close, leaving every fold of her exquisite pussy revealed. She lets her hands rest on her thighs.

  “But nothing beats the smooth look. Don’t you agree?”

&nb
sp; He agrees. Her pussy looks magnificent. His eyes flicker from her pussy to her eyes and back again; when he looks into his eyes, she holds his gaze. He understands that she was making it painfully obvious that she intends to fulfill every obligation of the key party—right here, right now, in these chlorine-choked environs. But however much her spreading her legs for him has broken the ice, they haven’t yet made contact, and there remains in him that desperate awkwardness that comes from two people who have acknowledged that they are about to have sex for the first time—but who haven’t yet touched.

  So he walks over to her, leans up against the edge of the padded table, and bends forward to kiss her.

  “No kissing,” she says. “Remember? It’s one of the conditions of the party.”

  He freezes, taken aback. He does remember, from the talk the host gave beforehand—it makes it easier for married couples to let their spouses fool around with each other, since kissing seems, to most of them, an intimate act reserved for longtime partners. But it hardly seems relevant. It’s not like a serious rule—not when they are here, and she is spreading her legs for him, showing him her pussy, begging him to fuck her. Just the same, he figures, if she wants to be faithful to the agreement, he isn’t going to argue.

  So he does what he does when making love with his wife, when she seems even the least bit reluctant to make love. “No kissing on the lips, right?” he says, and drops to his knees.

  The tile is damp, and he feels the moisture soaking the knees of his good slacks. Without pausing, he lowers his mouth between her legs, his eyes flickering up to meet hers just before his lips press against hers; the look on her face tells him that she wants this as much as he does, that she’s been wanting this.

  Something else tells him this: the slick feel of her pussy as his tongue wriggles between her lips, the sharp tang of her juice, full and ripe and abundant. She’s wet—incredibly wet. His tongue-tip finds her clit and she leans back on the massage table, moaning.

  She seems to taste so different, stronger than his wife, perhaps because she’s shaved—but to smell milder, or perhaps it’s just the overwhelming aroma of chlorine blotting out her scent. Nonetheless, she tastes good. He licks hungrily, devouring her pussy as she brings her legs together slightly so that her thighs caress his face. He licks from the entrance to her moist cunt up to the firm bud of her clitoris, then presses his tongue hard against it, feeling her body jerk against him as he works her. He feels her fingertips running through his hair, encouraging him to stay right where he is. He focuses his tongue on her clit as his hands come up underneath her and cup her firm buttocks, holding her lower body in place for him. Her feet tucked under her ass, she lifts her ass off the padded table and grinds her body more firmly onto his mouth.

  His wife usually doesn’t come this way, not from getting eaten out. So he’s a little surprised when he recognizes the sounds of her breathing quickening, when he hears her whimpering and begging him not to stop. It sounds like she’s going to climax, and he sees her playing with her breasts, pinching the nipples, getting close to orgasm. He reaches up with one hand to caress her tits, but she looks down at him and shakes her head.

  “No,” she says. “Put your fingers inside me.”

  His hand moves back down her belly and finds her entrance. Two fingers slide in so easily, and it’s only a few thrusts later, her pinching her nipples hard, now, really hard, that she throws her head back and comes, her body pushing itself onto his fingers as if of its own accord.

  He keeps licking her until she’s shuddering, overwhelmed with the sensations. Her thighs come together and she gently pushes his face out from between them. She looks at him, her face overwhelmed with hunger.

  “Take your clothes off and get on the table,” she tells him.

  He strips his clothes off quickly, not bothering to hang them on the pegs provided. He’s hard—he always gets hard when he’s eating pussy.

  When he’s naked he recognizes the look of open lust in her face. He stretches out on the table lengthwise, feeling awkward now that he’s naked. He’s almost afraid to look at her, she’s so gorgeous in the strange light of the white-tiled room.

  But his awkwardness goes away when he feels her weight on top of his lower body, when he feels her mouth descend upon his cock and take it easily in her mouth. She starts sucking him as if she doesn’t care whether it feels good, as if she’s not interested in his pleasure—only her own. She’s desperate for his cock in her mouth, and that’s what always turns him on the most when he’s getting a blow job. His hands rest gently on the top of her head as he moans. She devours his cock greedily, her head bobbing up and down as she rubs it all over her face, licks his balls, lets her lips and tongue pulse up and down the length of his shaft as if she’s eating corn-on-the-cob. One or two times it almost hurts, she’s sucking him so hard. But the pressure turns him on, the tension of having her seem as if she’s about to eat his cock whole and swallow it with a smile on her face.

  Usually, when he’s ready to come, his wife just licks and sucks around the base while she strokes his shaft with her hand, sometimes working her thumb against the glans. When he comes, she usually lets him shoot on his lower belly, occasionally offering a tentative lick as if to see whether she likes it. This woman, though, keeps sucking him, pumping his cock into her mouth.

  “I’m about to come,” he tells her breathlessly, expecting her to take it out so that she doesn’t have to swallow. But she’s not interested—or maybe she is interested—and he wonders if he heard her. He tries to hold back, desperately fighting his orgasm, telling her again: “Oh fuck, I’m about to come—”

  And then he does, her lips still clamped halfway down his shaft, her tongue working him as he arches his back and lets himself go in her mouth. She doesn’t pull back, not even a little—she doesn’t even flinch. She sucks, hard, drinking every last drop of his come. When he’s finished she licks his softening cock some more, as if unhappy that there’s no more to drink. In fact, she continues licking him way past the point where he could stand it, way past the point where he would have delicately pushed his wife away and asked her to stop. But he lets this woman do it, until he’s writhing in pain, half wanting it to end, half wishing it would go on forever.

  When she’s had enough—for now—she kisses his thighs and stands up.

  “Let’s have a soak,” she says, and he watches her naked body as it descends into the water of the hot tub.

  The conversation is awkward—they’re two people who don’t know what to say to each other. The hot water feels good to him, every nerve of his body alive after the intense orgasm. She props herself against the jets and rocks back and forth while they talk, and he recognizes that the jet is squarely hitting her pussy and clit.

  “What is it about having sex with a stranger?” he asks at one point.

  “Or a neighbor’s wife?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “It’s forbidden.”

  “But this isn’t forbidden. We got permission and everything. It was all so fucking negotiated.”

  She shrugs. “It’s still forbidden. How many of our friends do you think actually went through with it?”

  “You mean how many of them do you think did what we did?”

  “Oral sex?” She bobs against the water jet, her face flushed with the heat of the hot tub—and probably with the feel of the jet against her clit.

  He smiles, then frowns.

  “I think most of them probably made out like teenagers,” she responds. “A little fingering, maybe a hand job, but I doubt they went all the way.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “No, I don’t think they would go that far. But it’s kind of a turn-on. All those friends and neighbors making out in the back seat of their cars, afraid to go all the way.”

  “I guess so,” he says. “But doesn’t it seem kind of a waste?”

  She leans forward, her body distended awkwardly as she puts her fa
ce close to his to the point where he thinks she’s going to kiss him, a forbidden act.

  “Are you saying you’re going to fuck me?”

  “No, no,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean that—we don’t have to….”

  “Yes, we do,” she says, smiling, her lips so close to his that he can smell the faint hint of red wine on her breath. “Come on. We’ll never forgive ourselves.”

  “I’m…I’m really…that was an incredible blow job. I’m happy just doing this, if you like….”

  She tucks her head against his neck, her lips caressing his skin. Her breasts brush his arm and her hand slips under the frothing water, her fingers wrapping around his cock. He’s hard in an instant.

  “I’m not,” she said. “I want you to fuck me.”

  Then she’s out of the hot tub, her glorious body swaying as she walks to the massage table, the perfect height for her to bend over. Her belly rests flat on the table when she spreads her legs wide and looks at him over her shoulder.

  He gets out of the water, his hard-on bobbing as he looks at her pussy. He wants her now, and there’s something exceptionally wicked about knowing he’s going to have her, without effort, without transgression. He gets behind her and the head of his cock meets her pussy.

  “We have to use condoms, remember?”

  “I…I forgot. Are you sure you want to?”

  “It’s part of the agreement,” she says.

  “I haven’t used condoms in years.”

  “Neither have I,” she says with a smile. “But it’s part of the agreement. There’s one in my purse.”

  “All right,” he says, and gets it. It feels awkward unrolling over his cock, and a couple of times he catches his pubic hair. It’s been a long time since he used condoms. He loses his hard-on.