Sweet Life 2

by Violet Blue

  “Sorry,” he says.

  She gets off the table and drops to her knees in front of him, holding the half-unrolled condom as she starts licking his balls. He starts to get hard again. She rubs her face over his thighs and licks the lower part of his shaft. When he’s hard all the way, she positions the limp rubber at his cockhead, then slides her mouth over the top of it and unrolls it using her mouth.

  Her fingers wrap around the hard shaft, feeling strange as they caress him through the latex. “Wow. That’s a neat trick. I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “You wouldn’t have any reason to know, would you?” she said. “Unless my husband’s been talking about me in the locker room. Besides, I haven’t done it for years. I’m a little surprised myself. That I can still do it.”

  He finds himself wondering how many condoms she’s put on with her mouth, but then she slides up his body, caressing his balls with her hand. She turns around, bends over the edge of the table, and spreads her legs.

  He comes up behind her and guides his cock between the lips of her cunt. It feels bizarre with the condom between them, conjuring up memories of college trysts years ago. She’s more than a little dry, probably from the hot water washing away her natural lubrication.

  “Do you want some lube?” he asks.

  “No,” she says. “It’ll be okay once it’s in.”

  He enters her, and he feels her body tensing, hears her gasp. Where she was dry on the outside, her pussy feels exceedingly tight, but as he slides out of her he feels that his cock is slick with her juices. She pushes back against him, meeting his second thrust with her own.

  “I was pushing up against the jet,” she says breathlessly.

  “I know,” he says.

  “I’m really, really close.”

  “I don’t know if I can come with the condom on,” he says.

  “I don’t care,” she says. “Just fuck me.”

  He starts fucking her faster, each thrust meeting one of hers until she can’t match his motions in that position. She leans heavily against the table and lifts her ass in the air; he grips her thighs as he fucks her.

  “Harder…harder…harder,” she keeps begging him, and as he focuses on making her come he realizes that he’s getting close, too. He starts pumping her as fast as he can, and it’s only a moment later that he feels the tensing in her naked body that spells her orgasm. A fraction of a second passes before a loud, low moan escapes her lips, telling him that she really is coming, and even through the condom he can feel the violent contractions of her pussy around his cock.

  She comes for a long time, and he keeps fucking her until she’s well past finished. He’s close, really close, but he doesn’t think he can come with the condom—it’s too unfamiliar, too diffuse a sensation. She seems to sense this from the way he’s fucking her, but what he does next surprises him.

  “Take the condom off,” she begs him.

  “But I thought you said….”

  “Do it,” she moans softly. “I don’t care. Take the condom off and come inside me.”

  He wrestles with his conscience for a moment—now that he’s committed to the terms of the agreement, it seems strange to violate them. But he wants her—he wants to feel her pussy naked around his cock. He pulls out of her and rips the condom off, yanking out several strands of his hair and not giving a shit. When he enters her again he knows it’s going to happen fast.

  “I’m coming,” he says with his second thrust, and then he does, barely moving inside her as he climaxes. She wriggles her body against him, moaning softly as she coaxes his semen into her body—forbidden, so forbidden, and hot.

  When he slides out of her, his cock feels slick with come and her juices. She climbs onto the massage table, exhausted, and he joins her.

  Their bodies pressed together, they lie immobile, spent.

  “Are you disappointed?” he asks.

  “Like, duh,” she says.

  “Were you disappointed when you first saw it was me?”

  She sighs.

  “Why the hell do you think I’ve been carrying around that stupid teddy bear key chain for weeks? I was afraid you wouldn’t get the hint.”

  “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t.”

  “Dense, but faithful.”

  “Would you have gone along with it if someone else had picked your key?”

  “Luckily, I’ll never have to answer that. Thanks for making the question irrelevant.”

  And, strangely, he feels okay with that.

  He kisses her on the lips.

  Doing Eighty

  COREY SAWYER

  I’m speeding again. I don’t want to; I don’t mean to. But ever since Daddy bought me this little red convertible for my sixteenth birthday, I can’t stop myself. I put on a sexy outfit and slide into the bucket seats, smelling the new leather, and next thing you know my heart is pounding and I’m hurtling down the freeway doing eighty. Daddy knows I speed; I’ve got three tickets already. He tells me I shouldn’t, and I promise I’ll be good. But there’s one thing Daddy doesn’t know: Speeding like this makes me wet. There’s something so hot about pushing the petal to the floor and feeling the engine rev while I’m playing Madonna at top volume on the extra-premium stereo, loud enough to blast through the sound of the wind as it whips through my long hair—it just drives me crazy. It makes my pussy wet in my skimpy thong; it makes my nipples poke out hard from my push-up bra. It makes me want to fuck. It makes me want to get fucked.

  It makes me so hot, I can’t control myself. It makes me so hot—sometimes I come while I’m driving. And I mean come hard.

  That’s why I cut down these country roads rather than taking the Interstate, because I know the cops never patrol them. Sure, it’s more dangerous hitting the curves at speeds like these. But it turns me on so much that I start rocking against the seat. I push myself hard against it, trying to rub my thighs together to stimulate my clit. I know if I could I would straddle the gearshift and push it into me, shifting with my cunt, fucking my virgin pussy until I come all over it, my juice dripping down. I want to pop my cherry on my little red sports car, let this baby fuck me until I’m a whore. I’m so wet I can’t stand it, and I know I could come any minute just from rocking back and forth on the seat.

  That’s when I see and hear you: red lights, siren howling in the dark. It’s after midnight. I feel a rush of terror as I glance at the speedometer—eighty miles an hour. The posted limit is thirty-five. I keep driving around a few more curves, faster and faster, pushing the needle, hoping I’ll lose you or you’ll lose interest. But I know it’s hopeless; after the next bend there isn’t a hiding place for miles.

  I pull over, feeling my heart pound in time with my pussy. You park your big bike behind me and climb off, tall and imposing in the headlights of your Harley. I can hear your motorcycle boots grinding the gravel as you approach the car. I feel myself quaking—what is a lone highway patrolman going to do to a rebellious little slut dressed like I am, doing eighty on a country road after midnight?

  “Evening, Ma’am. Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”

  I stare at you, surprised. You’re too tall, too built, too muscular. Your voice is almost too low, husky, authoritative—but I know it’s true: You’re a woman. I feel a rush of relief—at least I won’t be raped.

  I shake my head. “No, officer.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixteen,” I tell you.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Corey,” I say.

  “Well, Corey. You’re about to lose your license.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “Driver’s license and registration, please, Corey.”

  “I—I wasn’t—”

  “Save it,” you say. Silently, I hand over the license. You look at it, your face registering shock as you see the name, the details. You look at me with distaste on your downturned lips.

  “Get out of the car, Sir.”

  “But I—�
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  Your gun comes out of its holster; you point it at my head.

  “One more word and you’ll lose more than your license.”

  I step out of the car, shaking. The convertible’s top is down, so you push me against the hood, growling at me to put my hands on the car. And when I don’t comply fast enough, I feel your knee in my crotch and one hand on my hair, the other hand clapping the handcuffs on my wrists faster than I can even realize what’s happening. Then, while you’re still holding me close, I fee the gun pressed close to the back of my skull. I begin to beg.

  “Please, please don’t—”

  “Speak when spoken to,” you growl. “You should know better than to lie to a cop. Your name’s not Corey.”

  “Corey’s my name—I mean, it’s the name I go by—”

  “In those whore clubs you go to? You on your way down to the city now, to check them out? You have to blow the bouncers to get in?”

  I feel tears rolling down my cheeks as you grind your knee harder into my crotch, making me gasp. I can feel it pressing in—I’d been so close to coming, I could almost go off right now. The fear isn’t making me want it less—it’s just making me scared, mortally terrified, that I’m gong to come while you slap me.

  You kick my feet, hard, wide apart, throwing me off balance and pitching me forward against the cold metal. You twist your hand in my hair, and it comes off in your hand, bringing a yelp from me as bobby pins scatter across the hood of the sports car. You toss the wig away and reach down between my legs, shoving my tiny spandex micro-mini and white lace thong out of the way and grabbing hard.

  You grab my balls and twist.

  “Please,” I gasp. “Please don’t—”

  “You a virgin, ‘Corey’?”

  “Yes,” I gasp. “I’ve never—”

  “But you suck lots of cock, don’t you? You suck cock to get into those clubs of yours, don’t you? Those special clubs they have in the city, right? How many bouncers have you sucked off, Corey?”

  “I’ve never—”

  “Don’t lie to a cop,” you snap. “How many, Corey? How many cocks have you had in that virgin mouth of yours?”

  “Lots,” I whimper. “A whole lot.”

  “Yeah, I thought so. You want another one tonight? You ever suck off a cop to get out of a ticket, Corey? To keep yourself from losing your license?”

  “But you’re…you’re—”

  That’s when I feel it. You’ve got your knee out of my crotch now and your boots planted firmly on the insides of my feet, forcing my legs apart. You’re leaning harder against me, forcing me roughly onto the hood of the sports car, almost lifting me off my feet.

  And I can feel your cock.

  It’s rubbing against my ass, between my cheeks, each thrust you’re grinding into my body forcing the spandex micro-mini a little higher, yanking the string of the thong deeper into my ass, making it rub my asshole and my balls.

  “You ever suck off a lady cop, Corey? It’s all the rage in those clubs you like, and I promise I won’t come in your mouth. You think you’d like that, or do you just suck boy cock?”

  “Please,” I gasp. “Please don’t make me—”

  “You’ve got two choices here, Corey. You can get on your knees and suck my cock, or I can hold you down and pop that cherry of yours. You think your daddy would like that if I spoiled his little prize?”

  “No, no, no,” I hear myself moaning. “Please don’t make me—”

  “Or maybe your daddy doesn’t know he’s got a little sixteen-year-old virgin on his hands. Maybe he thinks you’re his tough football player son. You think he’d like it if I let him know you’re a little debutante whore on weekends? Maybe then he’d want to pop your cherry himself. Only thing is, I kind of like getting head. If I have to fuck you, I’m definitely going to take away that license of yours. You were doing eighty in a thirty-five, Corey, and I already ran your plates. This is your fourth violation. You’ll never drive this sexy little car again, and everyone at school will know you’re a little tranny slut. I think that’ll make you real popular in high school, Corey. Don’t you think?”

  “Please,” I begged. “Please don’t tell them—”

  “You know what to do, then, Corey. Make me like you. Make me like you a whole lot.”

  You pull me off the car and spin me around, shoving me back against it so that I feel the cold metal on my ass as the spandex rides up. You stand there, your cock bulging in your tight riding-pants.

  My top has come undone and I can feel my nipples poking through the bra. Tears dribble onto them as I look up at you. My cheeks are wet with tears and I can feel the caked-on makeup running. I would wipe my face, but I’m still handcuffed.

  I realize you’re not even going to give me the dignity of forcing me to my knees. You’re going to make me get down on them myself.

  So I do.

  I feel the asphalt, still warm from the long day, rough against my knees through the thin white stockings I’m wearing. I stare at the ground, too ashamed to look up at you.

  “Take off the dress.”

  I begin to protest, but when your hand lingers over your side and caresses the butt of your pistol, I know better than to continue. Down on my knees, I wriggle out of the tiny dress and feel you pluck it out of my hand. You toss it on the ground behind you.

  Now I’m clad only in a push-up bra, thong panties, garter belt, stockings, and high heels. It feels strange to be dressed like this without my wig; I’ve been down on my knees like this, cock in my face, so many times before—but always with my hair hanging down in my face. Always with my long hair hiding me, concealing my humiliation.

  “Looks like it doesn’t take anything but a hard cock to get you going,” you tell me. “Doesn’t matter who it’s on.”

  In case I don’t understand what you mean, you lift your boot and nudge the base of my balls where they strain against the silky lace.

  Making my hard cock jiggle and bounce as it sticks out of my panties.

  It’s hard. Rock hard, throbbing hard. I don’t know why. I don’t want it to be. I don’t want to want it this much. I don’t want to be humiliated by you knowing how bad I want it. How bad I want your cock in my mouth.

  “Suck it,” you tell me. “Show me what you do when you’re on your knees in those clubs in the city. Suck my cock.”

  I take the head of your cock in my mouth, and the touch is electric. You’re thick, much thicker than any cock I’ve ever sucked. I have to open my mouth wide to take it in, and I’m not even halfway down the shaft when I feel your thick head pressing against the entrance to my throat. I’ve sucked cock often enough, felt the urgent thrust and demanding force of a stiff tool with no conscience, to recognize what it means when you tangle your hands in my short hair. It means you’re going to fuck me. You’re going to fuck my face; you’re going to fuck my throat.

  I barely have time to take a deep breath before I feel you forcing it down my throat. I swallow, and gag—it’s too thick. But you’re not interested in whether I can take it or not; you hold me tight and grind your hips forward, pushing your cock into my throat as my muscles convulse around it.

  I feel it going in, feel you sliding down into my body. My lips stretch around the base of your cock, touching the leather harness. I can smell your pussy, all around me, filling my nostrils.

  You begin to slide out. Then back in.

  I have to gasp to get air between your thrusts. You’re pushing deep with each pump of your hips, and I can tell the base of the dildo is pressing against your clit, like I read about in one of the porn novels someone in the club loaned me. You’re fucking my face as if you’re using me with a real cock, waiting to come down my throat.

  Your cock fills me as I hear you say: “Touch it. Touch your cock.”

  My hand moves of its own accord, as if it’s been waiting for the command. My fingers wrap around my hard shaft, gripping it tightly.

  “Now jerk off.”

 
I can’t even believe I’m doing it; stroking my cock like this means I’ve finally admitted to you how bad I want it. I’ve finally admitted to you how hard it makes me to suck your cock, down on my knees. How bad I wanted you to pull me over for speeding, how every push on the accelerator was a wriggle of my butt, a sashay of my hips, a flirtatious flutter of my eyelashes.

  I pump my cock as your hips force your cock in and out of my throat. Every thrust down my throat feels like a stroke on my own cock, and my hand matches the rhythm perfectly. You know it—maybe you know it better than I do. That’s why you fuck me harder, forcing the dildo against your clit, using my throat to jack yourself off. I hear your moans coming faster, louder—and then you come, gripping my hair as you fuck me. Your body shudders against mine, and the feel of your hard, orgasmic thrust sends a surge through my cock. I’m going to come, too. I’m going to come very, very soon.

  One hand still holding my head down on your cock, you bend over and tug my cock down, growling at me to keep stroking it. You cup your hand and tell me to come. I try not to—I don’t want to, but I can’t stop my hand. I feel the pleasure exploding through me as my cock opens up and I shoot, pulsing hot semen into your hand.

  Then you pull your cock out of my mouth and I feel it, pressing against my face. Your cupped hand, slathering my come over my face. Ruining my makeup. Caking my hair. You force my mouth open and press your fingers in, filling my mouth with the taste of my own come, your fingertips prodding my throat—which is so open that I take your fingers right down my throat, without gagging. I feel my come dribbling down my gullet.

  You rub your cock all over my face, coating me with semen. Then you pry my lips wide and make me lick it clean. I taste my come stronger than ever, and it feels like I’m licking it off your cock.

  I look up at you, eyes wide, my carefully painted face ruined with my own desire.

  You bend over, the key to the handcuffs jangling as you fit it into the lock. My wrists come free and I slump forward onto my hands and knees.