“You’re so perfect,” he gasped, sheathed to the hilt. “You’re amazing.” He began to thrust upward as Ally tossed her head, moaning. She let him control the pace, matching him with her own thrusts when they found a comfortable momentum. Every stroke produced sweet pleasure that spiraled through Ally’s core. The reality was so much better than the fantasy—everything about it. Lawrence was a kind, generous lover, and Ally had never felt more sensual or turned on.
Lawrence lifted Ally off of him and gently laid her on her back. He kissed her passionately as he pushed inside her. The new angle stimulated her to the heights of pleasure. Ally wailed, sobbing for release. When she didn’t think she could take anymore, Lawrence moved his hand firmly among her curls, seeking out her most pleasurable spot. Ally jerked against him, crying out as she climaxed. Her pleasure was sharp and sweet, washing over her from head to toe. Her feelings deepened as Lawrence joined her burying his seed deep within her. Pumping to the very end to eke out the last tendrils of pleasure, Lawrence gently withdrew and sprawled over Ally’s limp body. They panted in tandem, trying the catch their breaths. Lawrence finally found the strength to roll off of Ally.
“That was wonderful,” he said still panting a little. “But can you do me a favor?”
“Anything,” Ally said, turning to her side and resting her head on her hand.
“Don’t tell the dogs,” Lawrence said, grinning. “They’d never forgive me.”
Their laughter rang out into the condo.
A Past That’s Best Forgotten
By Elaine LaRue
I stare down at my feet once more as Ethan pays me yet another compliment. The man had grown fond of them as of late, often twirling my hair in his fingers and telling me how the sandy brown really brings out the blue in my eyes. “What do you make of this one?” I say, pointing to the pretentious artwork in front of us and trying desperately to steer the conversation.
“It’s beautiful, but not as beautiful as you! I love your hair today; it’s so … long and wavy. It’s sexy,” replied Ethan, failing to take the hint. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I have to spend the day traipsing around an art gallery and pretending I’m into this stuff for the sake of my boyfriend’s feelings, I now have to entertain his new-found, overbearing affection, too. A smile is all I can muster in response.
I love a compliment as much as the next girl, but there’s something about this that feels a little too unnatural. It’s as if he knows—as if he’s figured out … No, there’s no way he could know; it was a long time ago, and I’ve stopped now—for good!
“Can we go soon?” I ask, feeling suffocated in my pencil skirt and blouse.
“Oh come on, Zoe. We’ve not had a look upstairs yet …”
“I know, but I’m tired and I have work tomorrow.” I look into his striking green eyes longingly. My sad, puppy dog eyes never fail me, and it’s likely they won’t fail me now.
Ethan plants an affectionate kiss on my cheek and embraces me tightly. “I understand, babe. We’ll hail a cab and head back to your apartment.”
Ugh, babe. Of all the pet names he’d picked up recently, babe was the one I resented most. “Actually, I think I’m going to head back alone; I’ve had a long day and I’ve got an early start tomorrow. Don’t worry, you can come by tomorrow evening, if you’re free.”
“Sure, babe. I’ll call you.”
I kiss him passionately on the lips as we leave the gallery, and then I take one last look at his gorgeous face before retreating into a cab. If Ethan was anything, it was gorgeous; his magnetic green eyes and thick curls of chestnut hair often remind me of how lucky I actually am, no matter how strange he’s been acting as of late.
I can smell an awful, musty aroma about the cab, though a pleasant journey back to my apartment is the least of my concerns right now as I am enshrouded with paranoia. Could he really know? Should I tell him? It was just work after all, perhaps he’d understand. Besides, I’m not that girl anymore. I’ll do it. I’ll come clean tomorrow evening. I’ll tell him everything.
Once out of the must-mobile, I race up the steps to my apartment block, with heels echoing a trail to the front door. It has been one hell of a day after all, and the sooner I’m tucked into my bed with nothing but New Girl and ice cream to keep me company, the better. I slip off my torturous heels as I unlock the door to my apartment, and I free myself from the suffocating skirt and blouse. There’s something strangely comfortable about being able to walk around my apartment in nothing but my pink lacy briefs and leopard print push up bra—who cares if they don’t match, no-one can see me, and besides, it’s my silky nightgown that begs to wrap me up warm tonight anyway.
The next morning I awake to my blasted alarm; there’s nothing more soul destroying than the wailing of a 7am alarm. Surely the office could cope just one day without a certain secretary falling in line? I force myself up and out of the door after a make-up routine I’ve done one too many times before. Waiting for the bus to work is a terrible ordeal, especially at twenty-five when I should really be driving, but it’s better than before, I suppose.
I wait, and wait, until I hear a voice call out from behind me.
“Hey, I know you!”
I mustn’t turn around. I mustn’t ever turn around!
“Rachel! Yes, it is you! Rachel. Rachel.”
Oh no. That name. That dirty … dirty name. Why now, of all times? I turn, to be greeted by none other than Jon, my former client. “Hello stranger,” I say as I recall thoughts best forgotten.
“It’s been a while, huh? How’s business?”
Jon had always been one of those straightforward types, never beating around the bush about what he wanted, and when he wanted it. Even now he treats me as though I’m still a call girl—his call girl. “I’m not in the business anymore, and I’d prefer not to speak about it here. You know the rules.” I stare deeply into his lovely chocolate eyes, trying desperately to put away memories of his mussed up dark hair, strong body and enormous … throbbing … pounding—no! Behave, Zoe. You’re not that person anymore.
“Then how about a coffee?”
“I can’t, I have a boyfriend, and I’m running late for work,” I say as I fidget with my keys. Why do I feel as nervous as a schoolgirl?
“Ah yes, the illusive Ethan,” said Jon.
“You know about Ethan?” This is worrying; I was always careful never to mention personal matters, least of all my boyfriend. How could he possibly know?
“I know he’s in his late twenties. I know he works at the art gallery two blocks from here, and I know he’s the lead guitarist of a band that frequently plays in the bar across the street from my apartment. Yes, you could say I’ve done my homework—or did, when you were still a working girl.”
I can see the bus pulling up towards me, and despite my mind telling me to dismiss this as nothing but just another creepy client, my body freezes—my pounding heart is all that reminds me I’m still alive, and that this is definitely not a dream … a very bad dream at that. I should say something. Anything! But I can’t. My mind is a blur, my body a statue, and all I can do is watch as my bus drives to work without me.
“I know you’re shocked,” says creepy Jon as he lays his creepy hands on my shoulders and stares at me with his creepy eyes! “Rachel, all I want is one more evening with you. One more chance to prove I’m the man for you. I’ll pay you—whatever you want, name your price and I’ll happily pay it. I just want one more evening.
Clients often had a habit of believing I was in need of rescuing from my life, as though I was Julia Roberts waiting for my Richard Gere in shining armor to whisk me away from my oh-so nightmarish world. Of course, the reality couldn’t be further from the truth; I have a wonderful, albeit strangely affectionate boyfriend, and a luxurious apartment overlooking beautiful Manhattan. And besides, not a single client was ever half-so handsome and charming as silver fox, Richard Gere—not even Jon, who was strangely dreamy for a client of mine. He often reminded
me of a high school jock turned Wall Street business man. He always had that look of a slick, egotistical professional, with abs that you could grate a wedge of parmesan on, though in all honesty I scarcely knew Jon at all. “And what if I refuse?” I manage to say, already knowing the answer before it spills from his smooth, kissable lips.
“You won’t refuse.”
“I … I’m going to tell Ethan. I’m going to tell him everything! It really doesn’t matter what you tell him because he’ll already know.” I feel my lower lip tremble; the tears want to stream down my face, but I hold them back for fear of my mascara decorating my cheeks.
“Good for you. So, I’ll swing by at seven. Wear something … short.” And with that he left; left me there to hold back my tears while I stumble awkwardly back to my apartment.
Hours pass like minutes, and by six o’clock I’m already chugging back glasses of red wine like there’s no tomorrow—it’s all I can do to steady my nerves. I look at my cell phone for the hundredth time in a row, and still Ethan hasn’t responded. Is he angry that I cancelled? Does he know? Could Jon have told him already? I gulp down yet another glass of wine which is then quickly followed by another. Before I know it, the clock tells me that it’s half past six and my nerves have scarcely calmed themselves.
I dim the lights and sit cross-legged by the buzzer, glancing at my reflection every other second to make sure I look suitably kinky. Jon always had a thing for role play; nurses, secretaries, maids—it didn’t matter as long as he felt in control. His favorite had always been the naughty schoolgirl; he liked to pretend I was an innocent virgin waiting to be taken by his monstrous manhood. The thought had always disturbed me, but who was I to judge? I gave them what they were too afraid to ask from their better halves, and as long as I was paid by the end of the evening, it didn’t matter. It’s just business—that’s what I’d tell myself, and it’s what I’m telling myself now.
As the buzzer rings and thunders throughout the apartment, I stand, smooth my plaid skirt, fix my pigtails and nervously buzz him in. His footsteps up the stairs grow louder with each passing second, and for one last time I glance at my reflection to make sure my lacy red bra can be seen just enough through the white blouse I’d tied up about my breasts. I want him to leave me alone, and the best way to do that is to give him everything he could ever want.
Suddenly, he’s here, knocking at my apartment door. I panic; is my skirt short enough? Are my knee high socks sexy enough? How long will he stay? Has he told Ethan? Answering the door is an enormous task for me, but I manage it with enough confidence to smile.
“Hello, Rachel,” Jon says as he steps into my apartment, scarcely taking his dark eyes off my body. “Wow, you look … amazing!”
“Not too bad yourself, Jon,” I say, trying desperately not to fall for his handsome allure. My eyes roam over him unwillingly, taking in every inch of his brooding appearance. My hands want nothing more than to strip him of his chest-hugging olive shirt, to feel his hard body pressed against me, and to—no! I need to get a hold of myself. I have Ethan for that. This is business—nothing more. “Take a seat on the couch. I’ll be with you shortly,” I say to him.
I rush to the bathroom as quickly as I can and stare into the mirror, ashamed of what I see back: I see freckles that have been fashioned onto my cheeks using eyeliner; I see dark eye shadow that I wouldn’t usually wear; I see somebody that I used to be; I see Rachel. Desperately, I try to pull myself together, but it’s no use—a part of me wants Jon, because he’s obnoxious, dominating, rough, and everything Ethan is not.
Giving in, I find myself back in front of Jon, between his thighs and looking up into those eyes I just can’t seem to get away from. I try desperately to push all thoughts of Ethan out of my head as my hands reach up the denim to unleash Jon’s burning passion.
“You know what I want you to do with it,” Jon says as he helps pull down his tight briefs to expose his throbbing hardness. “Do it.”
I don’t have a choice. It’s just business. It’s the only way. I try to convince myself, and convince myself, but the more I tug at the manhood in front of me, the more I want it in me; the more I want it for myself, to take me the way Ethan cannot.
My lips move over his sack, sucking and kissing while I massage the tip of his arousal with my gentle fingers. I moan ever so quietly, as though I’m somehow getting pleasure from it. I can feel him watching me, pretending I’m that innocent virgin from his fantasies. He wants more, that much I know.
“Suck it,” Jon demands. “Go on, Rachel. Suck it the way you used to suck it.”
I feel a wetness spread between my legs at the thought of being commanded by him. Slowly, my tongue traces the eight inch shaft in front of me, and I linger on his head for just enough time to hear him beg for me to take him whole, before doing as he bids.
Its length is huge, and it pokes at my throat on more than one occasion, but I’ve done this far too often to show any weakness. I feel his hips buck, and feel him thrust in and out rapidly. My hand cups his sack ever so gently, just the way he used to like it. I hear him groan, though I’m almost sure he’s about to bark a second order at me.
“You feel so good,” he moans. “But I want you to stop. If this is my last time with you, then I want to make the most of it.”
“And what would you like?” I should feel disappointed, but my body wants this; it wants to feel him inside, thrusting away like the powerful man that he is.
“Two things,” he says as he stands to rid himself of all that covers his beautiful body. “I want to cum all over that pretty face of yours, and then I want to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before.”
“And if I refuse?” I can’t help but admire the muscled thighs above me, and the chiseled chest that is now free for me to drool over.
“If you refuse, then I’ll tell your precious Ethan what a naughty little girl you’ve been, do you understand?”
I hate you. I hate you so much! Why? Why can’t I control myself? “Yes, I understand.”
“Good. Now, do as I say.” Jon towers above me, stroking himself without a care in the world for what I might think of him. “Take off that blouse, I want to see what’s underneath.”
I do as he commands, slowly popping each button in an effort to tease him. I then allow my blouse to gracefully fall to the floor, exposing my red bra, and the lace trim he quickly feels the need to touch. My hands move almost independently up the back of his muscled legs—I simply can’t help myself, he’s got a body to die for.
“No,” roars Jon as he shuffles my hands away. “Lie on your back and touch yourself.”
Without questioning him, I lie flat on my back, admiring the view above. I watch as he pleasures himself very slowly over my body, keeping his hand close to the tip of his manhood at all times for maximum feeling. “Like this?” I ask, slowly moving my hand up the inside of my thighs, beneath my short plaid skirt, and then gently rubbing the red lace clinging to my moistened lips. I moan an erotic lullaby that I know he’ll enjoy.
“Yes! Exactly like that,” Jon shouts. “Oh, Rachel, you have no idea how sexy you really are. I want you. I want you right now. Tell me how much you want me. Do it.” Jon tugs faster, and faster, until his hand is almost a blur.
“I want you to fuck me,” I confess. Slipping beneath my panties, I pleasure myself imagining such a thing, staring longingly at the stirring manhood that looks as though it’s about to explode with passion. “I want to feel you inside me, Jon. I want you.” Rachel has finally taken over, leaving Zoe to sit this one out for the next hour or so.
Just as I begin to rub my love button, I feel a warmth spray across my body; Jon seems to have finished just as I am getting started, though it doesn’t matter because I’ll soon feel his hard body pressed against mine, and something even harder pushing between my thighs.
“Clean yourself up with your sweet panties,” Jon orders me from atop his pedestal.
My fingers clutch carefully around
the lace, before slowly pulling the red panties down my thighs and hooking them around my ankles. I leave them there for a second while I allow Jon to enjoy the view, before seductively using my heels to unhook the lace from my ankles. I should feel somewhat degraded cleaning myself with my own underwear, but I don’t. If it works for him, so be it—it’s all part of the job, right?
Jon slumps himself into the couch, as though he owns the place; his muscles pumped, and his dark hair disheveled. The look he gives me speaks a thousand words, but he needn’t say a thing. I do as he commands and curl up onto the couch, pressing my cheek against his rock hard chest and feeling his heart thump a tremendous beat. My hand runs across his body, slowly edging towards his once throbbing arousal. I plant a kiss on his neck stubble, before whispering into his ear what I really want him to do to me—needless to say it seems to work.
Sensual Seduction: The Complete Collection (3 Volumes) Page 6