by Various
‘Oh, God, yes!’ Sarah cried, hauling down with her arms, kicking the air with her heels. He took some of her weight but with the oil down her front his grip was almost frictionless and her body felt like it was melting in his hands. She couldn’t push back against him so she just had to let him have his way, thrust after thrust, mauling her slippery flesh with his big hands, filling her to the brim – and then to bursting. In that cold garage her cries echoed from the walls. Her flesh gave up its orgasm; a bone-wrenching, kicking, struggling thing that nearly dislocated her shoulders, and left her dissolving loose-limbed in his grasp as he groaned and emptied himself into her.
After he’d meticulously cleaned and dried her, and left a mountain of blue paper towels overflowing the bin, she paid the repair bill.
‘It’s still a few hours north to Fort William,’ said Gavin thoughtfully. ‘You could stay here tonight instead.’
‘That’s OK.’ She smiled at him and reached up to touch his cheek, brushing her thumb across his lip in happy remembrance of the kisses he’d planted on every part of her body.
‘Well.’ He looked a little disappointed, but resigned. ‘Have a safe journey then. I’ll let you out.’
He went to unbolt the big wooden doors and Sarah climbed into her car, readjusting the driver’s seat to her leg length. She watched him as she buckled her seat belt. He’d done so much more for her than rescue her at the roadside, she thought, and she touched her handbag absently. Inside was the garage invoice, complete with telephone number.
Starting the engine, she eased out into the Scottish evening. It was drizzling again. Gavin bent to her open window. ‘Are you sure you’re OK then, Sarah?’
‘Yes.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘Yes. I’m sure. I really am. Thank you. I mean it.’
‘OK.’ He brushed her cheek briefly with his finger, then stood back. She drove out onto the street, took a deep breath and then, lifting her hand in a wave, she turned and set off: not right to Fort William but left towards England, and home.
Janine Ashbless is the author of the Black Lace novels Divine Torment, Burning Bright and Wildwood. She has two single author collections of erotica, Cruel Enchantment and Dark Enchantment, also published by Black Lace. Her paranormal erotic novellas are included in the Black Lace collections Magic and Desire and Enchanted.
Table for Three
A.D.R. Forte
HE LOOKS SO damned hot in those black slacks. I picked them out for him. He loves them, saves them for special occasions.
Tonight he’s wearing them for her.
I watch them. They’re slow dancing in the living room, his hands around her waist, hers around his neck. He’s a good dancer. That’s how I first noticed. That was the bait.
During a California-style Carnaval party, among the orgy of mindless drunken gyration, he alone was dancing – actually dancing. Sweet, seductive boy with a tight ass doing the merengue, making me sweat just by looking at the motion of his hands and his hips, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
I got him down on the beach alone. Or so I thought. Until he unzipped my shorts and pushed me back against the sand and I felt his mouth on my hard cock. Then I realised I was the one being seduced. Always have been with him.
They’ve stopped dancing now. She’s watching him with that intense, hungry gaze – I know it well. I’ve seen it on my own face too many times. He leans into her, and their lips touch. His hands slide up her legs, raising her skirt to her hips.
Groin to groin, they kiss, and I know she’s feeling the weight and the heat of his erection against her flesh. She’s got that sinking, melting feeling in her stomach that wants and wants and wants. When too much is still not enough.
I know the way she lusts after him. Pretty girl, do I ever know how you feel right now.
After the first night on the beach I tried not to fall. I’d been burned too many times, too many ways. I’d had enough of the game. I told him. He didn’t argue, he didn’t commiserate. I remember sitting at the breakfast table and watching him stand up and strip. I watched him walk out to the mini lanai outside the kitchen and stand there, stroking his magnificent cock to full length. His face in profile as he squinted against the bright glare of the morning sun on the water.
I watched him turn and spread his legs, hands on the railing as he bent over and pushed that perfect ass towards me. I’d walked outside and caressed his cheeks, squeezing them hard to watch the skin pale and then redden.
‘I don’t have protection out here,’ I’d said. And after no answer, ‘Or lube.’
He didn’t move, and we’d stood silent and aching in the morning sun, a battle of wills. I lost, of course. I remember kneeling, the wood of the deck burning under my knees while I spread his cheeks, licking and laving his hole, feeling him tense and arch back against my tongue. I still know the first moment my cock touched his skin and the jolt of desire like pain through my body. Beyond lust.
Beyond just another fuck.
I can still close my eyes and hear his breath coming short and rough, trying not to show pain when I pushed into him. Even though I was trying not to hurt him, trying to control the sudden hungry recklessness, I was as thoughtless with need as a horny teenager again. So aroused by the idea of his submission, I couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but be a slave to my dick.
All it took was one fuck and I belonged to him. Caught, tied up, compromised in every way. His.
Now I’m watching him in the arms of a girl, because he wants to know what it’s like. Just once.
‘You’ve never?’ I asked when he told me about it one Saturday morning, lying lazy and sated across my torso, one head propped on his hand, the other stroking my chest.
‘Never.’
And I found it hard to believe. Hard to think women could have kept their hands off him. I imagined him as a twenty-something: that dark hair long and tousled, those wide, dark eyes sultry and soft with youth. But then he laughed at me and gave instead the picture of a pale, shy nerd hiding behind glasses and oversized college sweaters.
‘I wanted girls then. I wanted boys too. But I never dared …’
Him? My delicate Lucifer? I shook my head and laughed, unable to comprehend anything but the beautiful man lying across my hips, but I agreed to his ploy. I’ve never been able to deny him much.
He told me all about her: the one he already knew would be the one. The elegant, little suits she wore to work, her pearl earrings, the way he never saw a panty line under her tailored trousers. His words painted her for me: bright, sexy, confident. Daring enough to fulfil his fantasies, smart enough to handle it. Sugar and spice and all things nice.
I saw her for myself the first time tonight: all laughter and glossy, dark hair uncurling in the wind off the ocean. And, of course, I was jealous. Never mind that I’d agreed to it all. I felt the hot angry little sting behind my ears. How dare she touch his arm? How dare she smile at him that way?
I told myself I needed to get over my own baggage: the wife and the divorce and the seemingly endless string of boys who took my money and crashed my sports cars and fucked around in my bed. But it still stung, and I stewed and seethed until dinner time when I held her chair out for her, when her hip just barely grazed my arm as she sat.
The paranoid voice in my head fell silent under her dark-blue gaze, and I sat down too. Powerless to run, to distance myself, to pretend I wasn’t so aware of them: a pretty girl and a gorgeous boy. And God only knows what I ate – if I ate – because my brain was mush. I drank too much wine on a too-empty stomach while he told her stories about us and she laughed and leaned towards him. I stared at the pale curves of her tits shadowed by black silk and felt myself get hard.
He leaned over to her in turn, his fingers brushed her wrist, and my hard-on responded. I watched the narrow gold chain he always wore – the one I’d given him on our anniversary two years ago – dangle forwards to catch the light and sparkle … and dazzle me.
After dinner, I saw my chance.
I ran. I bolted outside to the lanai with a glass of brandy, reminding myself that I’d only signed up to watch.
And I’m regretting it now as I look at them move in each other’s arms.
He has her braced against the wall. She hasn’t bothered with panties under the elegant little black dress that’s hiked up around her waist as he kisses her. Only thigh-high stockings with lace at the tops. How fitting that she would unknowingly have exploited my one weakness when it comes to women. Only the woman he could have chosen …
I can feel fate in the kiss of damp ocean breeze on the back of my neck.
His hand moves over the bare skin between her stocking and her bunched dress. His fingers glide along the ridge of her hip, following it inwards; searching. I bite my lip.
I want to guide his fingers into her softness, show him how to make her cry out with pleasure while I kiss his neck. Distracting and aiding, being both teacher and whore. But he’s doing well enough on his own: one hand between her legs, pushing the dress down from her shoulder with the other. He bares one full, curvy tit. Bends to capture her nipple with his lips.
She closes her eyes. I can tell because her head is turned to the side, lips parted as she runs her fingers through his hair. My dick aches, straining to be touched, sucked, caressed. I know the feel of his mouth. I can imagine it as he teases her nipple. His tongue dancing around and around the sensitive tip; lips tightening suddenly, painfully, a jolt of pleasure through her skin. I see her fingers close into a fist, her head arch back. I smile. I can imagine how she tastes, the texture of her nipple rough on my tongue …
I’m caught between the gaze of one and the touch of the other. I didn’t think it would be like this. I don’t know what I thought. Perhaps I was a little drunk with flattery that Michael had flirted with me at last, after all the months I watched him while pretending not to. Thinking that if only, if only he weren’t playing for the other team … the things I could do.
Perhaps I was a little flustered, feeling that somehow he’d seen into my deepest, dirtiest thoughts. The ones I had about him while lying on my bed with nothing but the radio on, and my prettiest pink rabbit vibe humming between my legs. Thinking about what he looked like naked while I pressed the bunny nose hard into my clit. Wondering about the size of the dick I wanted to feel inside me so bad, I sometimes believed I’d do anything just to have it. Anything at all.
But when he asked, when he actually suggested it – this insane, crazy, sexy idea – I scolded myself. I told myself not to be a fool. At the worst it would be utter embarrassment, faux pas, drama. Things neither Michael nor I could afford if we still wanted to keep our careers. At best, all I could hope for was some awkwardness and the likelihood that the other – his unknown, mysterious significant other – wouldn’t really want to watch. Who would?
Who in their right mind would be able to stand the idea of sharing Michael, far less watching? No. The only reason his lover had agreed to me at all was because you can’t say ‘No’ to Michael, not when he turns those eyes on you and turns up the heat in that smile. I know why I gave in. I figured it had to be the same for him.
Until I actually saw them side by side. Am I sick for thinking father and son? Even though they’re so different: one light and one dark; the blonde, muscled California tan beside the brunette, fair-skinned sensuality. Am I even sicker for the way it made my nipples tighten to imagine them touching each other? For the thought that I wanted him to watch Michael fucking me.
Do I want to make him jealous?
I saw the way his eyes lingered, knowing. He isn’t any stranger to a woman’s body. I’d stake good money on the fact he knows exactly what he likes, and I wonder if he likes what he sees now. I know that Michael does.
My dress is in a puddle at my feet and Michael runs both his hands down my naked torso, shoulders to thighs, fingers pulling my nipples taut, then releasing them to bounce upwards while his hands continue on down. His cock – the hard delicious cock that’s been pressing into my thigh as he pleasures me – tents his stylish pants. I see the lust in his eyes and it makes me squirm with delight. Oh, the aphrodisiac that is power. Every straight girl’s fantasy of turning a gorgeous boi – and here it is. Standing right before me.
But it’s more. It’s something I don’t recognise in his gaze, but every inch of me knows it, understands it even if my mind doesn’t. I want to please that demand; I want to give everything in me up to it.
‘I can’t wait to fuck you,’ he says.
I blush. The heat travels from my face to my breasts to my clit. I slide one hand between my legs, spread my lips with my fingers and brush my clit with the pad on one finger. Little short bursts with each flick of my finger. Little short hits of endorphins to my brain like a drug. Time slows down.
Slower and slower, the faster my finger moves. A paradox of measured breaths and frantic heartbeats. He watches me, his lover watches me, and I tease myself, touch myself for them both. Who is this girl in stockings and heels, slutting herself out for a pair of gay men?
I don’t know, but I know her desire. I feel it hotter and hotter in my chest. I feel the lazy, deliberate kisses on her neck, the hands on her chest, kneading her breasts, tugging at her nipples. The heavy absence of feeling as he pauses now and then to watch, fascinated as my fingers bring me closer. Faster and faster. My fingers and my heartbeat, his heartbeat, the only things that race while everything else is frozen.
Waiting. My hips arch upwards, tensed. Tight. ‘Oh, God.’
He parts my thighs, pushes them wider apart, baring my pleasure to his curiosity. Breath is stifled in my throat, my clit spasming under trembling hands. He kisses me, mouth on mine, palm cupping my pussy, fingers toying with the wetness of my slit. Catching and holding my fluttering orgasm until the last pulse of pleasure fades into shivering arousal that still demands more …
God, she’s beautiful. Women in their clothes and make-up and guile are attractive, desirable, intriguing. Beauty is what remains when something strong like passion strips all the rest of the bullshit away. If they have it. And she does.
They’re a beautiful pair. The breeze is turning cold at my back, pre-come soaks into the fabric of my slacks, but I don’t move. I watch.
He takes off his shirt. She tucks her hair behind her ears and runs her hands over his shoulders. I smile. I see the business-woman, the vixen. He drops the shirt on the floor, turns to her, hands suddenly possessive on her hips. I see my beloved seducer. I have to change position, refold my arms while I steadfastly ignore my dick.
Even though she’s kissing her way down his chest. Taking her time as if she truly enjoys each little mouthful of his skin when she sucks on it. I believe she does. There’s nothing fake to her, nothing done just for his benefit – or mine. I’ve seen her gaze stray this way. She knows that I’m watching.
She unbuttons his pants and, although I can’t see her face, I see her hands caressing his ass as she pushes the soft black fabric downwards. He isn’t wearing a damn thing under them of course. A pair of sluts, both of them.
He stands before her naked and she strokes, massages his cheeks. By now of course, she’s sucking his dick. My dick quivers with jealousy and envy and lust. I know every inch of his skin that she explores, the tight space between his cheeks where her fingers glide like elegant predators.
I have to take a deep breath and turn away. I only signed up to watch. Nothing else.
But something warns me. I turn to see her getting to her feet, circling around him as he braces his hands on the wall and leans forwards. A posture I know so well. My mouth goes dry. She moves to the side and her ass fills my vision now. Softness instead of muscle. Feminine jiggle with each motion that my confused, distressed body responds to hungrily. Wanting it.
She slaps his ass and I groan aloud. I give in. My hands unfasten my zipper, search blindly for my only instrument of release while I watch her sweet ass shake every time she hits his. I watch his fair skin turn red. My hand moves in time to
her rhythm.
Up. She slaps him. Down. She smoothes his flesh, cups his balls. Up. She slaps him again.
He moans, twisting his perfect derrière from side to side. My dick pleads with me. I imagine taking him when she’s finished with her punishment, when his gorgeous ass burns to the touch, red as fire. Wetness runs down my fingers and I still my hand, panting, willing the desire to sink, to wait. I don’t want it to be over yet.
Fascinated, I watch her hands move: now higher on his ass, now lower. Harder slaps. She pauses, rubs her hand over his cheeks and up his back. She leans into him, pussy and tits crushed against his back and asks him something. He answers. He laughs.
Over the whistle and crash of ocean and wind I hear the warmth of their voices, but without words. Frustrated, my teeth savage my lower lip while her fingers probe him, fucking him. I grit my teeth and my hand pumps hard against my flesh. Who knew jealousy could be such a turn-on? But then, tonight, I feel I’m learning things I never knew.
Who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?
She’s whispering to him again. He straightens suddenly, smiling as he turns and catches both her wrists. Laughing, she lets him push her back against the wall, hands held above her head. Her tits look gorgeous stretched like that. I long to run my hands across them, testing the hardness of her nipples. Just like I long to rub my dick between the cleft of his reddened ass.
She looks up, looks right at me. He turns, still holding her in place, my angel – devil prince with his barbarian captive princess. For an instant their gazes meet mine. Without knowing it, without meaning it, I feel myself nod. Just once.