by Carol Queen
He did, and his hand slowly stroked over her belly, her thigh, and cupped her mound through her skirt.When the hand moved away, she had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out “No!”—but soon it returned . . . under the skirt, hitching it up from behind. The feeling of his fingers on the back of her thigh was electric, and she felt herself spreading her legs as far as she dared without risking giving away her position to the other riders crowded about them.
Again she felt the hand move away for a moment, only this time she felt anticipation, wondering what would happen next. She felt him shift beneath her slightly, and then the heat of something firm and slightly moist sliding on her skin.
She almost froze then, realizing that he was rubbing his hard cock between her thighs. His hand returned, sliding to her dampened crotch, gently sliding past her panties. She closed her legs slightly in response, which excited him all the more.
He gently stroked her vaginal lips, working his way inside, where she was already almost dripping wet.When his fingers finally reached her throbbing clit, she had to bite her lip to keep from moaning aloud.
They developed a simple rhythm quickly, as she squeezed her soft fleshy thighs around his erection, he pumped in and out slightly, and his fingers circled her inner lips. She found herself caught between the wish that this could last for hours, and the fear that the lights would come on suddenly, revealing their indiscretion.
He must have thought the same thing, because he seemed to pick up the pace of her stimulation quickly, expertly bringing her to the point of orgasm. As she began to shudder, she felt him shooting over her thighs, which sent her over the edge almost instantly, leaving her melted over him, their heavy breathing masked by the muttering of the crowd.
They sat there for several moments, basking in the afterglow. Slowly, reluctantly, his hands began to withdraw, giving parts of her farewell strokes that demonstrated his appreciation for the contact. When he finally brought her to her feet (with a firm heave with both hands squeezing her ass) she found herself thankful for the support of the metal bar. Her knees felt rubbery as he smoothed her skirt back down, the trickle of his come still dripping down her legs.
Not a moment too soon, as it turned out.With another jolt, the train began moving, and the lights returned to a smattering of applause. She couldn’t help but blush at the idea the applause was for their performance, though almost no one could have known what they were doing. At least, that was what she hoped.
Suddenly shy, she couldn’t bring herself to turn around to face him. As the train pulled into the next stop and the mob seethed around her, she felt something pressed into her hand. Turning around, she saw that he was gone, probably onto the station platform.
She didn’t look at the card until she departed the train herself at her stop. It was just a phone number: No name was given. She pondered over it long after the train left the station, until a big smile spread over her face.
The Fever
BY MARILYN JAYE LEWIS
In the darkness, the Best family estate seemed even more ominous and foreboding than it did by daylight. Adelaide Best crept quietly past the silent rooms where her husband’s family slept.
“Addy,” Darl had said, waking her from a sound sleep only moments before, “I think I’ve a fever. Go down to the kitchen for me and fetch me a glass of something cold to drink. Anything. I’m terribly thirsty.”
Adelaide now made her way down the sweeping flight of stairs. Off the grand hallway on the ground floor, she felt her way along a dark, narrow corridor that led to the servants’ area of the large, Victorian home. Down at the end of the corridor, Adelaide saw a light coming from the housemaid’s sleeping quarters. And she heard voices raised, an argument of some sort.
Perturbed, Adelaide crept closer to the room without making a sound. One of the voices was without question the voice of Archibald Best, Darl’s father. It grew increasingly clear to Adelaide, by the temper and tone of the two voices, that Mr. Best was reprimanding a remorseful housemaid for some inexcusable infraction of a house rule.
“But why at this hour?” Adelaide wondered. “And why be so harsh with her?”
Adelaide’s ears pricked up when next she heard Mr. Best strike the housemaid, as if with an open hand, and then heard the housemaid cry out.
Adelaide moved quickly to the door that was open a mere crack, her heart racing. With a slight maneuvering of her head, Adelaide got a wicked eyeful. It was nothing at all like what she’d been expecting to see.
The housemaid, Beatrice, a rather plump young woman, was on the narrow bed, stripped entirely of her nightclothes. Wantonly naked, she was leaning down on her elbows with her knees spread wide. Her ample breasts hung down freely and her rather large white bottom was arched up salaciously for Mr. Best’s unhindered view.
Mr. Best was in an appalling state. His silk dressing gown hung open just enough to reveal his extremely thick, bulging member that he stroked vigorously with one hand, while with his other hand, he periodically administered a smart and resounding smack to the fleshy behind of the housemaid, along with a stern warning about how not to behave.
Judging by the way Beatrice whimpered and squirmed in delight with each well-aimed slap to her rump, it was clear that the housemaid, as much as Archibald Best, was deriving a great deal of unspeakable pleasure from this charade.
Adelaide wanted to look away, and yet she couldn’t. Her eyes remained fixed on the sight beyond the crack in the door.
Then to Adelaide’s astonishment, Mr. Best fell to his knees and buried his face between Beatrice’s plump thighs and licked her private places aggressively, as if he meant to devour her. And Beatrice didn’t protest. She only accommodated him by spreading her knees wider and arching her fat rear end up higher.
In her efforts to see it all, Adelaide’s body was practically pressed flat against the opening of the door. She was breathing heavily through her mouth. Absently, she fondled her breasts through the layers of her nightclothes. Her nipples were tender and responsive, which only caused her to fondle them more intently.
Mr. Best stood then and mounted Beatrice from behind, inserting that thick, bulging tool of his easily into Beatrice’s hole.
“What an accommodating girl she is,” Adelaide thought agreeably, as her eyes greedily took in the sight of the pair humping in unbridled lust, grunting lewdly, behaving no better than a couple of coarse dogs.
Then to Adelaide’s horror, it was clear that someone was coming toward her in the dark corridor. She moved quickly away from the spectacle in the doorway and headed in the direction of the kitchen.
But a large, masculine hand had her by the back of her neck.
“What a naughty little peeper you are, peeping into private bedrooms at night.”
The voice sounded like Archibald Best’s but Adelaide knew that it couldn’t be possible. Mr. Best was hard at work, fornicating with Beatrice, the maid.
“You know what happens to peepers around here, Addy?”
It was Adelaide’s husband. It was Darl.
“Darl, you frightened me!”
Darl clamped a hand over Adelaide’s mouth and pushed her into the pantry with him, pulling the door closed behind him, locking them in together.
In the dark, he pulled her warm body up against his—impossibly close, her round ass snug against his aching cock.
Adelaide could easily feel her husband’s firm erection pressing insistently against her bottom. He was just as stirred up as she was.
“You knew!” she whispered breathlessly. “You knew I would see that! You haven’t a fever at all!”
“I do have a fever, but of a different sort. Do you know how long I’ve been tortured by those two? Every Tuesday night for three years, Addy. I’ve been watching that scene over and over again. It hardly ever varies.” Then he whispered pleadingly, “Bend over for me, Addy. Lift your gown and bend over for me.”
Adelaide wasn’t sure what shameful thing this was leading to, but she timidly r
aised her robe and her nightdress, lifted them high, up to her waist. She felt safe in the darkness of the pantry. She bent over slightly for Darl, anxious about what might happen next but feeling aroused enough by the things she’d just seen to surrender to her husband’s will.
Darl knew then that his wife was just as susceptible to the fever as he was. He fell to his knees in the dark and without hesitating, buried his face between her legs. He licked excitedly at the strange slippery folds of flesh, his nose filling with the scent of her arousal.
“Darl,” Adelaide moaned, spreading her legs more for him, feeling her tender lips become engorged from the thorough lapping of his tongue. She wanted to feel more of it, as much as she could get. She bent over farther for him, arching her ass out.
“Oh Darl,” she moaned again, over and over, not caring if she was overheard. “Darl, Darl,” she said, oblivious to the obscene posture she was taking in the dark, wanting only to feel more pleasure from his tongue.
Next he stood and mounted her—from behind, like a dog. And she didn’t say no, for once. She didn’t protest. She accepted the full length of his thick erection repeatedly, pushing her hole open for his merciless thrusts, letting his cock go all the way up.
Quietly Adelaide urged him on, “Yes, yes,” as if she were in a daze, succumbing deeper to the fever of her husband’s lust with every plunge of his relentless cock.
And Darl knew then that it was a question of persistence. He was going to be able to have his wife in any position he desired, even with the lamp burning, so that he might see her secret places, watch the tiny hole stretch to accommodate the girth of his impaling cock. Then the fever of Beatrice would no longer torment him. He would abstain from the salacious sight of her for good. It would be just him and Addy, from this moment on.
All Eyes On Her
BY M. CHRISTIAN
The city sat around her. From where she was standing, nothing but the silver squares of windows seemed to be watching. But she knew better; she could feel them sitting behind their desks, in their living rooms, in the bedrooms, in their beds, watching her.
The gravel and tarpaper of the roof was hot underfoot, but she enjoyed it. It was the totality of it, the completeness of the act, that made her nipples into hard knots, and stoked the fire of her cunt. Wearing slippers, shoes, or anything else would’ve made it incomplete, would’ve ruined the statement: standing naked on the rooftop, letting the city watch her.
At first Cindy didn’t think she could do it. It was a private thing, a crazy thing, something to lay back in a warm, soapy tub and think about—rubbing herself into a rolling orgasm. In the real world the roof was hot, the gravel hurt the bottoms of her feet, and a hard, chill wind cut over the concrete edge of the roof and blasted through her.
Despite the pains in her feet, the chill air, and the hot tar, she stood naked on the roof of her little five-story apartment building, a fire roaring in her cunt.
—there, that little square: formed out of un-athletic dough, he watched her. His cock was small, and barely hard. He pulled it, tugged at it, the warm roll of his stomach brushing his hand as he masturbated. Slowly, he got harder and harder till all of his few inches was strong and hard in his hand.The fat man watched, smiling, happy and excited.When he came, he selflessly groaned, and got his window messy.
Cindy watched the city watching her. Looking at one silvery window in particular she lifted her right hand to her left breast and stroked the soft skin and pinched the hard nipple.
—they watched her.Taken with her brazenness, the attitude of this obvious species of urban nymph, who could say who started it? Maybe it was Mike who first dropped his shorts and started the kiss, his rock-hard cock fitting so perfectly, so nicely between them. But then it could’ve been Steve who started it, who put his hand between them to feel his own straining erection.Was it Mike who dropped to his knees and started a grand suck? Or was it Steve? Who came first? Did Steve fill Mike’s mouth with bittersweet come? Or did Mike explode all over Steve’s face? Or did it really matter? The end certainly justified the means . . .
Cindy looked up at the sun. It bathed her, baked her; her skin vibrated with the heat of it, the fire it coated her with. Right still on left, she felt her breast, playing with the texture of it, the underlying muscle, the strong tip of her nipple. Sun on her, she moved left to right, massaging her breasts under the gaze of the warm sun.
—sitting on their bed, she watched the woman on the rooftop across the street.The sun was almost too bright, too hot, and for a moment she thought about what she had to do: shower, get dressed, go to work. But the woman, the daringness of her, the casualness of her, kept her glued to the window. She didn’t seem crazy, but that’s what she had to be.To stand up there in the sight of God and everyone else, and rub herself like that. It turned her on something fierce. It made her horny, that’s what it did. She savored the word as she pulled herself up from sitting to all fours. Her breasts pulled away from her body in this position—they strained against her body and rolled in her housedress.Without thinking, she put a hand down the front of her dress and cradled one of her breasts.The nipple was so hard it ached, it was so hard. Cautiously, she squeezed and pulled gently at it. Fire raced through her. Her legs felt like they were going to collapse.The woman across the street, touching herself, it was like she was crazy, touching herself and thinking about her nipples and between her legs she could feel herself grow wet—
Her legs were tired, so Cindy lowered herself down till she squatted over the hot gravel roof. Her breasts were heavy and tight, her nipples ached to be touched and sucked. No thought. Not a one. Watching the city watching her, Cindy put a hot hand between her hot legs. Her thighs were wet, her cunt was a damp forest of blond curls. Her lips were wet and hot. She ran a single finger from her clit to her cunt to her ass, and shivered in delight.
—bent over the chair, her ass in the air, her arms down the chair back, her knees on the seat, Betty could feel Bob’s tongue playing with her cunt. He loved to eat her, and, God, he was good at it. She pushed herself back towards his face, trying to get his hard, strong, tongue deeper into her soaking cunt.Then he found her puckered asshole, and started to tongue around it. Christ! She felt like screaming. She needed cock now, right now in her soaking pussy, she needed to be filled, fucked, she wanted to come and come and come! Then Bob was at her clit, and the world seemed to boil down to the points of her nipples, the glow of her ass, the wetness of her cunt, her lover’s tongue, and the joy of her clit. She was so lost, so incredibly lost getting ready to come, that she almost forgot to look up, to look across the way to see what that chick on the roof was doing next -
Cindy’s cunt juice ran between her fingers. She was so wet. Her cunt was soaking, her clit was a hard bead between her legs, tucked between her lips. She’d worked out a system, and it was working real good: first she’d plunge her hands deep within herself, up and deep till she could swear there was her cervix, there her G-spot. Then she’d pull out, slow and hard, pushing aside her hot, soaking lips till her fingers glided past her clit. Then she’d work it, rubbing around and around the little bead of her clit. Then back—back to her cunt, the depths of her, her hot lips, her clit, over and over again.
Sometimes she’d use both hands, pushing all fingers into herself like some huge cock. Sometimes she’d use just one, saving the other, wet and smelling of her cunt, on the knots of her nipples, her aching breasts.
Then she came, fast and oh-so-hard, with the whole world watching.
Under the Camel Light
BY MUZELLE
At the ripe age of 19, I landed a solo pad halfway up the west-side slope of Nob Hill. The original renter skipped off to Europe for the year, so my sublease rate was to die for and the place was fully furnished. Unmistakably, it was the sweetest, most charming studio in the whole city. Of course, I couldn’t help but adore it because it was my first. Hardwood floors, old claw-foot tub, checkerboard kitchen tiles . . . and a squeaky old Murphy bed to
boot. The view, however, left much to be desired.
My one and only window was directly aligned with another Edwardian complex. So nothing but a six-foot gap and an old rusty fire escape inhibited the Smiths and Joneses from sharing my quarters. Most of the tenants kept to themselves, though, so I figured they might as well have been living in Zimbabwe. Aside from Pete, that is.
Pete was a chain smoker. And Big Brains lived with a cat that was allergic to nicotine. Ergo, the fire escape became his second home. If my window was open, a fresh breeze chocked full o’ Camel Light incense never failed. I began to hate cigarettes with a passion—despite my addiction to bumming them from friends.
I seriously contemplated offering to swap cats with Pete just to get him off the fire escape. But since our first “How do?” we never talked. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to lose the silent game. Besides, my little fur ball was positively more precious than his.
As it turned out, Pete was never a bother. He never spoke. I suppose he was trying to be as considerate of my privacy as possible. So I made up my mind to pretend he lived in Zimbabwe with everyone else in that building.
But I will never forget the last night of my first month at that place. I had gone to Baker Beach with Johnny, an incredibly hot, adoringly witty old sex buddy.We bared it all under the hot sun.
“I heard you really have to protect against penile burn on these nudie beaches,” I hinted. Johnny smirked and was oh-so-kind as to let me rub liberal amounts of sunscreen onto his anxious, uncut cock.
In return, he read the dirty bits of a nasty novel to me as he lightly tracked my treasure trail with his finger. Intermittently, when our fair fellow beachers looked away, he teased my anxious, throbbing clit. First a couple of light taps . . . then a few soft ringlets . . . and ultimately a machine gun finale.
My tail wagging, I asked, “Hey, wanna skip the sunset and head back?” As if I had to twist his prick. By no shock, I couldn’t wait to dash home and jump his bones, and he had no qualms. So we scurried back to my digs.