That was almost too much for me. When she said “Gallant” my out of control mind ticked over with memory of an erection being called “the Gallant Response.”
We were funnelled through a door and started up some steps of a tunnel which lead into the arena. The steps were much higher than ordinary steps; almost twice as tall in fact, and that brought the luscious swell of Samantha’s hips higher. Just high enough for my still turgid member to go from poking the small of her back to poking into the cleft of her bottom; low in that cleft.
Now I truly expected her to scream. We were, after all, almost locked in the most intimate of connections. Only angle and the material of my jockey shorts, my light summer trousers, and the thin yellow cloth of her dress kept us from joining. But she did not scream or try to get away, instead she moved her feet a little to the sides, thereby opening her thighs and widening the crevice where my cock rested. And, as if that were not more of a dream come true than I could ever have hoped for, she then squeezed that delicious nether cleavage tight upon my intrusion for a moment, then released it.
I could not help but moan and lift my right hand to cradle the wonderful roundness of her right bottom cheek. My fingers slid in beside my cock and I felt that firm globe tremble a little as I squeezed it.
“What was that?” Darlene said, pulling at my other hand. “Was that you?”
“I’m squished,” was all I could manage to say.
We moved up the steps again. I dropped my grip on Samantha and held back against the crowd a little, trying to get some distance between us, for I just knew this was all going to come crashing down around my ears with screams for police and me being carted away to the local Bastille.
I could already hear the judge saying “The charge is assault with a friendly weapon.”
The separation indeed took my still stiff member from between those shapely, muscular buttocks, but it brought my nose nearer to them. So near that her perfume, and I don’t mean the kind that comes in a bottle, clouded around me. It almost made me moan again. The mixed aromas of salty perspiration and the warm sea smell of natural feminine lubricant was so strong I could taste it on my tongue.
And suddenly another irresistible image flickered through my errant mind. An image of Samantha with her skirt held above her waist, her legs apart, knees a little bent so that her quadriceps were flexed and showing through that silken flesh, but this time I knelt between those spread thighs. I held those delicate, strawberry blond fringed outer lips apart with my fingers and ran the point of my tongue between those coral inner lips. From the tight cinnamon brown flower of her anus, up into the opening of her womb, then up and over and around the hard pearl nubbin of her clit. The salty sweet taste of her was like costly, dangerous liqueur that could addict and poison a man so that he could not continue to live without tasting it again and again.
“Will you come on!” Darlene said, pulling at my hand. “We’re holding up traffic! What is the matter with you anyway?”
“The heat, I guess,” I mumbled, my voice shaky with the dregs of my mental image.
Samantha had gained three steps and was almost at the opening into the arena. Afternoon light flooded through that opening, and through the yellow cloth of Samantha’s dress, silhouetting her body; the long legs, the round firm bottom. I would have sworn I could see the split that divided right from left between her legs, but that may have been a trick of the light and of my fevered mind.
And then I saw the cop.
He was standing at the side of the opening and Samantha nodded at something he said.
Oh God, here it comes, I thought with the echo of clanging steel doors in my head.
The crowd divided at the door some going right some going left. Samantha, after nodding at the cop, went right. Darlene and I stepped up to the arch and sure enough the cop’s hand came up to grab my arm as I started to the right.
“Non Signori, alla sinistra per favore. La destra ha troppo gente gia.”
My Italian isn’t so good so it took me a moment to understand that he wasn’t busting me, he was telling me to go to the left because the right was too crowded.
Relief swept over me for a second, but then regret bubbled up to drown it. Samantha was going the other way! I glanced back over my shoulder to see the back of her lovely yellow dress and pert little schoolgirl hat being swallowed by the pushing, pulsing mob, anxious to find a place to sit in the ancient arena.
Darlene and I fought our way through the crowd and found places to sit. The ancient tiers of stone benches were hard beyond belief and I complained to Darlene about it.
“Well what did you expect dummy,” she said. “They’ve been here more than a thousand years. If they weren’t hard they would have worn away a long time ago.”
“Yeah, and then my poor abused ass wouldn’t be forced to park on them.”
“Just shut up will ya? We’ll get cushions when the guy comes around. Try to enjoy the show. “
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, thinking about the beautiful, lost Samantha.
“And if you can’t enjoy it at least shut up so that I can. Please! Be a good big brother, huh?” she pleaded.
I glanced over at her and saw that she had that damned cute little pouty face on that I couldn’t say no to when we were kids and knew I still couldn’t.
“Okay, okay. Enjoy your damned opera.”
“Oh, thank you!” she said and gave me a quick hug, then turned to dig in the straw bag she had brought with her. “Here, hold these,” she said and stuck a pair of opera glasses in my hand.
Opera glasses!
I put them up to my eyes and began scanning the arena for a flash of yellow dress, schoolgirl hat, and strawberry blond hair.
It was going to take a long time to comb through twenty thousand people looking for one person in particular, but what else did I have to do? It was still quite a while until the beginning of the opera, and I had memory of Samantha to keep my hopes up.
“Can you see anything?” Darlene asked.
“Folks. Lots and lots of folks.”
“Let me see.”
“In a little bit,” I said and didn’t stop scanning the area where I thought Samantha had ended up.
“Hey, they’re my opera glasses!”
“Did you bring two pairs?” I responded.
“No silly. Why would I do that?”
“Well I might like to see the stage too.”
“You don’t like opera, remember?”
“Oh yeah,” I said still scanning.
“So, gimme,” she demanded and tried to get the little binoculars away from me. I wasn’t having any of that, though, since I had just caught a flash of yellow that might have been the flash I was seeking.
“I’ll let you have ‘em when the show starts. Where is the guy with the cushions? You seen him?”
“You can rent opera glasses too,” she said, a little peeved at me.
“Really? So rent some then.”
“But I have some. These!” She snatched the glasses out of my hand.
“Hey!”
“Rent yourself some,” she said and stuck the glasses against her eyes. “Oh look, there’s that English girl that was ahead of us outside.”
“What? Where?” I tried to snatch the glasses back, but Darlene pulled away.
“Get your own,” she said. “What is the matter with you anyway?”
“Crazy with the heat,” I snapped, looking around for a guy to rent binoculars from. There was one a dozen yards down from us and I popped to my feet and started waving and hollering like I was on fire to get his attention.
When I got the glasses, cheap plastic ones not nearly as good as Darlene’s, I said, “Where is she, Darlene?”
“Who?”
“What do you mean who? Samantha. The English girl.”
“Oh. She’s over there.” She waved vaguely toward the other side of the stadium.
“Gee, thanks,” I started scanning again and by plain damn luck my first sweep
caught a flash of yellow. I backed up and scanned the same strip more slowly. Sure enough, it wasn’t just my fevered imagination. There she was, sitting like a vision amid the mob, and she was looking through rented opera glasses right at me. I knew she was looking at me because when she saw my glasses pointed at her she lowered hers and waved. She was smiling the same wicked smile she had favoured me with when she came out of the toilet.
Opera at the Verona Arena has a tradition that maybe all out door opera performances have, I don’t know, but when the orchestra begins its final tune up before the overture everybody gets out candles and lights them up. There are even vendors in the arena who sell candles, some just a little bigger than birthday candles, and some much bigger, like dinner table candles. Darlene bought a couple of the little ones and when the orchestra stopped making noise and started making music we lit them up.
I had been looking every few minutes just to make sure that Samantha was still there and hadn’t moved, or evaporated. It was getting harder and harder to see though, since dusk was thickening toward night. Now I lifted my plastic binoculars again and saw that Samantha had bought a couple of candles too, but not the little ones. She had both of them blazing away now and I noticed that she had lifted the hem of her dress up and laid it upon her knees. Still very prim, but now from the knees down her legs were exposed. That made my mind tick over like a Swiss watch. She was a couple of rows higher than we were so that my eye level was at her knees and my fevered imagination went romping across that distance to peek between them.
But of course that wasn’t going to happen. I gave myself hell for even thinking about it, because the thought was torture, so I shoved it out of my mind and tried to concentrate on the music.
The dusk had thickened to true darkness by the time the arena lights faded at the end of the overture. The crowd disappeared in the dark except for the little candles still burning here and there. Most of the little ones like Darlene had bought were burned out, but those bigger ones were still flickering.
Stage lights came up and the attention of almost everyone in the stadium went there. Mine did not. I put my plastic binoculars to my eyes and looked toward Samantha, and almost dropped them. Samantha had pulled her dress hem half way up her thighs and parted her knees about a foot. The light from her still burning candles illuminated what would have been a dark tunnel beneath her dress and between her thighs. The light colour of her dress and the silky reflective paleness of her flesh made it so that I could see her feminine cleft through its light fuzz of pubic curls.
I lifted my glasses a little and could barely see her face in the left over light of the candles. Beneath her round little hat I could see her opera glasses aimed at me, and beneath them I could see her smiling lips.
I lowered my glasses and willed them to be better than they were. It looked as though the pubic curls along the inside edge of her pussy lips were darker than those more toward the top of her mons. Damp maybe? I thought and cursed those cheap binoculars.
Without even thinking about it I reached out and grabbed Darlene’s glasses right away from her eyes.
“Hey,” she protested drawing several dirty looks from people around us.
“Please Darlene. Please. Here take these, but let me use yours. Please. If you love your brother even a little you’ll do this for me.”
She looked at me with a sort of odd, worried look, but she took my binoculars and let me have hers.
I clapped her much better glasses to my eyes and turned them to Samantha’s lusciously exposed Delta of Venus.
“The show is down that way,” Darlene whispered and tugged at my elbow.
“You only think so,” I answered and increased my concentration so much that if Darlene said anything else I totally blocked it out.
Samantha looked from side to side to make sure no one was taking notice of what she was doing. Eyes all around her were riveted to the stage. No one except me paid any attention to that most delicious view and, seeing that, she opened her knees a little farther and scooted her bottom forward on her rented cushion. That caused her pelvis to tilt up a little and the outer lips to spread perhaps the width of a finger. Within that cleft it was almost as I had envisioned; the inner lips were clearly visible and they might have been the coral pink my imagination had coloured them, but the flickering yellow light of the candle flame made it hard to tell. It didn’t matter. They looked delicate and fragile as satin ribbon, folded back slightly from her opening. If I could run my tongue along them, I thought, they would swell so much they would push out past the outside lips and make that orchid open up to me so that I could taste the nectar deep inside it.
At the top, just below where those petals of her womanhood came together the nubbin of her clitoris protruded. It was swollen and upright and begging for someone to stroke it and roll it gently back and forth.
Again Samantha looked from side to side and, still finding no eyes on her but mine, she brought her delicate, long fingered left hand down and, shielding it with her right forearm, she stroked her index finger from the bottom of her pussy up between the inner lips to her wantonly engorged, achingly beautiful pearl . A visible shudder ran through her as she stroked that centre of her desire, and I could feel the quivering of her thighs against my hands though we were fifty yards apart. The first breeze of that sweltering day rose and washed down into the arena like a cooling tide. Twenty thousand voices moaned audible sighs of relief. One voice raised a moan of agony. Mine. That blessed, cursed breeze had blown out the candles!
The rest of the evening was agony. Samantha did not light her candles again, nor did she raise her binoculars to look in my direction. I looked toward her almost to the total exclusion of Carmen. While the stage was alight I could only see a vague ghost of her yellow dress through the darkness. During the inter-act breaks I drank her in like she was cold water to my parched throat, but she never looked at me.
When the show was over Darlene and I crushed and elbowed our way down and out of the arena. I tried to find Samantha in the mob, but it was impossible. She was gone forever, and that broke my heart.
Later, when I tried to sleep I found it impossible so I went out to roam the streets. In the wee hours of the morning I consoled myself with the thought that, though Samantha was gone, I would always have the memory of Verona.
Lights Out
By M.A. Stacie
Working so late always pissed Caitlin off. It meant eerily dark streets, a cold, empty carriage on the Tube and a bowl of cereal for dinner before climbing into bed. It also meant another night with little sleep before the working day started all over again.
Life had to be more exciting than this.
There wasn’t even the prospect of a wild weekend - she would be in the office. Her current workload had tripled since transferring to a new law firm. They had scooped a rather famous client and his high profile divorce. Not only was Caitlin responsible for most of the admin on that particular case, but she also had her new client list to deal with too. Add to that the pressure of a meeting with one of the partners tomorrow and she was ready to scream. She hadn’t met either of them yet and was petrified as to why they wanted to see her now.
Sometimes she wondered why she’d chosen this career to begin with. It was nothing like it was portrayed on TV. There were no elegant parties, no amazingly handsome lawyers, and the only naughty fumbles were when she spilled milk that belonged to someone else over the staff kitchen.
It was all rather boring.
Tapping her pin number into the cash machine, Caitlin sighed heavily and waited. As her money was dispensed the first drop of rain fell. It slid down the black hair of her fringe, landing with a plop on her ten pound note.
“Great. Just fucking great,” she muttered to herself, stuffing the cash into her purse.
She hurried, the clicking of her heels echoing around the deserted street. It was too early for clubbers to be out, too late for commuters. She was getting used to this kind of isolation, though she did
pass the odd person as she made her way to Knightsbridge Tube station.
The rain seeped through her thin, tan mac, wetting her shirt and causing her to shudder. The wind that blew only made her colder, and by the time she descended the steps to the platform she was cursing.
Caitlin rolled her eyes when she saw a couple of teenagers kissing. She could only hope they’d choose a different carriage, because she was in no mood to sit and watch them devour one another. It was difficult to admit, but jealousy was at the root of her revulsion. Unable to remember the last time her lips had met anything other than her lipstick was embarrassing for a woman of twenty-eight.
Flopping with a groan onto the closest bench, Caitlin tried not to think of the hot bloke in the lift this morning. She hadn’t seen him around the building before, but then Loft and Carson weren’t the only business within it. Each floor had a different company, pretty much. However, she did tend to see the same familiar faces. His would be one she’d certainly remember.
Not normally one to be attracted to men in glasses, her skin had tingled when he’d brushed against her as he entered the lift. Clearly her body hadn’t received the ‘no glasses’ memo, and by the way her nipples had been pushing against the satin of her bra, they sure as hell hadn’t either.
The announcement stating her train was entering the station snapped her out of her thoughts, and the cold draught that came through the black tunnel had her shivering. She wrapped her coat tighter around her body, mentally berating herself for not buying a larger size. Vanity had stopped her and now the one she owned barely fit across her large breasts. It confused her as to why women wanted boob jobs. Hers simply got in the way and stopped her wearing the tops she really wanted to.
The teenage couple laughed loudly at the same time the Tube rushed out of the tunnel. It came to a screeching halt, the cold air whipping around her once again. Collecting her bag from the bench, she stood, waiting for the doors to slide open. Already she could see that the train was empty, leaving her with a dilemma. Did she really want to share a carriage with two lust-filled teenagers so that she wasn’t alone?
Smut in the City (Absolute Erotica) Page 3