SERIOUSLY SEXY 3
A collection of twenty erotic stories
Edited by Miranda Forbes
Published by Xcite Books Ltd – 2013
ISBN 9781907761942
Copyright © Accent Press Ltd 2008
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Xcite Books, Suite 11769, 2nd Floor, 145-157 St John Street, London EC1V 4PY
Contents
Picking the Man Penelope Friday
Captive Dove Alcamia
Wash and Blow Job Les Hansom
Running Free Beverly Langland
The Peachy Talbot Fan Club Carmel Lockyer
Paper Rose J.S. Black
Fantasy Assignment Lucy Felthouse
The Painter’s Palate J Manx
The Examiner Roger Frank Selby
The Lady and the Highwayman Charlotte Wickham
The Treat Amelia Flint
The Key Jim Baker
“Los Hermanos” Mark Farley
The Wardrobe Mistress J Manx
The Waterfall Katie Lilly
Something Wicked This Way Comes Jim Baker
When We Were Two Sommer Marsden
Who’s Been Wearing Aunt Clarissa’s Panties? Jeremy Edwards
Sweets Elizabeth Cage
Sonja’s Sauna Roger Frank Selby
Picking the Man
by Penelope Friday
As soon as I enter the pub, I look around and choose my mark, this evening’s catch. Tonight … yes, there, the guy in the red jumper, short brown hair. He catches my eye and immediately looks away. They all do that at first. Later, well, we’ll see if this one changes his response. I order a vodka and orange, and then make my way to the table next to his. Our eyes meet again and he blushes. Mm, shyer than some. More hang-ups than usual? More insecurities? He might be quite a challenge.
I like a challenge.
He’s keeping his eyes fixed on the table now, pretending to read the paper, scared to look up. I edge a little closer, and speak.
“Anything interesting in there?”
I hide a smile as he literally jerks with the shock of being addressed by me. He risks a quick glance in my direction, runs a hand through his hair.
“Oh, you know. The usual.”
Oh, I picked well this time. He has a beautiful baritone voice with the slightest trace of a Northern accent.
“I don’t know.” I smile at him. “So tell me.” I mirror his movement and brush my right hand through my own hair. As he wavers, I move a little closer. “You know you want to,” I murmur.
He is giving me The Look. Some men pick up on me right away, and know exactly where I’m headed. More, though, hesitate. The hesitators all wear exactly the same expression on their faces and I can interpret it precisely.
It sounds like she’s flirting with me. Is she? She can’t be, but it does sound that way. No, I must be imagining it. She wouldn’t flirt. She’s in a wheelchair.
The chair, you understand, stops me (in most guys’ original assessment) from being a normal functional woman. They learn. They soon learn. I like to think I’m doing my bit for stereotype busting but in actuality, I’m just getting a lot of sex. Which suits me, thanks!
Anyway, back to Mr Red Jumper. I have leaned forward, and my elbows are on his table, my head leaning on my fists as I give him the once-over from a closer perspective. I make no attempt to hide my assessment. Why should I, when he measures up so well? Why should I, when I will be in bed with him later tonight? That assessment will be much fuller, but for the moment I work gently around his prejudices and give him time to get used to the idea.
“Um,” he stammers, “fuel prices; the government being criticised for this new housing scheme.” He shrugs a little apologetically. “Nothing very interesting.”
“Oh, what a shame. But you were studying it so intently that I imagined there must be something fascinating there.”
“Afraid not.”
“But that’s good,” I assure him.
“It is?” He looks a little alarmed and I move in for the first small pounce.
“Yes.” I smile again, my head tilted to the side. “You see, it means we can dispense with this” – I sweep the paper to the far side of the table – “and get down to business.”
He smiles back, uncertainly. I force him to hold my gaze for five – ten – twenty seconds. I don’t know what he reads in my face, but the smile becomes more genuine.
“Are you always this forceful?” he asked.
“Usually.” I sip my drink thoughtfully, and add, “And you’re right, you know.”
“About what?”
“I am flirting with you. Do you mind?”
“Uh …” The shyness I noticed earlier has returned. “I’m not sure anyone’s actually come right out with it like that before.”
“They probably don’t need to. If it weren’t for this,” I say, patting the wheelchair, “you’d have been sure already.”
“I … oh God, you’re probably right,” he confesses in embarrassment. “Is that dreadful?”
“Fairly common. That’s why I tend to be a tad forceful.” I wink. “But don’t worry.”
He thinks I am talking about his stereotyping of me and begins to stammer out an apology. This is good. It gives me a chance to touch him.
“Shh!” I put my finger across his lips. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant that circumstances have given me the opportunity to be very much more … creative … than most women. I see it as an advantage, not a disadvantage.”
He laughs. He is still a little reserved, but he seems to have relaxed slightly in my company.
“You do like to come straight out with things. I’m Dan, by the way.”
“Ellie. It’s always useful to know names before having sex with someone, don’t you think?”
“Ellie, whatever your name is, you’re outrageous. We haven’t even kissed!” But the glint in his eye shows that he is considering me now; that he is beginning to see me as a genuine prospect.
“We will,” I say.
“I might have a girlfriend.”
I shake my head.
“You don’t.”
“I might.”
I laugh now.
“You’ll have to tell her she’s been overtaken by events, then. Sorry and all that, but you’ve had an offer that you can’t turn down.”
“And have I?”
“Oh yes,” I tell him.
“Good.”
And now it is his turn to make a move as he leans across the table and kisses me lightly on the mouth. My lips tingle at the touch, and I know that once more my instinct has not led me astray. Tonight is going to be good.
“You could do that again,” I suggest.
“I could,” he agrees. He slides round the table so that we are inches apart. “But I could go a little further and do this…”
The kiss this time has nothing of the lightness of the last one. He is demanding, exploring my mouth with his tongue, one hand behind my head to keep me just where he wants me. And believe me, I’m not complaining. His jumper is soft and woolly, but I can feel the strength of the muscles underneath. Dan keeps himself fit, it seems. I slide one hand lower to his waist, hitching the jumper and shirt beneath out of the way to press my fingers against his skin. I trail my nails the length of his back and down again. Finally he pulls away. Now he can meet my eyes with no embarrassment. But he chooses to lean in and whisper in my ear.
“Isn’t that sort of behaviour illegal in a public place?”
“Is it?” I ask
innocently, removing my hand from his back only to slide it up his thigh. He clamps his own, larger, hand over mine.
“Stop that!”
“Do you really want me to?”
“No,” he confesses, “but you can’t do it here.” He looks meaningfully at our drinks. “It’d be a shame to waste them,” he says casually, “but it depends what the alternatives are.”
“Drink up, Danny boy,” I reply, downing my vodka in one swift motion. “You’re taking me home.”
He raises an eyebrow but obediently puts his pint to his lips and takes a gulp. Then he pushes the nearly empty glass to the centre of the table and stands up.
“I can live without the rest,” he says, “but you have a promise to keep.”
“Me?” I wheel myself to the door, and when we are outside, I say “What promise?”
“Why, to demonstrate your creativity, sweetheart.”
I grin. That line is always a winner. My next is intentionally predictable.
“My place or yours?”
He leans down to snog me again, and his hand skims my breast making my nipple stand to attention.
“Whichever’s nearer, Ellie,” he murmurs.
“Follow me.”
My house is less than five minutes from the pub, making it one of my favourite pick-up points. I’ve never seen Dan there before, though I noticed one or two familiar faces (and more than faces) when I entered tonight. We get home quickly. Dan has been touching me all the way; a hand on my shoulder, fingers combing through my hair. I’m enjoying his eagerness. I unlock the door, go in and spin myself around to face him.
“Welcome to my place.”
He is inside, the door slamming shut behind him. He looks around, slightly disconcerted by the décor. I went for bright in the sitting room, and the one scarlet wall contrasts with the cream of the other three to make a real statement. He is silent for a second then turns back to me.
“Red for passion,” he says huskily. “Very suitable, Ellie.”
I put my right hand up to my blouse and unfasten the top two buttons, no more. I have done the brash ‘come hither’; now I prefer a more measured – more slowly seductive – effect. His eyes follow the curve of my breasts, the lacy white bra I am wearing. He wants more. Always leave them wanting more. I hold my hand out to him in mute invitation, and a second later he is by my side, his finger tracing the line of material exposed by my unbuttoning. His other hand rests on my leg and he hesitates.
“I’m not hurting you?”
“You can’t,” I say truthfully, “but if you do, I promise to yell ‘ouch’.” The wheelchair effect again. I pull him down for a kiss and then say “Trust me.”
“I rather think I do,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. Then, “Show me.”
It is an invitation I am happy to accept. I can see that he is unsure whether to stand or kneel, and much as I enjoy having men kneel at my feet, anxiety is less erotic.
“Come to bed.”
I adore my bed. Once in their lives, everyone should do something outrageously extravagant. For me, it was when I bought my bed. My stunning, perfect, four-poster bed. I watch the effect it has on Dan. Some men blanch, but not he.
“Red for passion, bed for luxury,” he says with appreciation. “I like your style.”
I tumble onto the centre, teasing fingers playing with the next button of my blouse – unfastening, fastening; unfastening, fastening.
“Join me?” I suggest.
“I intend to.”
He removes his jumper and shirt, leaving himself naked to the waist. I whistle appreciatively.
“Not bad,” I comment.
“Good enough for the bed?” he asks, and I am turned on by his perception. Not all guys realise the symbolism of my four-poster. I inspect his pecs and nod.
“You’ll do.”
He has kicked off his shoes, and he kneels at the far end of the bed to remove mine with delicate suggestiveness. I wear no stockings or tights, and he takes the opportunity to play with my feet, licking each toe in turns. I hum with pleasure at the sensation that trickles up my legs and throbs between them.
“You’ll more than do,” I correct myself.
My skirt is fanned out across the bed, and he makes a tent of it, crawling underneath and licking up the inside of my leg with his tongue until he reaches my sex, until he flicks his tongue against my clit and makes me moan and squirm. When he reappears from under my skirt, I pull him up to me and kiss him, tasting myself on his lips.
“I thought I was the one who’d promised to be creative,” I say.
“Complaining?”
“Oh, believe me, not complaining.”
He is already hard – very hard indeed, I discover, pulling his body on top of mine and revelling in the feeling. I writhe in my position underneath him and feel him twitch in response. My hands slide round to unlatch his belt; I flick open the top button of his jeans and press my fingers just a tiny way inside. Enough to tantalise, especially when I wriggle my fingers so that the tips just brush against his cock. He pushes his torso up, one hand either side of my head, and looks into my eyes.
“I still like your style,” he says, his voice that little bit deeper than before.
Slowly, I lick a path up his jaw line to his ear, and nibble on the lobe.
“I’m rather interested in yours, too,” I whisper, and undulate my body against his once more. Then, when he is not expecting it, I roll over so that our positions are reversed: this time I am on top. I tease him with kisses and light bites, squirming further down his body in order to play with his neck. I bite the place where his neck and shoulder meet, and I do not think that the noise he makes when I do so is a complaint. I move further down, and unzip his jeans. He (like me) is wearing no pants. Interesting: is he as innocent as I first imagined? I rather hope not. I pull the jeans down and over his feet and then look up at him from between his legs.
I know what he is thinking.
I know what he is thinking, but it’s not going to happen, not yet. He expects it, anticipates it. I will wait until he is off-guard, until he thinks that this is not something he will get from this encounter. I will taunt and tempt him, but I will not give him what he’s looking for. I lower my mouth and press one kiss to his cock, enjoying the way it moves in response. Then I am moving higher again, my tongue exploring his belly button, running over his chest, suckling at his nipple.
I pause, and take the opportunity to divest myself of my skirt, and to undo one further button on my top. His hands are reaching hopefully for the other buttons, but I push myself out of their reach.
“Not yet. Not quite.”
“Tease,” he mumbles.
I grab one of his hands and suck the first digit into my mouth, swirling it within my mouth as if it were the best ice cream that I desired to savour. The gesture is not lost on him.
“Tease,” he says again.
“The night is long,” I promise.
And oh, yes, it is. Through that long, hot summer night, the bed rustles and creaks underneath us.
“Hot, isn’t it?” he says.
“Shall I open the window?” I ask.
“Don’t want to scandalise the neighbours.”
I make him sit with his back to one of the posts, and tie his hands behind it with his own belt. He doesn’t object. Then I address my mouth, my fingers, my breasts to his body. Skin against glistening, sweaty skin. The smell of him – that masculine scent that I lust after like nothing else. As he did earlier to me, I worship his feet with my mouth, and he laughs, struggling to get his feet underneath himself.
“You’re tickling,” he accuses.
I move my mouth, finally give him what he anticipated so much earlier, my mouth around his cock, flicking and licking and sucking.
“Still tickling?” I say.
“Don’t stop …”
I get him close to the edge, then move him back a pace from it before encouraging him forward to look over once more. Then
, when he is very close to coming, I untie his hands and allow him free access to my body. He doesn’t ask permission, but rips my blouse open with little care for the silken material. Then my bra is likewise discarded and he is feasting on my breasts until I am hot and wet and melting with desire.
At last, when he finally takes me; when we can’t wait another second, he takes me over the side of the bed. I am arched back over the four-poster. Dan has one hand on each of my wrists, which are forced down into the covers. I can feel the strength of his thrusting, which is pushing me back against the mattress. It feels as if he will thrust straight through me; it feels as though that would be precisely what I want him to do. I can hear a voice crying out, and I know it is mine, yet I feel strangely divorced from it, conscious only of the feeling, the smell, the taste of sex surrounding me.
I barely know who I am any more, and certainly don’t care. I remember what it felt like with his salty cock in my mouth, sliding in and out. I imagine him thrusting in my mouth with the same vigour with which he is fucking my body, and I am … I am …
He gasps, groans, shudders, and I feel him pulse inside me before the feeling is overtaken by my own climax, my own pulsating heavenly-earthy climax. We are joined in sweat and semen and lust and our cries of fulfilment battle each other in the air before falling to the ground, just as he slumps down on the floor at my feet.
The silence is broken only by our gasping breaths, our thundering heartbeats. I can feel the blood pound in my head as I lie back and think of Dan, my latest but by no means my least conquest. I hear him pull himself slowly from the ground, and a second later his head is next to mine.
“You kept your promise,” he remarks.
“Did you doubt me?”
“No.” He pauses. “Thank you.”
“For what?” I ask.
He grins at me.
“For the best fuck I’ve had in a long time.”
He knows the rules: understood from the start that this was a one time thing. He visits the bathroom, then dresses, his jeans sliding back on, followed by the shirt and jumper. I suspect every time I see a red jumper now I will be reminded of this. As he turns toward the bedroom door I call him back.
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