Girl Crush - A collection of five erotic stories

by Sommer Marsden

  ‘Mmm, it is warm.’

  She jerked her head towards the middle of the room, and he stood up.

  ‘Um …?’

  ‘Start with your shirt,’ she advised. ‘Work your way down.’

  He nodded and raised his hands to the top button. Rob could see that he was trying not to rush, yet at the same time was finding it hard to control his impatience. She lay back on the bed, her head resting on one hand, and watched in silence. When the shirt had fallen to his feet he hesitated for a second, and gave her a quick glance.

  ‘Belt,’ she said briefly. ‘Then trousers. And take your socks off.’

  He undressed nervously, and she read his mind.

  ‘Don’t worry. You won’t disappoint.’

  Not if the feeling between her legs was anything to go by. The very thoughtof taking him was turning her on. She ran a hand across her front, feeling the hard nipples through the thick material. He would be able to see the peaks, to know that she wanted this. Perhaps it would reassure him.

  When he was standing naked in front of her she beckoned him over and kissed him again.

  ‘My turn now.’

  She pulled him down so that he was on the bed beside her, and then she stood up.

  ‘Let me tell you something, Alex,’ she said huskily, noting the look of eager frustration on his face. ‘The anticipation adds to the event itself. You may be sure of that.’

  Her tongue flickered round her lips, wetting them and leaving them glistening with moisture. Her red top was whisked over her head, and thrown casually to the floor. She wore no bra. Her hands went deliberately to the button on her leather trousers and then paused. Alex’s hand had slipped down and he was touching himself with a desperate need.

  ‘Hands off,’ she said sharply. ‘No cheating.’

  ‘But …’

  She stood absolutely still, hands waiting at the waist of her trousers, exposed from that point upwards. Now was the time to discover whether he was really prepared to learn. He pouted – positively, he pouted – but his hand dropped to his side as she had demanded.

  ‘Good boy.’

  She had teased him enough, Rob thought. The trousers were tight, and they needed a firm hand to slip them down her legs, along with the black, delicate knickers that she was wearing underneath. She was aware that he could not look away from her, and she enjoyed the sense of power that he was prepared to give her.

  ‘I’m looking forward to this,’ she said gently. ‘Are you?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Alex’s hand was slipping towards his cock once more.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea.’

  Rob knelt in front of him and opened her mouth, allowing him to slide into its wet depths. She moved slowly, deliberately, making sure that he was aware of every millimetre of movement. She breathed in deeply, revelling in the masculine odour: he was clean, yet musky scented.

  ‘You taste good,’ she said as she lifted her head, her tongue curling once more around her lips. ‘How do you feel?’

  His eyes were shut and he had thrust an arm across his face and was biting into the soft flesh of his arm to prevent himself from moaning aloud. Rob smiled as she got to her feet.

  ‘Let me find out what you feel like,’ she said suggestively.

  She pushed him on to his back, her hands around his wrists. She forced his arms either side of his head and stood over him, looking down on his body. He was in good shape. His muscles were clearly defined, and the light spattering of gold-blond hair across his chest tempted her to put her mouth to it.

  ‘Do you want me?’

  He mumbled something that might have been acquiescence, but Rob wanted a firm confirmation. She would not allow him to suggest that he had not been, at all times, a willing – more than willing – partner.

  ‘Do you want me?’ she asked again, a steely note in her voice.

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘That’s all I wanted to hear.’

  She positioned herself over him and guided him inside her, before returning her hands to their vice-like grip on his arms.

  ‘You do feel good,’ she mused aloud.

  ‘Rob …’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  He was trying to move from his position underneath her, but she wouldn’t allow that. She was in control; it was she who would make the moves. She always did – at least, these days.

  ‘Oh, you want more?’ she asked.

  ‘Rob …!’

  She moved, rocking back and forth on top of him, her eyes open. She could hear his urgent breathing, the small groaning sound in each breath he took. Her own breath was coming faster now; she could feel her heart pounding in her chest. Fast, fast, faster – the movement was all-consuming, all-important; she had no desire to tease him any more, just to continue to move, to reach the moment of climax.

  He came first, and the pulse of his orgasm triggered hers. She heard, as if from a distance, him groan out her name in his pleasure: her own climax was as always silent, private, unshared.

  She lay on top of him as she tried to regain her breath, to re-master herself. Then, as he was still gasping, she stood and dressed.

  ‘Let me know about the room,’ she said as she left.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ Alex said breathlessly.

  Rob wondered if he would …

  The Secret Whore

  by Sadie Wolf

  My name is Caroline, and I am thirty years old. I’m not the kind of woman who turns heads in the street, but that’s because I prefer not to attract that kind of attention. Most of the time I wear comfortable jeans and T-shirts and no make-up, and although I have long, honey-coloured hair, most of the time I wear it tied back. I’m the one who prefers a quiet night in to a night down the pub, and when I do go out I’ll be the one in the corner hiding behind a G&T.

  My husband Steve is the outgoing one. He’s the manager at a windows company, so he’s used to being around lots of people, and coping with shop floor banter. He’s the one who’ll tell jokes down the pub and revels in being the centre of attention. Even after a long day at work, he’ll still come home chatty and cheerful.

  I like to cook, and every day without fail I’ll be in the kitchen with my apron on, cooking our tea. There’ll always be a homemade cake in the cake tin and if it’s anybody’s birthday I’ll always bake them a cake. Like I said, Steve’s a cheerful man, and when he comes home I’ll make us a cup of tea and he’ll give me a kiss, and we’ll eat at the table and swap stories about our days. He always has some funny story about what the lads and lasses from work have been up to. I work part time, and if I’ve been at work I’ll tell him something about what the girls have been up to, or complain about what a muddle the accounts were in, if I’ve had a difficult kind of day. If I haven’t been at work, there’ll always be something to tell him, about what I’ve seen at the shops, or who I’ve seen. I spend a lot of time on the housework, because I think that’s important, but I always make sure I’ve got something interesting to talk about: I wouldn’t want him to get bored of me.

  After tea he’ll watch some TV, or go on the computer, and I’ll tidy up, do the dishes and then I’ll sit down with a book, or do a bit of cross-stitch. We look to all the world like a nice, normal couple. We’ll be in bed by half past ten, as Steve has to be in work by eight. We have sex about once a week, usually on a Saturday or Sunday morning, unless we’ve been down the pub, or he has, and then it might be an extra time. I guess that’s about average for a couple that has been married five years.

  I suppose some wives, most, probably, could content themselves with this life. It’s not as if I’ve got anything to complain about – nice house, two good holidays a year, no money worries. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s just me, something about the way I’ve been wired, something uniquely peculiar about my temperament.

  How else do I explain the fact that for the last two years I have been selling myself three days a week at a brothel in town?

  I start at
eight in the morning, doing a bit of cleaning and helping with the accounts. It’s much easier for me that way, when I need to talk about what I do. Clients tend to come in from about eleven, then there’s a busy period over lunchtime, and then I leave off at three. Mind you, you’d be surprised, sometimes people ring in and make appointments for eight in the morning, on the way to work, can you imagine! Well, I can, it’s the secrecy I suppose, going into work knowing something no one else does, doing something no one else does.

  After two years, I’ve got a few regulars: nice easy work, like having a few extra husbands. They’re mostly older, long-term married. I think they come to see me as a way to stop them from getting divorced, so in some ways maybe I’m doing their poor wives a favour. Like I said, on the whole, the regulars are easy. It’s the strangers who really excite me.

  We’re quite safe, the boss runs a tight ship, we’ve got panic buttons and Julie, our receptionist, has got an eye and an ear for the funny ones; but there’s still a thrill of danger the first time you take a stranger into a room. If I’d had more guts I’d have tried streetwalking. I know that sounds ridiculous, why would anyone choose that, but there’s just something so exciting about a stranger’s car pulling up beside you.

  When I first met Steve and we swapped fantasies, like new couples do, I told him about that one. One evening I dressed up in a miniskirt and stockings and a faux-fur coat and stood shivering round the corner from our house. He drove the car round and pulled up and opened the door, like we’d rehearsed, and asked me how much, and I told him twenty quid and he gave it to me. He drove me out of town, along the main road to a lay-by. He’d pulled the passenger seat back, climbed on top of me and fucked me. There wasn’t a lot of room, he kept knocking the steering wheel, and I had my feet up on the dashboard. I remember that bit the best, my silver sandals up against the windscreen, catching the light from the passing cars. It had been a little slice of heaven that I’d never forgotten, but he had been sullen and uncommunicative when I tried to talk about it afterwards. It made him feel ashamed, I think. Everyone has their baser urges, but most people would rather just bury them and carry on as if they didn’t.

  The strangers are often quite shy. There’s no haggling over money to break the ice – they pay by the hour at the desk – so when they walk into my room it feels like bringing back a bloke you’ve just met on a night out. Except that it’s the middle of the day and you’re stone-cold sober. There’s always a slightly awkward pause, when the door closes on the two of you. The boss trained us, and what we have to say to ourselves is: This is my boyfriend of six months whom I love dearly. We haven’t seen each other for a month … I say husband, of course, and I try to remember when Steve went away for two weeks on a training course and how excited I was when he came home. I usually just say hi, and put my arms around them, and kiss them like a girlfriend would. They like this, especially if it’s their first time, because a lot of people think that working girls don’t kiss their clients. Some do, some don’t. I do. It’s all part of the service. The young men who have come as part of a dare, often drunk after a stag do, they’re the most nervous. They don’t come back. It’s just something they do as a rite of passage, I guess, and besides, most young men haven’t got the money to make a habit of it.

  I enjoy making myself look nice for the clients, and it’s also a good way of getting rid of some of the money I earn. I get my hair cut and coloured every six weeks, blow dried once a week; then there’s waxing, facials, nice make-up and so on, and underwear. Of course, most men can’t tell the difference between a bra that costs ten pounds and one that costs a hundred pounds, but they know what they like, and I enjoy seeing the look of appreciation on their faces when they first walk into the room.

  Ninety-nine per cent of them just want to have normal, straight sex like they would with their girlfriends. Most of them like to have a kiss and a cuddle and a bit of a chat, and I’m good at putting people at their ease. You learn a lot about life, listening to other people’s stories. Even though they’ve paid by the hour, they’re often happy to take it slow, and when they do tentatively put out a hand and touch my breast, they look almost surprised that I don’t tell them off. I think a lot of them have tried going to those lap dancing clubs, where it’s all sit on your hands and don’t touch, when for a bit more money than they’d spend on a night out in one of those places, they get to have the complete package.

  I like watching the expression on their faces as they let their hands wander, stroking and squeezing and exploring. I usually help them with the bra catch, as most men are all fingers and thumbs. They tend to spend a long time on my breasts, kissing them, holding them, sucking on my nipples like babies. I hold them, and stroke their hair, and tell them how good it feels. And when they are ready, they climb on top of me. Honest to God, I love feeling them enter me, feeling a stranger’s penis going into me for the first time. Because there’s nothing like the first time, is there? It’s the first time that man’s been in you, and once he has, he’s had you, and that can’t ever be undone. And that’s why, I think, I like the strangers best, because I like to say to myself, that’s another one, I’ve been had by another one today. It’s not like I keep a count or anything, it’s just that sense of being available to men, and them wanting me, and having me. Like I say, I’m wired differently from most.

  Most of my regulars are easy, and most clients just want ordinary, straight sex, but as everyone knows, it’s the exception that proves the rule.

  There are two professional guys, both in their mid thirties, both with steady girlfriends, who come and see me together, every month, and have done for the last year or so. I have had men come in pairs before, usually the stag night lads, but they only usually do it once. These two are different. One of them is blond and freckly and big built, and the other’s small, with black hair and olive skin, and stubble.

  The first time, I sat them down and asked them what they wanted, which is a good way of setting the ground rules, important for safety when you have two of them. The blond one just said something like, oh, you know, just the usual, but the dark one said he just wanted to watch. I wondered if they were gay, or bisexual, or something, but I don’t know anymore. It scared me a bit, the first time, the way the dark one just sat there and stared the whole time. He never spoke, never moved. I kept expecting him to suddenly leap to his feet and join in, or do something, but he just sat there.

  I liked the blond one – Mike – from the start. He was funny, in a self-deprecating way; he made light of it all, like I imagine he would with a regular woman. He called me darling, and made jokes, in a way that demonstrated respect and nice manners. He didn’t seem to mind, or even notice, his friend sitting silent in the chair.

  The first time, he was a bit nervous, like all of them. I took the initiative, going down on him straight away, and getting on top of him. He was appreciative and polite, but all the while his friend sat and watched us, and didn’t move a muscle. I thought that would be the last I saw of either of them, but they turned up again a month later.

  Mike was a lot more relaxed the second time and took control, positioning himself on top of me when he wanted me to suck him, and rolling me over when he was ready to fuck me. He went down on me, and made me genuinely wet. It was good, feeling his bulky body on me, and I felt comfortable with him. His friend – Tom – still sat there, which surprised me, as Mike and I must have looked pretty good together, and I couldn’t believe he didn’t want some. I caught his eye once or twice, while Mike and I were fucking, but he just stared at me impassively, as if we were doing nothing at all.

  They continued visiting every month, and Mike and I got better and better. I felt relaxed with him and he seemed to enjoy my company. We chatted a bit, and he told me he had a girlfriend he lived with, and so did Tom, and that it was officially poker night as far as the girlfriends were concerned. Apparently the girlfriends were quite disapproving of the idea of playing poker, and I got the impression that they
were quite prim and proper type girls.

  On the sixth visit, Mike asked me if he could have anal sex with me. I lay face down, flat on the bed, and he climbed on top of me. He was lovely and gentle, but it’s never the most comfortable experience. Afterwards, I sat up gingerly, and jumped as I saw Tom. He was leaning forward in his chair, his eyes were glittering and his face was filled with such longing that my stomach flipped over. I opened my mouth to speak – I’d never asked him before why he didn’t want to join in, or take a turn with me, but I almost did then. But he turned away and picked up his drink, and the moment passed. The time was just about up, in any case, by then, and I felt a bit sorry for him. I wondered what was holding him back. There was something unnerving about the way he had looked at me. Was he shy or inhibited, or was he afraid of giving into his own urges?

  Everything changed the next time they came in. Tom had the hungry look that he’d had the time before, and Mike was distant and businesslike. The atmosphere was scary and electric, completely different to usual. Tom sat in his chair, watching, but alive with energy and attention. Mike stood in front of me and unbuttoned his trousers, and I knelt down on the carpet and took his cock in my hand and sucked him. I felt scared, not just of Tom, but of both of them, vulnerable in a way I hadn’t felt since their first visit.

  ‘Get undressed.’ Mike stepped back and took his trousers and shirt off, while I stood up and undid my bra and took off my knickers. My hands were shaking.

  ‘Get on the bed.’ I half lay, half sat on the bed. ‘On all fours.’ Mike’s voice was flat and even, his face expressionless. I glanced for a split second at Tom; his face was glowing with excitement. He spoke: ‘Spank her.’

  My stomach turned over, and I felt hot between my legs. I felt Mike kneeling on the bed beside me, and then the slap as he brought the flat of his hand down onto my bottom. I held myself as still as I could while he spanked me, and my bottom got hotter and hotter and my skin tingled. I was more excited than scared, then – I liked being spanked, and could cope with the pain.