There's something about a deep, deep masculine voice. A woman's voice can stroke like a warm, wet tongue, but Max's voice set up reverberations that seemed to liquefy my bones.
"Trust me,” I said. “I never met an erogenous zone I couldn't appreciate.” I rode the huge bulge in his pants, appreciating the hell out of it. “Check me out, if you need proof.” I lifted myself just enough for his hand to test my natural lube. His digital enthusiasm was touching, if a bit clumsy, but I pursued other interests, sliding backward until I had his zipper far enough open to insert two fingers. Then slowly, slowly, the gap widened until my whole hand curved around his hot, hard cock, still trapped by the pressure of his belt.
His hips rose, his hands scrabbled at the belt buckle, and I caught the tip of his cock in my mouth as it jerked free.
I savored it with just enough in-out action to keep him breathing hard without rushing things. Then I hitched my body along his until my knees clutched his hips. My own hips moved as my cunt lips slid back and forth over his swollen, eager cock. Too bad, I thought, that our sense of taste is limited to the mouths we eat with. And a taste was all I was going to get.
"Max, you wouldn't happen to know what the Swiss Family Robinson used for condoms, would you?"
"No, damn it. They must have cut that part from the movie to get a G rating."
"Don't worry.” I played him with my hand, stroking from the root of his balls all the way up his shaft. “Just lie back and let me run this fuck."
"You're the boss,” he said, his voice rising into a gasp. I had pressed my knuckle firmly below his scrotum and was working my thumb back toward his asshole.
"I'll bet you'd like something really kinky,” I teased, “to tell your grandchildren."
"I'll bet you have inside information,” he said, not too steadily, “about what Robinson Crusoe used for sex toys!"
"Is that a challenge?” I watched a gleaming pearl of pre-cum form at the slit in his cock. “If so, I accept."
I yanked the belt from his shorts; he lifted his head in alarm. His expression went from apprehension to horrified awe as I leaned over to grab an oyster.
The belt buckle was just the tool for prying open the tough shell. “No pearl in this one,” I said, bringing the opened bivalve close to his erection. “Maybe you could share.” I tapped his cock; it jerked. I just managed to catch his dewdrop on the oyster, while some of the liquid cupped in the shell dripped onto his balls. I bent to lick it off, then touched my tongue to the glistening shellfish.
"Hmm, needs more sauce.” I slid the oyster into my mouth and held it there, excitement balancing revulsion, while I worked Max hard, inexorably, with both hands. At the penultimate moment, when his deep moans rose in pitch and nearly flowed together, I worked my full mouth down over his cock. I barely managed to keep the slippery oyster from being rammed down my throat until Max's storm of cries rattled my bones and the hot flood of his come burst over my tongue.
Swallowing had never been quite like that before.
Finally, Max regained enough breath to speak. “Lexie,” he said, “it's your turn.” He was trying not to look at the remaining oyster. It was a very large, very juicy oyster. I plucked it from its shell. Liquid dripped between my fingers into my lap and seeped downward to mingle with my own juices.
I leaned back and spread my legs. The oyster was cold against my tender heat, but I kept pushing. Between its slippery coating and my own wetness, it slid in easily. My cunt tried to grip the slick, yielding pressure, and the teasing subtlety of the stimulation began to drive me crazy. “No, it's your turn,” I said, gasping. “Eat!"
"Well, considering the gourmet dipping sauce...” And he ate, his willingness to learn exceeded only by the length of his truly phenomenal tongue. It was a long time before I realized that the throbbing sounds filling the air weren't all coming from me.
"A search helicopter,” Max said, wiping his mouth.
"Damn!” I groped for the belt buckle and rolled over until I could reach inside the prow of the boat. I started gouging the splintered wood around what seemed to be a bolt; then Max's large, dark hand took the buckle and finished the job.
"How long have you known it was there?” he asked, when the tiny camera lay at last cupped in my hand.
"I noticed it when I woke up,” I said. “Want me to send you a copy on disc?"
"You'd better,” he said. “Not that I'm likely to forget any of it."
"Not as long as there are oyster bars in the world,” I agreed.
"I don't think I'll be eating any more oysters,” Max shouted over the increasing noise, “unless that special sauce comes with them."
"Sauce for the goose as well as the gander,” I called, but my voice was swallowed by the roar of the rotors. The chopper was so close now we could feel the wind. I scrabbled for my clothes.
* * * *
From high above, the little crescent of sand and rock seemed to smile in the liquid embrace of the ocean. I shifted in my seat in the helicopter, new waves of tingling overlapping the residual glow between my legs.
The camera was in my pocket. I knew where I could hide the chip later, if I had to, to get it home; I might even manage the whole miniature camera, if only briefly. I grinned to myself. Max probably thought I was thinking of him, but I was really filled with images of how Tonya would get the most out of a cuntcam.
It was a damned shame, though, that she was allergic to seafood.
* * * *
sacchig.livejournal.com
[Back to Table of Contents]
Instinct
© Chloe Waits
Samantha looked out her small office window at the traffic below, tucking her light brown hair behind one ear. She gave a rueful smile as she thought of everyone else in the office clock-watching this Friday, desperate for the weekend to begin. And yet Samantha knew their plans would be very different from hers.
She slipped into the tight bathroom stall, quickly removing her navy business suit and pulling on jeans and a T-shirt. Outside by the sink, she ran her hands through her hair to tease its volume and applied fresh gloss. She smiled at the effect in the mirror. She was ready for her ‘date.'
Samantha walked out of the building into the sunlight and traveled the few blocks to her destination. She'd started passing this way a couple weeks ago—something she hadn't done in years. In that time, it was quickly becoming a weekly routine to visit on her way home. Every Friday she came, paying her admission and making her way in until she had reached her final destination. And every Friday she came to stand in front of his cage as he stalked it. Eyes locked and hissing. Flashes of yellow, of foamy spittle. Sleek muscles rippling.
She leaned on the metal railing fascinated with the panther's raw energy. It seemed to draw her in. Felt the shame of it closed in a cage; a hundred square feet to prowl in, never again to be the hunter it was meant to be. Samantha thought of human nature in the same terms: how we scale our hungers down to adequate size—afraid to eat, drink, even fuck too much. Afraid to want things. To be too much and take too much. A veneer of civility over all things.
The panther had none of these concerns. It was its appetite. She admired its struggle to be free, the way it tore into the flesh of its food with sharp, shiny claws.
The animal seemed to study her sometimes, as though in kinship. Other times it growled low, chilling Samantha to her core. Licks of fear up her back excited her. Her legs trembled. Sometimes, she wanted to bare her teeth right back at it.
What had drawn her back to the zoo after so many years since her last visit? Some dim childhood memory? It seemed sheer impulse that had made her go inside one day after work, abruptly turning off the street on her way home. Perhaps a factor, too, that she had not wanted to go home that night. She had, after all, broken up with Tim that week. And yet if Samantha was honest, she felt more disappointment then regret. She had to admit to herself that she was bored with the men in her life. More interested in their jobs and cars than her, it seem
ed. More interested in stocks and their bank accounts.
And the sex? Sterile and boring. Samantha tried to block out images that thought drew. Awkward fumblings. Missionary thrusting. Oral sex performed on her badly—and then only if she was lucky. Watching the panther was exhilarating. This animal had more life, more instinct than all her previous lovers put together.
In fact, everything seemed a bit grey to her lately. Her job as an analyst was bland as well. Numbers after numbers to tabulate. She longed to escape the office building that looked like a beehive and breathe the summer air. Her clothes felt restricting and stiff on her body.
Her conservative office did not have a casual dress Friday. So, when another Friday arrived, Samantha again brought a change of clothes to signal the start of her weekend. She squeezed into the bathroom, changed out of her work clothes and slipped into a black miniskirt, applying more kohl to her green eyes and shaking her long brown hair loose from its smooth pony tail.
This is me, not some suit, she thought.
As she left her workplace her walk changed, became freer. Samantha allowed the natural sway of her hips to dominate. Her heels clicked as she walked, slipping through the turnstiles. She stopped briefly at the exotic birds, listening to their calls, admiring the bright saturated colors of their feathers, their movements in the cages. Then she continued until she came to front of the panther cage.
He was lying down, tail tapping against the ground, lazily taking in his surrounding through half-hooded eyes. The panther seemed oblivious to the crowd of people, mothers with children passing through. It was as though his wildness had been bleached out.
She fought back disappointment, gazing and willing the beast to come to her. Her eyes locked with the panther's. Show me who you are, she thought. She slipped under the railing, closer to the black barred cage as the panther eyed her approach warily. She stood in front of it, mentally inviting it to smell her scent, to welcome her as one of its own. The animal made a low keen in its throat, but did not move. She placed her hands on the bars, legs apart. Samantha felt so alive. Her skin tingled with energy as her heartbeat increased.
The panther leapt toward her suddenly, mouth stretched, teeth bared. Growling ferociously. Samantha sprung back from the cage as it pounced at the bars. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, righting her.
"Miss, are you okay?” asked a deep voice.
She nodded wordlessly, looking up into the face of a tall, dark man with a zoo logo-emblazoned hat. Embarrassed, her eyes darted away, but not before she saw how black and intense his eyes were. It was like being watched by the panther. She pushed the thought away.
"You shouldn't get so close. Raven can seem tame at times, but he is wild."
She swallowed, nodding, and turned to leave on unsteady legs. “Thank you."
"Miss, are you sure you're okay?” he asked.
"Yes, I am fine.” she assured him.
Was she fine? She was trying to communicate with a wild animal. What was she doing? She left quickly, trying to ignore how the man's gaze had held hers.
At home, Samantha winced as she replayed the event at the zoo. She tried to block out the image of his large build, his probing eyes. Did he think she had some kind of death wish? She had heard of people climbing the cages to get close to the zoo animals—even parents who would put honey on their children in order to get a wild bear to lick it off. Just for the photo op. Did he equate her with those people? Was she like them? Was she an adrenalin junkie? How could she explain her admiration of the panther's feline grace? Its strength? Its danger?
She flushed as she thought of the feelings of excitement, almost sexual as she faced the panther down. Maybe that's what was missing from her life. Her life was too safe—and so were her men. Maybe that was at the heart of her feelings of restlessness, of boredom.
That night she dreamt of being in front of Raven again. This time she was inside the cage. The eyes of the panther and the man blended together. Strong hands were pulling her out.
* * * *
It was two weeks before she went back. She felt subdued as she walked in, wandering restlessly through, stopping at animal exhibits without really seeing them, wondering if she should leave. Yet her feet seemed to go—of their own volition—slowly to the feline section. She went to the railing, a safe distance away. She leaned against it, watching Raven. The panther was pacing his cage. Yellow eyes sharp and feral. Samantha became aware of a presence next to her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw dark hands folded on the railing.
"So, you're back. I'm glad Raven didn't give you a permanent scare."
She glanced sideways, seeing a flash of white teeth. “I don't scare quite that easy."
"I guess not, not someone who would go up to the cage and have a staring match with a panther."
"It wasn't a staring match, it was...” Samantha felt helpless to explain.
"I understand,” he said slowly. “I am fascinated by these animals, too."
"I like how they are real. Really themselves. With no preconceived notions, no worries..."
"Yeah,” he laughed, “other than getting their next meal."
She tried to smile at his joke but continued, “They're free. They know real freedom.” She stopped awkwardly, realizing the contradiction of describing the freedom of a caged animal.
He stopped grinning, grew thoughtful. “They are true to themselves."
She turned to look at him. His eyes were so dark she could barely see the rings around his irises.
"Yes,” she replied softly.
"So, are you true to yourself as well?"
It sounded like a subtle challenge. His deep eyes hypnotic.
"Is anyone?” she challenged back, “Don't we have different constraints on us than animals? We have our nature shaped and molded since we were born. We're ... institutionalized."
"Perhaps. But some of us have an easier time living by our passions. Some ... block them out."
It was hard for Samantha not to flush at his words. Every time he spoke it seemed to take on different layers of meaning, as though he was talking about something else entirely.
"Anyway, don't they scare you at all? Part of being free is being wild...” He growled suddenly, deep in his throat.
Her hands tightened on the railing, pupils wide feeling the vibration. Like a call inside her. He stopped short seeing her reaction, his eyes not missing a thing.
"I should go,” Samantha said abruptly, starting to turn away, heat rising in her cheeks.
"I look forward to seeing you again. My name is David,” he called to her back.
"How do you know I will be back?” she called over her shoulder as she kept walking.
He caught up to her quickly. “Because, I think you like it here. I think you like Raven, and I think,” his voice dropped to a soft silky whisper, “I think you like to be a little afraid sometimes."
Samantha hurried away, feeling her secrets on her face for him to see. She walked quickly without stopping until she reached her door, slamming it shut as she entered her apartment. You like to be a little afraid echoed in her mind. His face seemed to follow her around as she paced her room. How did he seem to know what she was barely able to admit to herself?
* * * *
Samantha was at war with herself about returning the following week but her intrigue with Raven—and David—drew her back. She slowed her walk as she got closer to where the panther was housed. She tried for an air of cool nonchalance in spite of the tightening in her stomach. Her wavy hair was piled on her head, lips painted a wine color in sharp contrast with her light green eyes. She thought of passing Raven's cage quickly.
"Hey,” David came sprinting up. “I am glad you kept our Friday date."
"It's not a date,” stated Samantha coolly.
"Well, your date with Raven, then,” David conceded, laughing.
Samantha looked at him carefully. About six-four, he was powerfully built. His face was sculpted with high cheekbones, and a wide g
enerous mouth.
"Do you see anything you like?” he asked, noticing her appraisal.
She turned quickly towards Raven's cage. “How long have you worked with Raven?” she asked.
He removed his hat, scratching his head. “About two, three years,” His head was neatly shaved, and his fingers rubbed it briefly. His hand spanned over his head, large fingers extending out of his palm. He glanced over at her. “Now I have a question for you. What is your name?"
"Samantha."
"Samantha,” he repeated to himself softly. He said her name like he savored it. “Samantha, I was wondering if you would like to go to dinner with me this evening. I am off at eight-thirty. We could grab a bite, or a drink ... I know a great place for ribs a couple blocks from here. I promise I will change before we go,” David stated, indicating his khaki shorts and T-shirt with a grin.
Samantha tried not to focus on his muscular calves, how wide his wrists were.
"That is, when you're finished with my friend here."
* * * *
David appeared at the gate dressed in tan pants and a white T-shirt. Her pulse quickened at the sight of him.
"I'm parked right up here.” He opened the door to a jeep, helping her step up inside. “So, do you want to check out that barbeque place?"
Samantha just nodded.
"Good, we're in for a treat. I found this place by accident. It has a live blues band every Friday night, too."
David placed his hand on the small of Samantha's back, as he led her into the restaurant. His hand warmed her skin through her clothes. The place was dimly lit with blues music playing in the background.
He leaned down and spoke into Samantha's ear, “The show starts around nine. I've seen this band before,” he said gesturing to the name, Mitch Trio, printed on a chalkboard.
They sat down, David trying to push his chair back to fold his long legs under the checker cloth table. “What would you like to try?"
"A plate of ribs—hot—and a rum and Coke,” she stated, looking at the menu.
David motioned the waiter over and placed their drink and food orders.
Coming Together: At Last, Volume Two Page 13