Cheri's Erotic Ten - Vol. 1

by Jean-Luc Cheri

  He was looking at me with the same stern expression, but there was now kindness in his eyes.

  “I’ve searched you thoroughly,” he said, “and I’ve found nothing. Please get dressed. I’ll take you back to the processing station.”

  I picked my panties up off the floor and stepped into them.

  “My brother’s innocent,” I said.

  He stared at me without responding.

  Next was my bra. As I fitted it over my breasts, his eyes watched me.

  “He doesn’t know anything,” I added.

  He remained silent, watching me pull my skirt up and button it.

  “It’s just not fair. He’s a good guy. Can’t you see what this is doing to him?”

  I pulled my blouse on and buttoned it. “I know you’re not as cold as you pretend to be. Please.”

  Finally, he spoke. “I heard you telling him you were coming to visit next month.”

  “Yes. I’ll be here.”

  He stepped close and ran his finger under my lower lip. When he held it up, he had a dollop of cum on it. I reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling his finger into my mouth and licking off the slick goo.

  “Here’s what I can do,” he said. “If we don’t find any evidence he knows something by the time his parole hearing comes, I’ll recommend he gets it.”

  I smiled. “Does that mean he’ll be released?”

  “It’s not a guarantee, but I believe the D.A. will listen to my recommendation.”

  I grinned and hugged him. “Thank you.”

  “But you should know, Miss Harding, that this warrant is good as long as he’s in here. So you’re subject to my search any time I see fit.”

  I grinned wider. “I was hoping you’d say that. He gives me a painting every month.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Then I’ll be sure to check for it.”

  I still had my arms around him, and I rested my cheek on his chest.

  “I’ll be looking forward to next month then.”

  # # #

  3 on 1 Breakaway

  by Cameo Sparx

  Cameo Sparx specializes in short erotica, and is the author of the popular ‘Quickie’ series of books, including ‘Maple Street Quickies’. You can find links to all of her stories at the end of this book.

  The cock in my mouth was drooling from the tip, and I licked away the slick, salty fluid before flicking my tongue over the sensitive skin. Gordon had his hands in my hair, assisting me as I bobbed my head, his groans letting me know he was heading down the road that would eventually lead to him filling the back of my throat with a load of his sperm.

  He was a columnist with the Boston Globe, and twelve years older than me. I was a sports writer for the paper, hired fresh out of college sixteen months ago. He’d shown interest in me immediately, and although I don’t normally go for older guys – especially divorced fathers of two – he was good looking and fit with a quirky sense of humor, so I allowed him to seduce me. I figured I was new in town and this would be an easy way to get laid regularly, plus it would be nice to have someone with seniority at the Globe who had my back. So fucking Gordon killed two birds with one stone. And he had a nice cock.

  We’d been friends with benefits for over a year, with no discussion about making it serious. I knew he was screwing other girls, but it didn’t bother me. Just like it didn’t bother him when I went on road trips with the city’s hockey team and hooked up with guys I’d meet at the hotel bar.

  That was my regular beat – hockey. And also my favorite sport. I’d dated my college team’s captain, and went to every game while we were together. I’d learned a lot about the game, and I’d also learned that there’s no better fuck in sports than a hockey player. Pretty much without exception, they were hard and lean with an edge of roughness. Nothing like the hulking steroid junkies with little dicks that were so prevalent in football. Most were from Canada, where they got their muscles from their dads and their proper manners from their mothers. My kind of guy.

  Unfortunately, I had ethics, and one of my guiding principles was that I didn’t fuck the athletes I was covering. Kind of difficult to write an opinion piece criticizing a guy when you had his cock inside of you the night before. So I abstained from dipping into the pool of athletes so close at my fingertips.

  But yeah, it was tough to stay away from them. Part of my job was to go into the locker room after the game and get interviews. No, it’s not the cock-fest that most people imagine – the players have a separate dressing area and usually have at least something on when they meet the media, even if it’s just a towel. That’s not to say I never got a glimpse of dick in there. Some of the guys are proud of what they own and have no reservations about showing it off. Especially to a twenty-three-year-old female reporter who occasionally gives them a hard time in her articles.

  But despite the scarcity of actual cock in the locker room, there was plenty of skin on display. Like I said, pretty much every hockey player is in great shape, with rock-hard abs, tight asses, thick chests and thighs, and sinewy shoulders. And these were the best of the best. Getting inked was also prevalent among them, a particular weakness of mine. Many a night I’ve gotten back to my apartment or hotel on the road and pulled out my trusty vibrator, buzzing my clit to several climaxes while the memories of being around all those hard bodies were fresh in my head.

  “Oh god, that’s so good.”

  Gordon’s voice brought my mind back to the present and the task at hand, and I continued to slide my lips up and down his glistening shaft, using my tongue to lick all of those special places that set a guy off. The key to giving a good blowjob wasn’t to get him off as quickly as possible. You had to get him to a certain point near the edge and keep him there, reading the signs and not allowing him to come right away. String it out as long as possible, or at least until you couldn’t wait any longer and needed that rush of salty-sweet cream against your tongue. When you finished a blowjob like that, the guy knew he’d just received something special.

  Gordon wasn’t at that point yet, but he was getting there. He took a little longer than the younger guys I was usually with, but that attribute came in handy when he was fucking me, pounding my spread pussy relentlessly until I popped, sometimes even more than once.

  I cupped his heavy nutsack and gave it a firm squeeze, knowing just the right amount of pressure to make it pleasurable instead of painful. He groaned in response, and rewarded me with a fresh ooze of slick pre-ejaculate from his piss-slit. I lapped it hungrily away, probing into the fleshy hole with the tip of my tongue to get every drop.

  Reaching under his scrotum, I teased the divot of his anus with my fingertip. Like most men he was sensitive there, and he particularly loved it when I forcibly pressed inside right before he was about to jettison his load.

  “Oh fuck,” he groaned.

  I pressed my mouth down on him, taking his cockhead to the back of my throat as my lips reached down his shaft. I’d never mastered the technique of deep-throating, so I had to settle for lodging his swollen knob against the entrance to my airway, while keeping the suction tight around his meaty thickness.

  “God damn,” he grunted.

  I expected him to return the favor when I was done. Sucking cock turned me on, and my cunt was swollen and hot, and in dire need of a tongue rolling over my clit. Gordon loved to eat pussy – I think it was because his ex-wife never let him do it – and although he wasn’t particularly expert at it, his enthusiasm made up for any shortcomings in skill. So yes, after he blew his wad into my mouth, he was going to lick me, even if I had to sit on his face and pin him to the bed until I came.

  My cell phone went off. I pulled my lips off of Gordon’s dick and raised my head. Had I heard that right?

  Normally, a cell phone ringing in the middle of sex wasn’t enough to make me stop. Whoever was calling could leave a message or call back. But if I’d heard that ring tone right…

  It rang again, and my heart rate picked up. I couldn’t
believe it. He was actually calling me.

  I’d traded cell phone numbers with most of the team’s players and coaches, asking them to call me if they had any information to share, or if they had any questions about anything I’d written. For the more important players, I’d assigned them special ring tones, wanting to know immediately when they called.

  The one ringing now had never rung before, but it was the player I most wanted to hear from. I moved from my knees between Gordon’s legs and got off the bed.

  “Christ, Sarah,” he said. “Let it ring. I’m getting close here.”

  I ignored him and hurried to my purse, wanting to catch my phone before it went to voicemail. Gordon swore again as I grabbed it, swiped it on, and held it to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Sarah?”

  “Jake?”

  “You busy?”

  “No, I’m not busy. What’s up?” Gordon scowled at me from the bed, his erection stiff and wet from my saliva as it arched up rigidly over his stomach.

  “You know how you’re always asking to interview me about what I was like growing up?”

  “Are you saying you want to do an interview? Now? At this time of night?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what’s going on?”

  “A couple of my friends are in town. Guys I grew up with. They said they’d be willing to talk to you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Down at Ristuccia Arena. We’re playing a little shinny.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Gordon let out a groan.

  “Cool. I’ll leave the back door unlocked for you.”

  I hung up the phone and began collecting my clothes.

  “Sarah, don’t go,” Gordon said.

  “Sorry, but that was Jake. He wants to do an interview.” I started to get dressed.

  “At this time of night? God, my balls are about to turn blue here.”

  “Looks like you’re going to have to take matters into your own hands.”

  He shook his head. “You bitch.”

  I grinned. “Just pretend you’re married again.” I pulled up my skirt and buttoned it

  “This interview can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  “It’s Jake,” I said, as if that was all the explanation needed. I headed for the door.

  Jake Jericho. The nineteen-year-old had taken the NHL by storm last season in his rookie year, putting up numbers the league hadn’t seen since Gretzky and Lemieux were in their heyday. A sixth-round draft pick out of a small town in backwoods Manitoba, he wasn’t expected to stick with the big club past training camp. But his performance in the preseason left no doubt he was ready for the show, and his hunky, six-foot-three frame was solid enough to hold up to the punishment the NHL dealt out. I’d gotten a chance to witness that body close up during locker room interviews, and had never seen a teenager with that kind of physique. It was scary to think about what he’d eventually grow into once he entered full adulthood.

  He was cocky, but his attitude came more from confidence than insecurity, an unpleasant trait I’d seen in many pro athletes. He became the talk of the NHL, and although he gave plenty of on-air interviews, they were all of the shallow how-the-game-went variety. When asked about his private life, he deflected the questions, ether changing the subject or giving short, vague replies.

  But now, a crack in that solid edifice had appeared. Friends of his growing up? That was certainly interesting. Friends knew where you buried the bodies.

  So to speak.

  A light rain was falling as I pulled into the parking lot of the arena and drove around to the back. This was the team’s practice facility, so I was very familiar with the layout. After getting out of my car, I headed for the back door, hoping Jake had kept his word. Sure enough, it was unlocked and I entered the building.

  A long hallway led to the ice surface, with closed locker room doors on both sides. The overhead fluorescents were off, and the only light came from the far end, where I could hear the faint sound of skates on ice and the whack of sticks on puck.

  Pushing open a set of double doors, I entered the rink area, which had a refreshing chill to it. It was August, and in Boston that meant sweltering days and humid nights. The overhead lights were on, turning the ice into a bright white sheet, crisscrossed with skate tracks.

  I peered through the Plexiglas at the action. There were three skaters out there, and Jake was easy to pick out. Which was no surprise, since he was easy to spot even in an NHL game, with his powerful stride and fluidity making the other pro athletes look like beginners.

  But the other guys weren’t too bad, and I quickly noticed they were close in size to their famous friend. What were they feeding the kids in that little town?

  Shinny is basically hockey without any rules, and the goal is to keep the puck when you have it, and try to get it back when you don’t. I’d seen it played by kids as young as three, and as old as seventy, and they all wore the same expression of happiness while playing.

  These guys were no different, and since they weren’t bound by the league rules at the moment, they’d all ditched their helmets and were letting their hair fly in the breeze created by their speed.

  Jake’s hair had always reminded me of a lion’s mane, worn shoulder length with a mixture of blond and brown. His high cheekbones and broad nose completed the look, along with his green eyes, which sometimes seemed predator-like.

  Now, his hair whipped behind him as he skated, his lips turned up into a happy smile as he fought for the puck, bumping against his friends in the corner. They were giving as much as getting, checking him into the boards and taking the body in open ice. I wondered what the team’s brass would think if they knew how their newly-resigned eight-million-dollar wunderkind was spending his off-season.

  I enjoyed watching them play, having fun out there like little kids. When one would take the puck away, the other would playfully whack him with his stick somewhere on the pads – a move that would’ve drawn a penalty in a real game, but given as a sign of respect between friends.

  Jake finally noticed me and skated over, stopping on the other side of the glass. With his skates on he looked even bigger, and I smiled up at his rugged face.

  “Hey, Sarah.”

  “Hello, Jake.”

  “We’ll be done in a few minutes. Do you mind waiting?”

  “Not at all. I appreciate your friends doing this.”

  “I tried to talk them out of it, but they’re as hardheaded as I am.” He grinned.

  Speaking of his friends, I saw them both turn at center ice and head our way. As they neared, their intention became clear – they meant to hurdle into Jake from behind and smash him face first into the glass.

  I’m not sure if Jake picked up a reflection, or saw the alarm in my eyes, but at the last moment he deftly stepped out of the way, causing his friends to run headlong into the boards, causing a crashing sound and the Plexiglas to bend severely outward towards me. But even over four-hundred pounds of healthy Canadian male weren’t enough to break it, and the two players bounced off, losing their balance and tumbling to the ice.

  Jake grinned over them shaking his head. “They never learn.”

  I smiled wide and then they were all off again, chasing after the puck like kids on a frozen Manitoba pond.

  Taking a seat in the stands, I watched them play for another ten minutes. Finally done, they skated towards the exit door and Jake waved me over.

  “Come with us,” he said. “We can do this while we’re changing.”

  A little warning light went off in my head. While I was used to being in a locker room with half-naked men, it was always on a professional level, with the whole team there along with other reporters. Being alone in there with only three guys was a much different situation.

  But I didn’t want to miss this opportunity, and if I turned them down I might not get another chance.

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “Ye
ah. You’ll be fine. I promise.”

  The other two had already gone inside, so I said, “Okay. Lead the way.”

  I followed him through another set of double doors, then down the hall to the professional locker room, which was bigger than the others and had a private shower area. When we entered, his friends were sitting on the benches. They stood to greet me.

  “Sarah,” Jake said, “these are my friends. The goofy fucker on the left with the dark hair and big ears is Tyler Lemond, and the retarded looking one on the right with blond hair is Cory Becker. Guys, this is Sarah Bradley. From the Globe.”

  They looked neither goofy nor retarded. This close, I was struck by their awesome maleness, despite their obvious young ages. They both looked to be in their late teens like Jake. Slightly smaller than him, but still big and rugged, emanating rawboned masculinity through every pore.

  In comparison, I was barely five-four, with a petite frame. I felt like a dwarf among three giants.

  “Nice to meet you both,” I said, trying to maintain my professionalism. Stepping forward, I offered my small hand, which was engulfed in turn by their large, sweaty ones.

  “You too, Ma’am,” Cory said.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Okay, you can knock off the Ma’am crap. I’m only a few years older than you.”

  Jake and Tyler snickered as Cory looked embarrassed.

  “Sorry, Ma’am,” he said, “Uh, I mean, sorry.”

  I smiled. “Apology accepted. Welcome to Boston. Can we get started?”

  “Sure,” Tyler said, but they all stood there, watching me.

  I realized they were waiting for me to sit, so I moved to the bench opposite them and took a seat. They followed suit, with Tyler and Cory facing me, and Jake on the bench beside me.

  I pulled out my voice recorder, but Jake held out his hand. “No recording.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “That’s the way we want it.”