by Kalen Laurel
Bubbles
Stories of Sex, Scandal and other Silliness
Kalen Laurel
Paperwhite Press
Discover other titles
by Kalen Laurel
Intense Passions
(Available Now on Amazon Kindle)
Paperwhite Press
Intense Enlightenment
(Coming Fall, 2013)
Paperwhite Press
Copyright © 2013 by Kalen Laurel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may
quote short excerpts in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN-13 978-0-9894287-1-2
Cover Photo Credit:
Mark Andersen/Rubberball Productions/Getty Images
About the Author
Somewhere in America, during her spare time, a 50-something mother, wife, and mid-level manager with an over-active imagination and a penchant for research is secretly writing erotic romance novels under the name Kalen Laurel. She could be your neighbor, the woman in front of you in the grocery line, or the one in the next cube who always seems to be smiling…
Foreword
Before sitting down to write my “Intense” series, I did a lot of research into sexuality, proclivities, and fetishes. As can be expected, the experience was eye-opening to say the least. In the process, I heard some wild, first-hand stories and fantasies that became the foundation for a series of short stories that allowed me to explore various characters, voices,, and perspectives before beginning the first of the books in the Intense series. Those stories have been collected in this book named Bubbles after one her favorites from the collection. The second story in the book is The Club, which is an excerpt from Intense Passions—the first of the new series.
A word about safe sex: The characters in this book are fictional. They can’t possibly get pregnant, contract a sexually-transmitted disease, be harmed or arrested, or fall victim to any other catastrophe I don’t specifically write into the plot. Such is not the case for any of us in the real world. You should use cons, contracts, safe words, discretion and everything else that is appropriate in your real-life sexual encounters.
I hope you enjoy reading Bubbles, and I thank my husband and all of my readers, editors, bloggers, and confidants for their continued support of my writing efforts.
—Kalen
A Collection of Short Stories
The Photo Shoot
The Club
Excerpt from the first book in Kalen Laurel’s new series:
Intense Passions
Body Paint
Bubbles
Dirty Laundry
An Outrageous Comedy about Outrageous Behavior
Black Mercedes
Or… “How I met the man I eventually married under the most embarrassing circumstances possible”
Private Lessons
The Photo Shoot
I remove my very favorite pieces of lingerie from the dresser drawer and lay them ever-so-carefully on our bed—smoothing a bit of ribbon here, caressing a piece of lace there. My heart is pounding and my breath is short in nervous anticipation of what I plan to do. Before tomorrow’s innocence is lost, I will slip these wisps of silk and leather over the smooth curves and graceful angles of my sexuality and twist my body into a photographer’s image of grace and beauty to be Kodacolor-captured and permanently printed.
The warm tingle of arousal builds between my legs; I will do it as much for my own enjoyment as the prurient desires of voyeurs or the exploitive goals of capitalists.
I slip my fingertips inside my panties—through pubic hair trimmed with care—to the wetness and warmth of my longing. I stroke myself there and whisper the words I long to hear:
“You are being a very bad girl.”
The house is quiet and I am alone, so I reach back and slap my own firm ass—playing the scene out in my mind.
“I’m going to turn you over my knee, young lady.”
I bend over the bed in fantasized obedience, waiting in squirmy anticipation for his hand to raise a red welt on one tiny, pink cheek.
“This is what you deserve for showing yourself to that photographer.”
Crack.
The sweet pain radiates through my loins and I press my fingers deeper into myself.
“You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Slap.
The other cheek burns and I squirm in delight while denying the pleasure.
“Oh please stop.”
“Not until I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson, young lady.”
I tighten my muscles in anticipation of the next stinging impact, but the mood is broken—my desire unfulfilled. My lover will not spank me this night and I carry the longing with me when it is the photographer’s eyes that pierce the thin armor of lingerie covering my breasts and cunt, the photographer’s penis that strains against Levy and Jockey, and the photographer’s imagination that has my body arched in ecstasy—his hard cock slipped past my burning buttocks and fucking me, filling me.
It is neither the heat of photo lights nor the late summer sunlight streaming through the glass covering one wall of the studio that is the cause of my perspiration or the source to the motivation which thrusts my hips toward the camera. I expose the center of my femininity to lust-filled eyes that will stare at the results—their cock in hand or cunt cupped by sweaty palm until pushed beyond that special point where urgency ends and fulfillment begins.
They will have experienced me then, those unknown people in unseen places, and a part of me will be a part of them while I lie here alone in my mind’s world and imagination’s embrace.
* * *
I was a bad girl, today and my sins go unpunished until I close my eyes and bring my lover to me in fantasy. I shape him tall and handsome and paint him stern yet passionate. He is standing over me with hands on hips, gently scolding me.
“Well, little girl. It appears you’ve been very naughty.”
I feel that familiar tingle again. I’m ready to be punished; I long to be properly disciplined.
“Yes, I know,” I whisper, hearing the nervous anticipation in my own voice. I feel his eyes surveying my shape. I am wearing tight jeans and an even tighter t-shirt.
No, wait! I am wearing a pleated skirt and tight sweater...and my creamy, smooth skin is visible over the top of thigh-high stockings. He is staring at that sweet strip of innocence holding the promise of sensual delight just a few inches higher under plaid wool and white cotton. He beckons me closer—points toward the couch.
“Lean over, young lady,” he commands and positions himself behind me as I grab the back cushion and bend over.
His hand makes tentative contact through skirt and panties—testing, tempting. He lifts the short skirt, revealing the white cotton below, and gently caresses my ass cheeks through the thin fabric. My head spins. My heart turns cartwheels. He delivers the first real blow.
Slap.
It stings a little this time and I tense myself while succumbing to the sweet sensation of flesh impacting flesh. Oh so sweet. Life itself surges through my being, captures the fantasy and gives flight to my soul.
“Tell me what you showed the photog
rapher,” he says, struggling to keep his voice in control. I hesitate and he repeats the command, more insistent this time. “I asked you to tell me what you showed the photographer. He saw your cunt, didn’t he?”
I swallow hard as he pinches my butt through the fabric. “I showed him everything,” I finally admit in a frightened little voice.
“That’s what I thought,” he says with anger creeping back into his voice. I feel him punch his thumb into the thin underwear and a moment later forces his fingers through the fabric and rips them from my body in one motion. “I’m going to have to make this a serious lesson, young lady.”
He runs his hand over the smooth skin revealed and gasps as he slides his hand between my legs and along the folds of my cunt. His hand jerks back and comes down hard almost immediately. “You’re wet!” he says. “Your nasty little privates are wet. You enjoyed exposing yourself to him, didn’t you?” He raises his hand to strike and waits one agonizing moment while I tremble below him.
Crack.
God, it hurts so good. I can feel my cunt melting, my clit aching to be touched. As if hearing my thoughts, he slides one hand between my legs and presses it up against the source of my lust, my need... And his hand comes down hard in the same spot as before.
Slap.
“Answer me!” he snaps. He’s undoing his belt and I wait for the sting of leather until I realize he’s removing his clothing. I look back between my legs and watch him press the fingers of one hand into my wet, inviting hole, massaging me rhythmically with his thumb.
“Tell me you liked him staring at your naked breasts.”
He spanks me hard, my knees buckle and only his fingers hooked inside me prevent my collapse.
“Tell me you enjoyed seeing his eyes riveted between your spread legs.” His hand comes down still another time and the hot explosion of orgasm overwhelms me. I press my swollen mound against his hand and ride crests of ecstasy on waves of pleasure. I cannot push against him hard enough; I cannot get him far enough inside me.
I am consumed.
I am taken.
* * *
He is gentle now, holding me against his body. Feeling my heartbeat. Sharing the moment—my lover, my friend.
“Yes, I enjoyed it,” I finally admit, relaxing in his arms.
“Stand up,” he commands quietly and I pull myself upright as he removes his hand and steps back. “Take off the rest of your clothing.”
His shirt slips to the floor and his passion is obvious—his member erect, seeking. I undress. I kneel.
I wrap my hands around his penis, run my tongue the length and lower my mouth until I can take him in no further. His head falls back against the cushion and the fingers of one hand gently stroke my hair.
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” he mumbles. He arches his back, my hands tightly around him and feeling him fight for control. “Come here,” he says and I can see tears in his eyes as he pulls me on top of him and I guide him into me. I rock him slowly now, while he gently slaps the pink, sensitive flesh he’d spanked so hard just minutes before.
We kiss, my tears mingle with his, and when he finally speaks again his voice is low and throaty. “You’re especially beautiful when you’ve been a bad little girl, you know.” He is holding me tightly against his body, caressing every curve and staring deep into my eyes.
I kiss him again as he shudders in orgasm.
Outside my room the world is anarchy and my life is pandemonium, but here I am in control. I squeeze him; hold him; caress him...
I possess him.
The Club
Excerpt from the first book
in Kalen Laurel’s new series:
Intense Passions
Jennifer and I have shared fantasies about “swinging” or “wife-swapping” for years. When I “talk dirty” to her during sex, the subject matter usually revolves around the participation of other couples or heterosexual men or groups of men.
And so it was late last fall that Jennifer hit me with the idea of attending what she called a “lifestyle event,” a label her research revealed to be the preferred term for “swingers” and their activities these days. She told me that her study of the subject indicated that house parties, hotel parties, and other “club” events were going on almost every weekend in otherwise mundane suburbs, and that common, everyday folks, with a variety of sexual interests, could find others sharing their particular proclivities there—exhibitionism, voyeurism, spouse swapping, BDSM, fetish wear, to name a few.
My first reaction was not positive. “So you’re really saying you want something you’re not getting from our marriage?”
We fought about that aspect for a week or so before I trotted out a new objection. “What if someone recognizes us?”
She had armed herself with a list of the club website FAQs to defend against that one. “If they’re at one of these events, they couldn’t say much, now could they?” Her response, rather than leading to another argument, led to a rather entertaining discussion about which of our friends, if any, would be most likely to show up.
Jerry and Lindsey won that contest. Jennifer, oddly enough, put her parents at a close second. “There’s always been something kinky about the two of them, and Mom reads some pretty racy books,” Jennifer admitted.
Eventually we agreed she would call and talk to the woman who ran the club. It was a required step, Jennifer learned, because the woman needed assurance that the female half of any couple attending an event was doing so of her own volition.
A couple of weeks later we made the hour and a half drive to a far western suburb to attend a house party. Aware of the possibility that we wouldn’t spend the entire night in our street clothes, we debated what to wear, and Jennifer finally decided to go braless, in a black cami, tight jeans, and her favorite Jimmy Choos. I, meanwhile, threw on a simple white shirt, jeans, and sport coat. Jennifer packed silk robes for each of us in my gym bag in case we decided to dispense with the street clothes. They told us we could expect 40-50 people to attend, and we got a list of rules from the website we needed to agree to before they would admit us. In all caps and bold font, the first and last items on the list read: “Under all circumstances, ‘NO’ means ‘NO.’”
We chatted awkwardly all the way there, both of us completely freaked out about what we were getting ourselves into, though at the same time wildly excited by the proposition of being in the company of a house full of horny, nearly-naked strangers representing much of the known universe of sexual inclinations.
The house was the only one on a cul-de-sac at the end of a long gravel road, edging an industrial park, just outside of a town known only for its mall and plentiful speed traps. At first glance, the house might have appeared abandoned; no light was visible from any of the windows and a lone lamp lit the front porch. But the number of cars parked around the inside of the circle and an adjoining dirt lot suggested otherwise.
So did the off-duty uniformed police officer smoking a cigarette at the corner of the driveway. We pulled up and Jennifer rolled her window down.
“Hi, officer,” she said. “Is this the Sloan residence?”
He leaned down to look in the car window to get a better look at Jennifer, no doubt. “Yes…you’re here for the party, I take it?” he asked, and then motioned to the dirt lot behind us without waiting for a reply. “You’ll need to park in the lot—careful, it’s muddy.” He strained to lean far enough over to be able to see my face. “You can drop her here while you park, if you’d like.”
I bet you’d like that.
“Why don’t you, honey. I’m wearing heels, after all,” Jennifer said.
“Sure,” I responded, and I reached into the back seat to pass her coat up to her. “Don’t pick up any sailors.”
The officer laughed. “Air Force okay?”
“Pilots only.”
The two of them were chatting like old friends as I pulled away.
I parked the car in the safest and driest part of the lot, grabbed
my gym bag with our paraphernalia, and walked cautiously across the lot, mourning the probable destruction of my Ferragamo loafers with each squishy step.
By the time I made it to the front door, Jennifer was already inside. A blast of humid air accompanied by a strong scent of chlorine greeted me as I entered. I looked over to my left just inside the entrance and saw an open door leading to the garage that was decorated like a cheap, Florida hotel—pink flamingos and all—with two enormous hot tubs. To my right was a table with pads of FAQs and Rules forms, a small cash box, and a pile of pink plastic wrist bands alongside a display of dildos, anal plugs, handcuffs, riding crops, feathers, and other toys apparently for sale.
Jennifer was talking to a middle-aged woman who was dressed in a short, Hawaiian dress and a lei around her neck. They pretty much ignored me for a minute and that didn’t bother me because I was having a really hard time coming to grips with everything I was seeing. And I was seeing just about everything! Men and women of all ages, shapes, sizes, and ethnicities were standing and lying around in various stages of undress.
Although a good number of the people I could see were attractive, some of them truly were not. I seemed compelled to match them into pairs as if the fit among them should be cavorting separately from the not-so-fit. It became obvious that was not the case because a very attractive young woman removed her robe to climb into one of the hot tubs with a rather portly man. My brain rejected the image, though a moment later I became aware of the tree stump swinging between the man’s legs, and I immediately understood the possible attraction.
I turned my attention back to Jennifer while the woman wearing the lei wrapped one of the pink bands around her left wrist.