by Violet Blue
“Put your hands on the back of my head,” she ordered, licking his shaft.
“But…”
“No buts, fuck my face,” she said, plunging her mouth back over him. Without further argument, his hands went gently to the back of her head and he began slowly thrusting his cock into her, then harder and faster as he realized how much she liked it. She moaned excitedly, still sucking and pumping his cock, never taking in more than she could handle because her hand stopped him from going too far. Slipping one hand to his ass, she felt him thrusting and reveled in his pleasure. He was loving this, fucking her hard and fast, feeling her plump, wet lips around him, and her warm mouth sucking him in. He was so excited she was sure he was going to come, but he pulled back, the length of his rock-hard erection sticking out of his pants in the streetlight that glowed through the window.
Quickly, he shed his clothing, and she saw once again his naked body, muscled and glorious, just as incredible as it had been eighteen years ago. He dropped to his knees too and met her face-to-face as his hand moved purposefully between her open legs to the warm wetness that had only continued to drip as she’d sucked on him. She gasped at his touch, then felt two fingers push firmly inside. She’d needed penetration so badly that just the feeling of his two fingers nearly drove her wild, but as he began to stroke inside her with those two strong fingers, pressing forward against her G-spot, all she could do was moan and fall to her back on the ground.
Not stopping, he leaned forward, and his fingers never left her. Working her hard now, the muscles of his arm pulsed as his fingers probed and stroked her skillfully. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t think, all she could do was gasp and cry out as each firm pulse of his fingers sent mindless pleasure rippling through her body. She could hear herself squirting, feel the overpowering ecstasy of it as he stroked over and over again, making her back arch and her hands ball uncontrollably into fists. God, she loved it when a man could make her squirt. The pleasure of it sometimes outclassed her usual orgasms, building and building and never letting go, wracking her body in seizurelike waves of tension and release. Clearly Nick had a lot of experience in this arena, and she was loving every minute of it.
His fingers slowed and stopped, and she gazed up at him dreamily, wondering what he would do next. He seemed to be wondering the same thing, so she rose from the ground, and crawled onto the bed, waiting for him to follow.
Just as she’d wanted to before, she presented herself, letting him take in the sight of her wet, blushing pussy from behind, and he responded just as she’d wanted him to. Pulling up behind her, he held the head of his dick against her for one moment of exquisite torture, making her wonder whether he was going to push inside or not. Desperately, she tried to move back and take him in, but he held her ass firmly and backed up a little.
“Please,” she cried, pulling her own tits out of her bra so she could tug on her nipples. She wanted him so badly. “Please, Nick, please. I need you inside me.”
Giving in, he moved forward, and she sighed with pleasure as every inch of him slid inside. First he gave two slow strokes, and she nearly died from longing to feel it faster. Then his hands wrapped firmly around her hips and he pulled her back as he moved forward, his cock banging deep inside her, the slapping impact of her ass against his hips sending a shocking ripple of pleasure through her body. He started slowly, then built up to a fast, rhythmic pulsing, each time pulling her hips back as he pounded forward, hitting all the right spots inside her fast and hard. Again, she couldn’t think, except to cry out words that came unbidden to her lips, “Fuck me, Nick! Be my bad daddy and fuck me hard!”
He growled and pounded her harder with those words, the sheer wrongness of their union driving their lust further. Here he was, a friend to her father who had seen her from childhood, banging her tight little pussy with animalistic abandon. He fucked her with a quick little series of strokes and then reached down to rub her clit with his finger as he pumped vigorously and orgasm overtook her frantically. Pleasure shot from her nipples to her clit, then exploded outward in a rapid, insistent pace that made her whole body shake and rumbled in her head like an earthquake.
Nick kept pumping, and growled again, now with orgasm, as she felt his warm come spill deep inside her. She felt his body hold rigid for a moment as he came, squirting every last drop into her before slipping his cock out and dropping down on the bed in fatigue.
She reveled in the afterglow of their moments together, sexual energy floating in the air, and settling on the pillows beside them. Sitting up, she looked over at Nick inquiringly. “You’re not sorry, are you?”
Turning his eyes her way, he considered the question. “No, not at all. It will have to stay our secret, but I’m not sorry.”
“Me neither,” she smiled, settling back on the bed. They lay together quietly, in the dark, both caught up in their own little worlds. Minutes passed, then an hour, and perhaps one of them napped in the darkness. Then, hungering for more, Anna rolled over and touched his cock. It rose in immediate response to her touch and she leaned forward, taking it again in her mouth and sucking slowly, bringing him back to rigid attention. Moaning softly, he thrust upward into her mouth rhythmically. Pulling his dick against her chest, she looked him in the face.
“Fuck me again, Daddy?” she asked, pouting.
“Mmm, absolutely.”
EVE
Alana Noël Voth
She was destined to lead them to Sodom. Him with his God-given prostate. Her with a strap-on cock. Eve’s parents had fucked in the open, like animals in the firelight past a girl’s bedtime in a house where noise carried, and a girl got out of bed and followed their sounds. She wandered in a nightgown, dragging her fingernails across the acrylic paint she didn’t feel come away like skin but like flecks off a ghost, to a living room that opened to a second room with a fireplace.
There, Eve saw bodies oiled in the light, her parents, her mother on top of her father, and her mother was like a banshee with hair like twine. She rode him like that—tethered but pulling loose. Eve knew a phrase from school. Screw him. She ran to her room and screwed a pillow. She screwed pillows until she screwed men.
In a kitchen, Eve grown up diced an onion on a cutting board and the smell was so strong it burned her eyes. The tears burned her. She could grab her latest lover by the hips, the place he liked so much, right there, thin layer of skin grown thicker since he stopped smoking again, and she could shove him into a wall.
Or, she could be more menacing than that.
Eve’s lover had met another woman in Chicago last time he was there: old friend, an ex-lover, something like a bray in a barn or Eve stubbing her toe over and over again.
That annoying infernal anger.
Her lover had been in search of new ways to get control of Eve lately because she was bored, pulling loose; as if her becoming jealous of another woman would do it. He was childish, but he wasn’t dumb. The other woman had become like a child who ripped the scab off Eve’s sores, exposing holes in her soul, ten thousand years old. Don’t tempt me. Eve saw her lover on a gold and red bedspread on a bed in no particular place, and he was an earthen, shaped body; the other woman was a lickety-split vine. Eve smelled leftover whiskey in glasses by the bed and an ashtray crying ashes since he’d started smoking again. Only time smoke left his mouth, when he burned from the inside out.
Ask God about the Garden of Eden. Eve had gone crazy.
She’d grab the bitch by her throat, and her lover’s friends would have to try and pull her off the woman he’d met in Chicago.
“It’s not my fault!” he’d scream to Heaven.
Eve in the open, no fig leaves now.
Last night, Eve rode a dildo she thought of as Jimmy McNulty from a TV show, “The Wire.” He lay beneath Eve Jesus style between her legs looking up in her face and trying not to come because she’d told him, “If you come, I’ll kill you.” So Jimmy had to decide.
At night her lover brushed Eve’s hair. �
�My mother used to make me do this.” He brushed Eve’s hair until quills rose on her skin and her hair turned to glazed blood in the moonlight. She took the brush from her lover once then slid the handle along his thigh until he shivered. She struck him with it, which he liked like a priest who whips himself for sinning, like a puppy so tickled it pissed into the ground.
Eve dropped the hairbrush and found a jar by the bed. She anointed her lover’s feet, the soles, between the toes, his Achilles’ heel even.
He gasped. “Baby.”
Eve poured oil in the cup of her palm. She anointed his cock; oiled the shaft, the head, his balls, saw when he closed his eyes like a credulous baby. Children sleeping straight down the hall. Eve oiled his asshole. Crouched between his legs and eased her lover’s knees apart: sparse hair around the star. She pursed her mouth then kissed the wrinkled skin of his balls. She moved the balls with her tongue, smelled piss and talcum powder. Until tomorrow, Eve spared him his Baptist Boyhood Guilt.
God preferred him that way. What Eve liked most were his sighs.
Her lover’s asshole felt a degree hotter than the rest of him: the difference between Purgatory and Hell. Her finger was like a straw in a hole. Eve pushed far as she could go. Imagine if she’d eaten the man instead of the apple? All this happened to her. Adam rolled on his back. He trembled on the edge of their bed, legs in the air. Eve oiled a silicone cock loaded into a harness that felt like a holster.
In the Garden of Eden the Devil had told her, “A rib maybe, but never his bitch.”
HUSH
Jacqueline Applebee
I lost my voice for several months when I was a child. I don’t talk about it much. I pledged myself to become an ambassador of silence, and now I use my mouth in other ways.
As a teenager I learned sign language, but even that was too involved. No, I preferred the fluid voice of a human body in motion. I listen to facial expressions, and I read kisses like journals. A long drawn-out groan means more to me than a library of books.
A lack of words however, does not mean a lack of sound. I’ll murmur with delight when I eat rose-petal chocolates, I’ll sigh when I sink into a hot bath. The noises I make when I come surprise me every time. My mouth holds power, and it is something that I treasure. I choose to be mute only when it pleases me, and it pleases me to communicate without words. Why would I spend my time yapping, when my mouth is capable of so much more?
I long for a silent world and want to draw a hush around me—the quiet is a comfort blanket that muffles the rest of existence into distortion. I just wish I could keep that blanket around me when I dream and am surrounded by the sounds of screaming. I’d cut my tongue out if I knew it would silence my nightmares.
I like my lovers to keep their mouths shut. I have ways to quiet those who cannot help themselves. Take Professor James Fitzgerald, for instance—his Southern Irish accent was mellow and sweet, but he talked far too much. He was the youngest professor in the university and was nothing like his austere colleagues. The professor wore his frizzy black hair in a short ponytail, and he insisted that everyone call him by his first name when they spoke with him. I longed to hear his real voice. I wanted his body to speak to me.
I knew the professor wanted to screw me from the first moment we met. He had come to my accounts office in the basement of the university with an expense sheet. I was impressed; this was something that most other academic staff saw as beneath them, a thing they would get their secretaries to do, but Professor Fitzgerald said that he wanted to get a feel for the place. I think he was secretly checking out the potential for some action. All that blarney wasn’t fooling anyone, and I reeled at the volume at which his eyes swept over my round soft curves. However, I heard something else beneath the flirting—the gaps between his lilting words held a hidden concern; he was unsure of me. My silence was a deep pool he could not fathom.
The next day, we sat in the private dining room at the top of the university’s oldest building. For almost three hundred years, only the most senior academics had used this space for their meals, but I was allowed in as a guest of the professor’s. There were no noisy students here, no clanking pots and pans. I was more grateful than he would ever know.
I savored my carefully prepared meal and enjoyed the sly looks that James gave me. After a short while he started to recommend what I should have for dessert, his voice a low whisper, but it was still too much.
“Hush.” It was the first word I had spoken all day. I lay my warm brown hand in James’s pale one, and he smiled with surprise when he noticed the card that I had slipped him, with my address and a time written neatly on it.
“Tonight?” he asked softly, and I nodded before rising to leave.
As an ambassador of silence, I always prepare before venturing into new territories. At home later that evening, I set out my supplies before James’s arrival, when the real adventure would begin. Ball gags are the main tools of my trade, and I lined them up on the white bedsheets. These were my modest arsenal in the campaign for quiet. I fingered a large hard gag made of resin. It was not really something for beginners, but James was generously proportioned, and it might just fit. I lifted my perforated dribble gag next; that little beauty usually led to a complete loss of composure for whoever wore it. I put my pony-bit gag away; it was more for show than anything else. There would be no theatrics tonight. A few homemade creations were included in the lineup—three knotted scarves were for the more nervous of my lovers. There was one last addition, a rigid dildo made of swirls of blue and white silicone. I adored the firm feel of it inside me, and as a bonus, it had a bulbous base that could double as a gag too.
My thoughts were interrupted by my mobile phone vibrating on the bed. I switched it off and answered the front door.
“Sorry, but your doorbell doesn’t seem to be working,” James said apologetically. In truth, I had disconnected it when I first moved here years ago.
James stood in my hallway and looked nervously around. He opened his mouth, and I placed a finger to it.
“Hush.” I kissed him, pressed the directive inside with my lips and my sweeping tongue. I wanted no words between us. I held his hand and pulled him after me, my footsteps swallowed whole by the thick carpet.
When we reached my small bedroom, James froze on the threshold. He gaped at my collection of sex toys, and then he turned to me smiling a wide naughty smile. I stepped to the bed, and held up the smallest gag in my collection, a soft red sphere that hung from a strip of thin leather. I silently asked him if he wanted this, by raising an eyebrow.
Of all the things that could have happened next, I never expected one of them would be Professor Fitzgerald making a dive to kneel at the side of the bed. He reverently ran his hands over the line of gags. I was shocked beyond belief.
Once I had recovered, I drew the red gag over his face. He arched against the toy and quietly sighed. I read his exhalation like poetry, knew just how he felt. He had found something he loved, and a thing that he never thought anyone else would want to indulge him with. My heart sang at the knowledge that he would be a citizen of my silent world.
James remained on his knees as I buckled the gag, adjusting it until I achieved the perfect fit. He grunted, and I translated the sound. He adored the full warm sensation, and he loved the liberty of restraint. He was now free to scream until his lungs hurt, and a muffled murmur would be the only thing that anyone would hear. I lifted his hand to my face and kissed the inside of his wrist.
“Welcome,” I said with the simple action. “Welcome home.”
I shouldered out of my long blue dress and stood naked before the professor. He watched me as I moved but remained on his knees by the bed. I crooked a finger, and he shuffled to me, eyes wide with longing.
James was a tall man, so I could rub my breasts over his frizzy black hair from his position on the floor. He nosed my skin desperately, increasing the speed and the friction with every movement. I could hear my own heart beating as I gyrated ag
ainst him, a roaring drum in my ears. I grabbed a handful of his wild hair, and he stilled after a moment.
It was now time to open relations with the natives. I sat on the edge of the bed, and James instantly leaned forward, following me. A firm yet gentle hand on his head stopped him, and he looked up at me with a question in his dark brown eyes. I shook my head and opened my legs instead. My fingers reached into my pussy, spreading my lips wide. All my professor could do was to kneel where he was, and inhale my rich scent. This was a special type of communication, animal-like and base, but as I watched his chest expand with an intake of breath, I heard his hunger clearly. I grinned at the soft hiccup as he tried to draw my fragrance deeper. James was a quick study, and I rewarded him by slipping a finger inside myself, only to smear it along his stretched lips, a taste of things to come.
I reached to the collection of toys and produced the pretty dildo. James tilted his head and made an inquiring noise.
“Hush.” I placed a finger to his lips and then quickly removed the gag from his mouth. James flexed his lips, working out the stiffness with seesawing motions of his jaw. I gave him a moment before I pressed the dildo to his mouth then pushed the base of it inside. He dutifully accommodated the tool, and when I removed my steadying hand, he bit down to hold it inside him. I almost laughed as James went cross-eyed whilst looking down at the jutting dildo.