Within moments he was munching madly, licking long and hard, then nibbling delicately on my clit. I lifted my feet, placing my shoes on the bed so my knees were bent high before I dropped my legs wider open. He nuzzled in further, his fingers exploring me and I came quickly but quietly not wanting to do anything to break the spell of this amazing encounter.
He looked up over my mound, grabbing my arse, my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh. I ground my pussy up into his face, loving it but wanting more. I wanted his cock deep inside me and I didn’t think I could wait another moment.
Pulling his head up towards me he climbed up my body, his wet mouth leaving tracks where he’d been until he reached my mouth. I dragged him to me, tasting myself on his lips, licking his cheeks, his face before I thrust my tongue deep in his mouth as he thrust his magnificent cock deep into my pussy.
I was so wet he slid in, full to the hilt, my clit rubbing up against his pubic hair as he ground into me. He lunged for my breasts squeezing them while fucking me ferociously. I began screaming, unable to control myself as he fucked me harder and harder.
Wrapping my thighs around his back I kicked the heel of my stilettos into his arse cheeks. This spurred him on further until I was coming like never before, my breasts arching towards him where he attacked a nipple, sucking it hard into his mouth and as I came he bit down on it, pulling it away from me so I grabbed his head and held him close as my sweet juices gushed out of me and over my bed.
He laughed, ‘You fucking horny bitch. Here, roll over on top of me.’
In one swift movement I was impaled upon his mighty cock. I placed my hands on the wall and lifted myself, looking down between our bodies as his cock; glistening wet as it eased its way out. Then I slammed myself back down, over and over, riding him harder than I’ve ever ridden a cock before.
I just couldn’t get enough. I came over and over, with him pulling, crushing and devouring my tits. Nothing was enough. My juices spilled out of me, all over him and still he fucked me until I thought I’d pass out. With my legs quivering I disengaged myself and flew down to his cock.
Barely able to circle his shaft with my fist, I lowered my head to lick at his shiny knob. The veins were straining under the tightness of his skin. I ran my tongue over them feeling them pulse beneath it. I looked up at him, desire and lust all over his face. Opening my mouth wide I sucked him in, my fingers playing with his hairy balls before slipping further to tantalize his puckered hole.
‘Oh man, that’s fantastic,’ he said.
‘Hmm,’ I mumbled, my mouth full of cock.
His hand stroked my hair, ‘That’s great. You’ll never know how great but I want your pussy up here. I wanted to lick you while you’re sucking me.’
Manoeuvringmyself around, I lowered my pussy over him while still sucking his cock. He grabbed my hips, dragged me down, smothering himself into my hairless flaps. I sucked harder as his tongue found my clit and within minutes we were both coming, neither able to stop.
I rolled from him, collapsing beside him. He turned around and gathered me into his arms. Smiling at him, I ran my finger down the side of his face.
‘I suppose you’ll be leaving now,’ I said.
‘Not on your life,’ he said. ‘I’m never leaving. I’ve never desired anyone so much in my life.’
‘But I thought …’ I trailed off.
He silenced me by kissing me, both of us tasting ourselves on the other’s mouth.
‘Now that I’ve found you I’m never letting you out of my sight,’ he said, holding me tightly.
We’ve expanded our business now. I do phone sex too. I take calls but now when I’m talking dirty he’s in bed with me, and when I’m telling some guy on the phone what I’d love to do to him, I’m actually doing it to Brad. And he does the same for me. We have great sex, better than you could possibly imagine and we’re getting paid while we do it.
What a life and thank God for phones.
Wanted, Exhibitionists
by Jennie Treverton
The main reason why Greta replied to the ad on the noticeboard was to shock her two colleagues at the college library.Despite the fact that they were both reed-thin, or rather, because of that fact, Bethan and Yvonne were both weight-obsessed, constantly comparing exercise regimes and the nutritional value of their lunches. Greta wouldn’t have minded that in itself, but what she did object to was their attitude towards her, a modestly overweight woman. She objected to the way they’d hush up whenever she came within earshot, as if they’d been talking about something that she mustn’t hear. She objected to the meaningful sidelong glances they’d exchange. They seemed unable to relate to her, a woman with forty-four-inch hips and a forty-inch, E-cup bust who had butter and cheese on her jacket potato. Sometimes she found herself itching to take a pile of the books she was shelving, slam them down on the inquiries desk and shout at the two of them, ‘I’m not a monster, you know, I won’t eat you!’ Not a scrawny pair of chicken wings like them, anyway.
One day, just before the end of autumn semester, the college library was particularly quiet and Bethan and Yvonne’s discussion of their competitive starvation was drifting along the bookshelves and provoking in Greta, tidying up the Plastic Arts section, a continuous low level of irritation until, suddenly, she had an idea.
She stood up straight and sauntered down the main aisle, swinging her long red hair and generous hips. She stopped at the noticeboard opposite the inquiries desk. Bethan and Yvonne watched her silently.
‘Have you seen this ad?’ said Greta, pointing at the noticeboard. ‘A student put it up last week. I’ve been mulling it over and you know what? I think I’m going to give it a go. Sounds like it might be fun.’
She read the wording out loud: ‘Wanted, exhibitionists for exciting and potentially controversial art project. Must be comfortable in own skin. Contact Stevie Smith.’
She reached over the desk, took a pen and a Post-it note, copied down the number on the ad, then picked up the desk phone and dialled.
‘Hi, is that Stevie? I saw the poster in the library and I’m interested. Yes, well I hope so, I’d like to think I am anyway. No, evenings are best. Tomorrow, six pm. I know where you mean. Do I need to bring anything? OK. No problem. Oh, the name’s Greta by the way, Greta Featherton. Okay, bye now, bye.’
She put the phone down and smiled in an off-hand way at her colleagues before going back to her tidying. She felt very good indeed, and when Bethan and Yvonne began to mutter it was so quiet that Greta barely registered it.
The next day, after work Greta went to the art block. Outside the entrance a petite girl of about twenty in battered jeans with stripy rainbow tights showing through the rips was lounging against the wall and smoking a roll-up. The girl’s head was shaved apart from two short curls, one in front of each ear, plastered to her face with hair cream to form stylised sideburns. She had black eyes and a serious expression. Greta recognised her from the library, she was in there often, straining under the weight of piles of outsize art books.
‘Hi, I’m Stevie,’ she said without smiling. ‘Thanks for coming.’
They walked briskly through a succession of empty classrooms with paint spattered on the floor and tables, the whitewashed walls hung with students’ artworks, the corners cluttered with half-finished sculptures, bent wire animals, featureless polystyrene heads.
‘Ilike your look,’ said Stevie as they walked. ‘You’re like a Rubens but your hair makes you more like a pre-Raphaelite or even a Klimt. Nice.’
‘Will I do, then?’
‘Absolutely. Look, I need to ask you a couple of questions so I know how to approach you as a subject. They’re personal but don’t take them personally. Firstly I need to know if you’re gay or straight.’
‘Oh, most definitely straight,’ said Greta.
‘Right, that’s fine. And I need to know how you feel about nudity. You should know up front that I need you to be nude for this.’
‘Ithought
you would. It’s not a problem,’ said Greta, who hadn’t done anything like this before and, although nervous, was quite looking forward to showing herself off.
‘Good,’ said Stevie. ‘Because I’m about as serious about this project as it’s possible to be. I’m going to be a famous artist. Thousands, maybe millions, of people are going to see your body. You need to be comfortable with this.’
As far as Greta was aware, nobody from Vale College had ever made it big in anything. And art was the most dead-end subject of them all. So she was more than a little sceptical about Stevie’s words, but didn’t let on. She had to admire the girl’s ambition.
‘Here we are,’ said Stevie as they banged through another set of double doors. ‘I’ve booked this studio. We won’t be disturbed.’
Unlike the other rooms there were no students’ artworks here. The windowpanes were whitewashed along with the walls so nobody could see in or out. Around the edge of the room was an array of technical equipment and two video cameras on tripods. In the middle of the floor was a brown leather reclining armchair, and facing it was a large television on a stand showing a pornographic movie.
‘Why don’t you get undressed,’ said Stevie.
While Greta took her clothes off Stevie sat cross-legged on the floor, taking each garment as Greta handed them to her, until Greta stood before her naked and feeling a little giddy. Stevie gestured for Greta to sit in the armchair, which she did, the leather cold and squeaky against the spreading flesh of her bottom.
‘You’re not going to paint me then,’ said Greta, looking around.
‘This isn’t a painting. It’s an installation.’
‘Awhat?’
‘An installation. It means I’m going to film you.’
‘Oh right,’ said Greta who was becoming slightly mesmerised by the porn over Stevie’s shoulder. Two men, one black, one white, were doubly penetrating a tanned blonde with spherical tits and an expression that suggested equal parts ecstasy and anguish.
‘So, erm, what are you going to call this installation?’ said Greta, attempting to stay focused.
‘Onan Twelve,’ said Stevie.
‘Oh right,’ said Greta.
The trio were lying on their sides, the blonde holding a leg in the air so the camera could pan in close to her bright red cunt and supple perineum. The two cocks were shunting in turns. Ignoring the porn, Stevie carried on talking in her serious, intellectual way, explaining the aim of her art using language Greta couldn’t hope to understand. The black man’s cock withdrew from the blonde’s anus and sprayed blobs of semen all over her back. Greta tuned in to Stevie to hear her say, ‘… and from you I’m hoping an honest response to these materials, these erotic materials if I can term them that way.’
‘Oh,’ said Greta. ‘Does that mean what I think it means?’
Stevie nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I want to film you while you masturbate.’
‘Oh right,’ said Greta.
‘Are you comfortable with that?’ said Stevie.
Watching the black man’s three fingers poking where his cock had been, Greta said, ‘I think so, yes.’
‘Great,’ said Stevie, jumping to her feet. ‘Let’s get started.’
She arranged Greta’s legs so they were wide apart, one draped over the arm of the chair, and then went behind the chair to recline it fully.
‘Just relax,’ she said, switching on a bright light.
Greta watched the white cock shoot spunk all over the blonde’s inner thighs. She was acutely aware that her exposed cunt was responding wholeheartedly to this odd situation, tightening its inner grip and becoming rather wet. She looked down at herself and her starkly lit naked body seemed unfamiliar, as if it was someone else’s body, someone else’s mounds and valleys, as plump and smooth as satin cushions. Her coppery red hair lay in trails over her shoulders and around her breasts.
‘Nearly ready,’ said Stevie from behind a camera. ‘You can start fondling yourself if you like. Now, I’m not recording sound, so you can talk to me if you need to, but please don’t turn round. I’ll give you directions as and when. Oh, and one thing. If you feel like you might come, you must let me know before you do. That’s crucial, okay?’
‘Right,’ said Greta.
‘I’m going to start the bubble machine now,’ said Stevie.
‘The what?’
Stevie switched on a black box which began spewing iridescent bubbles all around Greta.
‘Ijust thought it would look cool,’ said Stevie. ‘You have amazing breasts, Greta. Can you touch them a bit?’
Greta began to caress her tits, lifting their heaviness in each hand, perky nipples peeping through her fingers. The porn switched to a different movie. A good-looking naked man with wavy dark brown hair was sitting in an armchair just like the one Greta was on and wanking while watching something off-screen. He was slim and Greta could see all the muscles and tendons of his shoulders working hard under his slightly freckled skin. Before she knew it Greta’s hand had travelled down to her pussy and pressed apart her plump folds. Her clit was fat and greedy and she began to rub it with two fingers.
‘Good,’ said Stevie.
Greta supposed that the man was another participant in the project. She thought he was gorgeous. Dark-haired and dishy, just her type. A vein bulged on his fine forehead. She was amazed at how tight his ball bag was. He must have been right on the edge of coming. His cock head was angrily scarlet, his fist a flurry on his shaft.
‘Your thighs are closing,’ said Stevie. ‘Keep them open if you can.’
Bubbles were falling all round her, bursting on her skin and leaving soapy patches. She ran her free hand over her curves and was delighted by the slipperiness. Imagining that the man was watching her at the same time as she watched him, she began to finger-fuck her vagina, digits pumping with loud squelchy sounds.
‘Who is that man?’ she gasped.
‘He’s Onan Eleven,’ said Stevie.
The man’s face was pink and shiny with sweat. He stopped his stroke and gripped his cock just under the head, his other hand grabbing the arm of the chair, and he seemed to roar through clenched teeth. Greta realised he was trying to stop himself from spunking up. At this, her whole cunt began to spasm.
‘God,’ she said. ‘I’m going to come.’
‘Not yet,’ said Stevie.
Greta took her hand off her pussy.
‘No, keep fingering yourself,’ said Stevie. ‘This is continuous footage. You mustn’t stop.’
Greta tried to touch her clit as delicately as possible but it was so difficult. The man on the television was in a similar state, clutching his cock as if it was in danger of detaching from his body and flying across the room.
‘Ican’t hold off,’ she whimpered.
‘You must,’ said Stevie. ‘Just a bit longer.’
Greta put two fingers up herself, trying to avoid her clit as much as possible. It was hell and heaven, being so wet and soapy, so full of trapped arousal. She screwed her eyes up so she could hardly see the sexy man on the screen, and frigged her cunt with agonising slowness.
After what seemed like an age, she opened her eyes fully and saw that Stevie was now standing in front of her.
‘We’re done,’ she said. ‘Do you want to finish yourself off or would you prefer a tongue?’
She said it in such a matter-of-fact way Greta wasn’t sure if she was serious. But then she noticed that Stevie’s fly was undone, her hand down the front of her own trousers.
‘I’d love a tongue,’ said Greta.
Stevie knelt before her, buried her stubbly head between Greta’s soft thighs and sucked her cunt as if it was a dripping peach. Over her head Greta saw that the man on the screen was no longer alone but had Stevie’s mouth clamped over his dick. Greta came immediately, with much groaning and thrusting and agitating of airborne bubbles.
After she’d put her clothes back on Greta asked Stevie, ‘Can you just tell me again, what’s the meani
ng of this thing?’
Stevie sighed and said, ‘It’s my reaction to the negative dialectic between the contemporary phenomenon of societal individuation and the immutable inalienability of the human experience, albeit situated within an idiom of inegalitarian discourse between Ur-man and Ur-woman.’
‘Oh right,’ said Greta.
Seven months later Greta arrived at work to find an envelope waiting for her. Inside was a gilt-edged card inviting Onan Twelve to a private viewing of an exhibition by Stevie Smith, the centrepiece of which was to be her ‘critically acclaimed installation’, Onan 252. Rather impressively, the exhibition was to be held not at the college but at a real art gallery called Ephebe, thirty miles away in a posh part of the city. The invitation said to dress smart casual and be prepared to speak to members of the press.
She wore her hair long down her back, lots of bangles up her arms and a black velvet dress that flowed over her hips and only just hid her areolae. Ephebe looked tiny from outside but was very long inside, with room after room stretching back, all of them packed with people sipping Prosecco and inventing things to say about the works of Stevie Smith on the walls. Greta tried not to think about the intimate knowledge of her own sexual response that was soon to be bestowed on these roomfuls. She sank a few Proseccos and felt a little better.
Wandering deeper into the gallery Greta noticed that Stevie’s paintings and photographs seemed to show a preoccupation with condoms on pavements. Here and there she’d lock eyes with someone who looked as far out of their comfort zone as she was. As she entered the gallery’s final room she saw, on a plinth shrouded in white linen, a large flat-screen television on standby.
‘Hi,’ said someone to her left.
The voice belonged to a tall, good-looking, freckled man. Onan Eleven himself, in jeans and a scruffy lumberjack shirt.
Until that moment it hadn’t occurred to Greta that he’d be there. With his clothes on he looked a little older and hopelessly out of place. His curly hair had a charming semi-flattened appearance, as though he’d tried to tame it with a brush and given up. He had the slightly gawky air of an academic or a reclusive writer. She smiled at him, feeling herself blush from toe to scalp.
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