“Thank you, Ma’am.”
“You taste sweet and fresh.” Neela closed her mouth over the girl’s breast and roughly grabbed the other in her hand, squeezing it while she sucked and licked the breast in her mouth. She watched the girl’s body. The more pressure she put on Chantal’s breasts the higher the girl raised her hips off the table.
Neela liked the feel of the girl’s breast in her mouth. Again, it was different from a boy’s breast; soft, where a boy’s breast was firm; smooth, where a boy’s skin was slightly more textured. It was somehow—inviting.
Neela was brought back to reality by the sound of the girl’s bottom smacking the table as she pumped her hips up and down. Neela heard the word “Please” several times before pulling her leather crop out of her bag and smacking the girl’s wet breast three times in quick succession.
“Relax, I’m not finished with you yet.”
Chantal whimpered and squirmed on the table. Neela softly ran her fingers over the girl’s torso, moving to her sides to encircle her small waist. Chantal’s curves, while understated, were still different from Neela’s experience. She loved the feel of the girl’s waist and the fact that it was so small.
She positioned her hands on Chantal’s abdomen so that her fingers pointed toward her feet. She let the flat of her palms trace the natural V formed between the girl’s legs. She squeezed the soft skin and tendons where Chantal’s legs joined her body and saw a bit of moisture escape between her pussy lips. Chantal was probably drenched—Neela certainly was—and she wanted to dip her fingers inside to check, but instead she moved them back up to the top of the girl’s shaved pubes. Pressing with her fingers, she pulled up, toward Chantal’s waist, and her slit elongated, causing the lips to draw closer to each other.
“Oh, please, Ma’am,” Chantal moaned.
Ignoring that, Neela slapped the top of the girl’s pussy several times, until it took on a lovely rosy color and the moisture squished out from between the lips to splash under her hand. Not until then did she insinuate a finger between the labia. She explored the girl’s clit, which had become more prominent, and listened to her heaving breaths. She gently pinched the nub of flesh and rolled it between her fingers before leaving it and moving on.
A whine escaped Chantal, which turned into a groan as a finger pushed itself inside her pussy. Neela couldn’t believe how wet the girl was. She slid another finger inside, pumping in and out several times, listening to the squishing sound she made. Neela began slowly moving the girl’s lubrication out of her pussy and down toward her anus as she pumped. Over and over, she brought moisture from the girl’s sex to her anus. Neela found the scent of Chantal’s arousal overpowering. As soon as the girl was lubricated enough, Neela pushed a finger inside her ass as she went down on her pussy. There was something about this girl. Neela had never been interested in the taste of pussy before, but she felt compelled to taste Chantal.
Chantal’s hips thrust up off the table, pressing hard against Neela’s mouth as she stabbed at the girl’s opening with her tongue, drinking her juices. The taste was almost overpowering. Neela held her finger still in Chantal’s ass while she pounded her pussy with her tongue. She moved her tongue up to press against the side of Chantal’s clit and the girl immediately came, her limbs stiffening and vibrating uncontrollably as Neela continued the pressure against her clit.
Finally, Chantal’s spasms subsided. Neela withdrew her mouth and slowly removed her finger from the girl’s ass.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.” Chantal said.
Neela kissed Chantal, painting the girl’s face with her own juices. Exploring Chantal’s mouth with her tongue, she realized that it was the first time she’d ever kissed a girl like this. The combined taste of the girl’s mouth and her musk were sweet beyond measure. Neela’s clit throbbed with need. “It’s all right, girl. Would you like to come home with me tonight?”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Would you?”
“Oh, yes, Ma’am, yes please.”
Neela began unfastening the girl’s restraints. “Fine, then we can talk about what you’ll need to do to make up for coming without permission.” She felt like she was swimming in her own juices. Thoughts of Chantal’s mouth fastened to her pussy as she came over and over again made her want to rush to get the girl dressed and back to her apartment.
Once Chantal was standing, Neela embraced her and kissed her again, sliding her hands down over the schoolgirl skirt and under it, caressing the girl’s bottom until she finally broke the kiss and slapped Chantal’s ass. “Let’s go.”
RIDDEN
Natt Nightly
She shows up wearing jeans, Chucks, and most importantly, my shirt. Standing in my doorway, I can do little more than gawk at the white button-down, its fabric pulling noticeably in a valiant struggle to cover her ample cleavage. She doesn’t wait to be invited in, but breezes past me into the apartment and addresses the mirror, busying herself with the reapplication of lipstick and the arrangement of her curls, which cascade around her shoulders and defy any imposition of order. I scramble to collect my wits, close the door, and turn the bolt. I can see her watching me out of the corner of her eye, fully aware that she has my attention, and loving every moment. She knows how badly I want photos of her, postcoital cigarette in hand, wrapped in that shirt and sitting on my bed.
As if to emphasize the point, she caps her lipstick and perches herself on the edge of my bed, looking up at me expectantly. Towering over her, awareness of my power, my stature and my strength come flooding back to me, and I reach out to take the reigns and regain control. There’s a pause, a smile, and a barely perceptible nod as we face the next beat with mutual anticipation. Then, without warning, we lunge at each other.
She rises to meet me, and hooking her arms around my neck, she pulls me crashing down on top of her. Her nails run smoothly through my short, clean cut hair as I make a fist in her curls, pulling back her head and grinding my hips into her body. The length of my cock is now obvious beneath its denim cloak, and she gyrates against it, egging me on. Deftly, I undo the buttons of her (my) shirt, and through the thin fabric of her bra I can roll her nipples between my fingers. They grow hard and I spread my hands to more fully cover her breasts. They’re full and supple, and as I knead them she moans and writhes, the ache of her desire growing stronger.
Once her bra comes off, she stops me in order to put the shirt back on. Impatient, my mouth finds her hardened nipples, and I replicate the motions of my fingers with the greater dexterity of my tongue. I can pull the soft flesh into my mouth and press my face into her cleavage, getting lost in the warmth and her scent and my lust for a moment. Reaching down, I peel off her jeans, flipping open the button and slowly coaxing the zipper down until they’re around her knees. She lies back to let me pull them off of her, and I kiss the soft, pale flesh of her inner thighs. I can smell her sex as I near it, and through the fabric of her underwear I cover her mound with my mouth. I exert downward pressure until she pushes back against me, and I tease the covered opening of her cunt. She whimpers and reaches for my shoulders, her nails biting into my flesh as she begs for her favorite pleasure.
But instead of following through with my implied promise, I reach up and push her off, pinning her wrists momentarily before abandoning her to strip off my jeans. I reach for the straps of my harness, and the leather creaks hello to James as he rises to attention.
Grabbing the lube, I coat him in it, stroking the rigid shaft, rolling my palm over the head keeping eye contact with her the whole time. Then I move up on her torso and envelop myself in her breasts. I rock between them, fucking them gently and enjoying the friction of her skin against my cunt. She places her hands over mine and presses her breasts together more firmly, milking my cock with them before lifting her head to capture the tip with her mouth. I take one hand and hold the back of her head, and we move together, sucking and pumping and gyrating to the same pulse.
> Once my clit is hard from the mutual motion, I smile at her.
“You’ve been so good,” I say, “and I’m going to reward you. But first, we have some unfinished business. You’re always telling me that if you’re going to come on my cock, you have to start on top…so that’s just what we’re going to do.”
I recline on the bed, stroking James absently, and watching as she pulls off the now-soaked black panties, the only barrier between my tongue and her swollen clit. My hips twitch in anticipation. Patience. Patience…
A smile plays on her lips, and she moves to straddle my hips, confident that she knows where this is going.
“Not so fast,” I murmur. “Bring your beautiful cunt over here and let me taste you. Just remember…you’re not allowed to come unless it’s on my cock.”
She readjusts and pauses, hovering above me. Then, slowly, she lowers her pussy toward my mouth, taking her time and drawing it out with an aching precision. Her lips settle on mine and for the first time this evening I experience the slickness of her sex. I stroke it with my tongue, reintroducing myself to her and a place I love so well. Her musk overwhelms me and I lap up her juices greedily, burying my face in her, pushing into her cunt as deeply as I can. In response she rocks against me, fucking my tongue and grinding her clit into me. I travel up to it and take her as fully as I can into my mouth. I purse my lips and pull her clit toward me, pulsing on the shaft while the tip of my tongue flits in figure eights and then broad strokes over her head. When she braces herself against the wall I start in earnest, rolling my tongue from blade to tip in undulating waves over her engorged sex and rocking my chin into the flesh of her cunt, which gives slightly, engulfing me as she matches my movements with thrusts of her own.
Soon her panting is fast and heavy, and I can feel the weight of her pressing down on my chest as she urges her body toward climax. It’s so familiar to me, and yet always a discovery, building for that moment when she comes, spasms and bucks against me. But tonight that’s not the plan. She’s begging me not to stop, to let her come, and instead I remove my mouth from her cunt as best I can.
“This is not how you’re going to come,” I say. “Move.”
“I can’t,” she gasps out. But I insist.
“Yes, you can. I want you to ride my cock. I want you to come all over me.”
She moves her cunt away from me, her manner betraying a palpable reluctance to postpone her orgasm. She bends to kiss me, to taste herself on my lips, and rubs her dripping sex along the shaft of my cock to wet it. She slowly impales herself upon me, groaning as she does so, giving her body time to adjust to my length and girth. And then she begins to gyrate.
She’s ridden me before, but this is a completely new experience. The desire is raw and needy, and she stares down at me from her perch, enjoying the blatant play of emotions dancing across my face. Below the harness, my clit is hard and it takes all my self-control not to thrust upward into her in response to her movement. She grabs my hand and places my thumb over her clit, and as I describe circles on it, the muscles in her thighs tense and I know she’s going to come. The movement is hard and fast now and the moans from her throat are deep and guttural. When she climaxes, it’s harder than I’ve ever seen her come. Her whole body, glistening with sweat, shakes, shudders and bucks against me. I swear I can actually feel the contractions through the shaft of my cock. She throws her head back and lets the tremors sweep her away. My own cunt contracts in response and I tremble, my body unsure how to respond to the intensity of her orgasm. I don’t want to come out of her, could almost come watching her; want to kiss her, hold her, cry, thrust, keep her right where she is and melt into her all at once. Instead, I can say only, “I love you.” And she smiles at me with all the warmth in the world and tells me that she loves me too.
We stay there for a moment, breathing together and taking it all in. When she dismounts, my body mourns the loss of her cunt wrapped around me. She rolls to the side and lays her hand on my chest, pressing her lips to mine and, in the guise of a kiss, slowly and deliberately sucking her come off my lips. Then she smiles at me, her blue eyes wide and mischievous, and says, “I think you should go get your camera….”
THANKSGIVING
Molly Bloom
The dregs of dinner swim in soupy ponds and unidentifiable cold swells. Thanksgiving, and the wine runs out. A scandal. Remnants of a larger party, we sit listless around the Provençal farmhouse table in Ignatha’s two-bedroom Charlton Street high-rise. Simone’s a latecomer with an aloof air, brashly hiding all of her twenty-one years. A voluptuous, tall blonde with a vintage look—’50’s French bombshell—attired in nouvelle vogue. Simone, unlike all the others present, hates her youth.
All but me. The primitive rover with one eye permanently dilated. The interloper from Joyce’s Catholic and irredeemably Irish male dreamscape violating this feminine, pagan world of goddesses and demigoddesses, amazons and nymphs, mothers and daughters, sisters, cousines, aunties and nieces, and banshees, maybe the Bacchae.
I sit on the muted paisley upholstered wing chair as they regroup on the chocolate leather couch. I watch. Idle conversation. A pause. Then a gesture. Simone reaches out and tousles the hair of Arable, the tall elegant Portuguese; Arable turns to Nadya, supine on the soft leather; she caresses shoulders, arms, bellies, breasts but lingeringly, the better to tease. Throat. Ah, is there a tenderer place on a feminine body than the throat? Ignatha, tiny, doll-like and greedy, strokes them. All over. Simone turns to me with a glare of reproach. I look down and see I have my cell phone in my hand. I’m clicking, praying fervently for extra memory.
Do you want to be in the photo? she asks.
Yes! I sing.
Nadya moves nearly four inches to her right on the couch. My large untoned hips shouldn’t really fit in there. I bolt and wedge myself into the space. Instantly arms surround my neck and shoulders; fingertips caress my nipples like kisses; hands stroke my arm, my thighs. I reach beyond Nadya and stroke her hair. Simone turns to me, feline, moving up to meet my downward stroke. With the other hand, I hold the cell out at an extreme right angle and snap away. Simone, the sexual arsonist, languishes in the center of the puddle. She rises and turns to me.
I have to show you something in the bedroom. Give me five minutes. Then she pulls me into the center of the pile. The others continue, indifferent to substitution. Caressing, fondling, and kissing every exposed inch of skin. She disappears from the living room.
I can’t imagine anything more delicious than what I feel at this moment, in the middle of a harem of beautiful women all intent on the same purpose. But I wait five minutes as instructed and follow her. I rise. The breasts, calves, fingers and mouths recede.
I walk to the hallway off the main room. I see a door in the distance opened slightly, light flooding down and partly illuminating the whetstone floor. I follow it, slowly, my heart in my throat. I put my hand on the door and push it open. I see her, lamplight casting golden hues, reclined on the bed, her back to me, sheets and clothing in disarray and her beautiful big, bare ass slightly quivering, the barest tremor. She groans. I stare, transfixed, transformed, transubstantiated. I kneel at the bedside. I reach out slowly and touch the white skin, dimpling from the chill. She moves and sighs. I run my tongue athwart her hips up to that most aching nerve. I kneel closer. My breasts graze her bottom. I lean down again and lick, taste, kiss, bite the flesh; skin like marble, pink, reddening. She groans, surges toward me, then away. My glossa wanders heedlessly; parts and plunges into the blazing cool depths. That wayward member discovers the pursed mouth of her anus; my nose inhales a scent of peat smoke and humus, ears perceive the sound of fingers gliding in and out of wet. My tongue tickles and licks. Buttcheeks firmly in hand, my tongue probes, intrudes and violates. She is a boiling sea. Dies Irae! she croons softly.
Christian? I ask.
I release one cheek and reach around her hip, down the slope of her belly. I discover her hand moving furiously over her vulva. I c
over hers with my own and match her rhythm. Then blind fingers touch along the unknown shore, farther below, to a warm wet cove. I fill it with fingers. With mouth, teeth, tongue, and hands engaged, soon I am Ulysses clinging to a wreck in a tempest. I reach with my free hand to unzip my trousers, reach to my own throbbing flesh.
Suddenly. Trousers roughly yanked to my knees. Hands cup my cheeks. Arms encircle my waist. Stinging bites and drenched kisses, fingers part my own cleft. A strange tongue disrupts! Explores my moist dark spaces. Hands run over my chest, pinch my nipples. Play upon my own guileless thoughts. They lift me over Simone’s naked, prone, form. I am face-to-face with her and she awakes, open eyed, a cry of protest on her lips. The others cover her mouth with kisses. They cajole me to lie on my stomach. They blind me once again. Strong hands, (Nadya?) grab my wrist and attach cuffs. They free me of my trousers. Metal buckles fasten, chains clink, liquid squishes from a bottle. They drag my ankles apart. They attach my legs to the bedposts. There is giggling, moaning, sighing, groans and shrill whimpers. I feel warm thighs on my back, and then something large and stiff, probing, discovering my unopened flower. Strong hands raise my hips easily, fingertips lightly explore. Hands pull my cheeks farther apart, the stiff head fills me. Involuntarily I rear up, but determined hands hold me. Lips cover mine. A tongue explores. Helpless, I am. Thighs slap my cheeks, the six stubby inches of smooth erect silicone feels like liquid fire coursing through me. I expand to take it. I move in tandem. Fingers stroke my own tender nexus. They are unrelenting and a scream escapes me. Then, a cessation. More liquid on my lower back, chill at first then agreeably warming. A fingertip traces my vertebrae to the point of division and edges toward. The finger intrudes, kneads, withdraws. Again. Then a larger object supplants it. It opens, pushes, slips in. I flail like a puritan soldier, bellow like a gored beast. I descend into a primal state of animal pleasure. I swoon with gratitude.
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