by Violet Blue
Proving his worth as a gentleman, he bent down to lick her, but she stopped him. “No,” she muttered. “I want your cock. Please.”
Again that smug grin.
Lucky guess. A table the right height for cutting wasn’t a bad height for fucking either (provided, at least, you had a partner as tall as Daniel), although it took a little fussing to get everything properly aligned. The extra perhaps thirty seconds this took was excruciating, and when he finally pushed inside her, Jessie almost screamed with relief.
He filled her pussy the way he’d stretched her mouth. She couldn’t move much in the position she was in, which was both exciting and frustrating. Exciting because it put her at Daniel’s mercy, depending on whether he stroked in and out slowly or pounded to the finish line, and frustrating because, at the moment, he was stroking slowly. All right, she should give him credit for realizing that when you’re well-hung, you need to take a little extra time and make sure your lover’s opened up and ready for you. But she was ready, dammit, more than ready.
Jessie grabbed his ass with both hands. “Please. Harder.” She pulled him forward as she did, pushed with her hips as best she could, trying to get more of him inside.
Daniel began to pump faster.
Yes. That was what she’d needed, a good, primal fuck, one that would leave her a bit sore afterward but right now felt really good.
Her abs fluttered. She could feel her pussy clamping down, making him feel even more deliciously huge inside her. Her nipples felt sharp and hard as blades. Yet she couldn’t quite come. This was just the kind of fucking she’d thought she’d needed, and it felt great, but it wasn’t quite doing it. New partner nerves, maybe?
She moved one hand to her clit, planning to give herself that extra little boost she needed to break the dam and let loose the orgasms she could feel were ready to pour out with a little more stimulation.
Just at that second, Daniel’s eyes widened. He pumped into her wildly for a few seconds, let out a small sound of surprised pleasure—a much smaller one than she would have expected, given the power of his voice—and ground against her. She could actually feel his cock jump inside her as he came, a tiny but delightful movement that still didn’t quite push her over the edge.
He spent about fifteen seconds looking happily dazed and smug before the smugness gave way to embarrassment. “Sorry. It’s been a while and I’ve been thinking about doing this with you way too much lately, but that’s no excuse.”
“It’s all right,” Jessie said feebly, trying to be polite. Damn, and she’d been so close!
“No, it’s not. I pride myself on a good performance.” The stage smile again, but with a playful wink. “You wouldn’t let me lick you before. Will you now? I’m told I’m quite good with my tongue,” he added in a teasing voice. “I think it’s from learning to sing in Italian.”
Tempting. Very tempting. A few licks right now ought to do it, and she had no doubt that Daniel’s tongue was skilled. But the mention of singing suggested another idea—one that the sudden contraction of her pussy told her was a good one.
“Would you sing for me?” Jessie begged. “Sing for me while I touch myself? Please? Your voice turns me on so much.”
First Daniel blushed and looked bewildered, but another look, sexy and mischievous, replaced it. “Only if I can touch you instead. I want to feel you come on my hand while I sing for you.”
Just the thought of it made her spasm a little.
He settled two fingers on her clit. Circling it gently, he began to sing.
His voice poured over Jessie’s bare skin, caressed her all over, circled around her clit following his fingers.
She spread her legs wider, picturing the song slipping inside her—and jumped as Daniel’s fingers slipped in instead. Still wet and open, and slick with his come, Jessie took his index and ring finger inside her easily. He seemed to know exactly where to touch, where her G-spot was, how fast to pump her (quick and forceful as industrial dance music), how much pressure the other hand needed to put on her clit (delicately, gentle as a waltz.)
Or maybe everything felt so right because his voice was also working its magic on her, intimate as his hands, yet impersonal as an angel on high.
He hit a particularly lovely high note and trilled it, a technique that she knew had a name if she’d had enough brain cells left to care. She didn’t.
It worked like a musical vibrator.
Jessie contracted. Her hips bucked up, pushing herself harder onto his hands. The room spun as she cried out “Ohgodohgodohgod.”
The orgasm was a long one, and he kept playing with that note the whole time. Finally she flopped back on the table, feeling, if not quite sated, then damn content.
He kept going, though. Kept singing. Kept touching her.
Suddenly she understood. He wasn’t done with the piece of music, and if he’d finished prematurely before, he wasn’t going to this time.
One of the things she’d picked up about Baroque opera was that an aria could be ornamented and varied for as long as the singer’s invention and lung-power allowed.
She’d learned from sitting in on rehearsals that Daniel had plenty of both.
That was the last coherent thought she had for a while. Occasionally her brain would kick in long enough to admire some lovely trick of his voice, but then some equally lovely trick of his hands would set her coming again and her cries almost drowned out his voice. Or maybe it was the other way around, that she focused on the hands, but the voice triggered the orgasm.
She lost count at five, but it seemed that there were more.
Finally, she caught his voice faltering, at about the same time she was starting to get almost too sensitive. She grinned wearily, clapped, and croaked, “Bravo!” while pushing him gently away.
“What, no encore?”
“You need to save your voice for rehearsal later,” Jessie said, amazed she could form so coherent a thought. “And I’m worn out. But I’d definitely like an encore sometime.”
He grinned. “And to think,” he said, his voice a little shaky, “that some people think Baroque music lacks passion.”
PUFFY LIPS
Susie Hara
Elena sat at the bar. She so rarely drank these days that after just one martini she could feel the effects. The way it made her feel bigger than god. The way it took the edge off, loosening her tension and sharpening her sensations so that her whole being was ripe and extended in sensuous tentacles, like a cross between a mango and an octopus. Mangopuss. Or Mangopussy. There, she felt them, the lips of her mangopussy, large and puffy in her mind’s sensometer. And then the image of her labia, puffy and pink and engorged, expanded through every cell, pore, and vein of her mindbody, with all the worker bees of her consciousness focused diligently on the task. One big Labia Majora Fest, bigger even than the monthly ovulation brouhaha. Labia Majora, she thought, now that sounds like an exotic cocktail.
I’d like a Labia Majora with a twist, she said to herself. It would be sweet but not too sweet. Mango juice, a touch of cherry, a touch of orange, some soda water, swirls of cream, and something heavy-duty like Grand Marnier. Oh yeah, and a twist. Damn. She could market that.
She looked around the room. Men, they seemed like exotic creatures to her. See, this was what happened when she hadn’t had sex with a man for a while. “Men”—perhaps a species of animal she knew from another lifetime. Somewhere inside her, she dimly remembered things about them—their hands, their lips, their tongues, their fingers, their cocks—even their minds. The memories stirred and lumbered out into the light, like a beast coming out of hibernation. It was just that she hadn’t thought about men for awhile. Not in that way. She had temporarily put men out of her mind. She had been more focused on women. Maybe focused was not the right word. Obsessed. Feverish. Devoted. Prostrate, worshipping at the temple of the divinely honeyed cunt. But now. Now in the moment, here in this bar, Elena felt something in her blood. It was a need. A need for something mea
ty. Yes. Meat. That was it, exactly. She wanted man meat.
She looked over at a table of them, having a drink after work. There was one specimen who had this particularly meaty quality. His hands were meaty, his shoulders were meaty, but most of all, his chest. He had a meaty chest. She would like to knead it with her hands, rub her labia all over it, and lay her cheek down on it. Elena smiled. These were her requirements for the night.
She caught his eye. He let his gaze rest on hers for a minute, then he went back to talking to his companions. For a few seconds. Then his eyes returned to hers. She popped an olive in her mouth. She sucked on it. No chewing, no swallowing. She held his eyes with hers as she held the olive in her mouth. Then she licked her middle finger. Once. He raised his eyebrows a bit. And flushed slightly. Cool, but not so cool.
She made a big show of getting off the stool. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him watching. She approached his table, then lightly touched his shoulder with her still-wet finger as she walked by. No eye contact. She left the bar and waited on the street, chewing the olive. She would give him thirty seconds. She started counting. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand. He came out of the bar at twenty-three. She smiled and walked around the side of the building. He followed. She went down to the end of the alley, by the dumpsters. No one was around. She leaned up against the building. She could feel the cool, hard brick through her blouse.
“Take your shirt off,” she said.
“Oh, I see. Just—take your shirt off? No hello, no what’s your name?” he said, a half-smile curving the corners of his mouth. He put his hands flat on her chest, just below her collarbone but above her breasts. And just left them there. She could feel the heat of his palms. And her nipples hardening.
“OK. Hello. Take your shirt off.”
“I’ll take my shirt off if you—” he moved his hands down her body and put one hand up her skirt “—if you take off your panties.” He hooked a finger under the elastic. She drew her breath in sharply. He looked at her, eyebrows raised, waiting. She nodded. He pulled her pants down to her ankles. She stepped out of them.
He unbuttoned his shirt. Meaty. Just as she’d hoped. And covered with thick hair, like a pelt. Grrrrrr. He took off his shirt and dropped it on the ground. She kneaded his chest with her hands. She wanted him down, down, so she could rub her lips all over his chest. His meaty chest. She put her hands on his shoulders and pressed down. He smiled and went down, thinking he knew what she wanted, moving his lips up her inner thigh on his way to her puffy paradise.
But she had other plans. Her pussy lips were singing their swollen siren song, they were longing for the meaty-chest man, the he-man caveman hunter chest, covered with fur. Before he could move his mouth lips to her puffy cunt lips, she maneuvered herself down and commenced rubbing her wet labia all over his chest, his pecs, his nipples, his stomach. She was moaning a cavewoman’s moan, a satisfied carnivorous wet woman’s moan, as she slipped and slid on his warm terrain. He was breathing hard, smelling her and holding her ass in his hands, feeling her circular hip motions as she smeared him with her juices. She bent her knees more and stretched her hand down, down, so she could put her hand on his cock meat. She felt his cock, hard and alive, through the cotton cloth of his pants. It felt so good, so like home, like someone in the kitchen making her a nice big meal. Hello, she thought, hello friendly cock home-cooking man. He was moaning now too, inhaling her scent and rocking against her hand. Then he reached up with both hands and pinched her nipples. That was it. It put her over the edge. It surprised her, the way it happened so suddenly—usually with a man it took longer. She came in three short waves. She pressed hard into him so her pelvic bone and clit connected with his meaty chest. As the pulsing became less and less and she hung there, knees bent and breathing hard, the words came into her mind. Two out of three of my requirements are met.
She still had her hand on his hard cock. He hadn’t come. She looked at him. He stood up and rubbed his knees.
“Ouch,” he said. “My knees.”
“Ug,” she said. “You are such a caveman. Thank you.” She tugged her skirt down. Then she hugged him, softly laying her cheek against his chest for a moment. She sighed. Third requirement met.
She kissed him on the forehead and walked away slowly, down the alley.
“That’s it?” he called after her, putting on his shirt. “No flowers, no candlelight?”
She turned around, said, “You are the bomb. You are the best. That was just what I needed.” And she walked backward into the night, still looking at him, a smile in her eyes.
He finished buttoning his shirt. Picked up her underpants and put them in his pocket. He looked up. She was still walking backward, her eyes resting on him, giving him that Mona Lisa smile. He watched her turn, round the corner, and disappear.
WORTH IT
Alison Tyler
As the ring slid onto my finger, I knew it was all over. The sparkle of diamonds glinting in the dim candlelight. The pink tourmaline shining like a flame. Those jewels foretold our demise as clearly as any fortune-teller could have. I knew the end was inevitable, even if I didn’t know why. Well, that’s not altogether true. I knew, sort of. I knew in a half-assed, bitchy kind of way.
A week before, Byron had taken me on a dream shopping spree to Tiffany & Co., had told me to choose the ring I desired the most. “Go for it, Gina. Pick out the one you love.” What girl wouldn’t melt at an opportunity like that?
Flustered, flattered, I’d landed on this one after nearly an hour of breathless searching. Or, at least, one damn near like it. Dramatically dark pink stone in the center, two perfect diamonds on either side, a classic platinum band. Admittedly, the price was astronomical, but Byron had the money for the ring. And I was worth it, right?
Apparently not.
This ring did not come in the pretty pale blue box that makes all women’s hearts skip a beat, but in a knockoff lavender velvet container, from a knockoff jewelry store in West L.A. This ring cost five hundred dollars instead of twelve thousand dollars. And I should have been happy with whatever Byron gave me. I know that. But like a bossy five year old who throws a tantrum at her own birthday party, I was not happy at all. Because it was clear to me from the look in his watery green eyes as they carefully appraised my reaction that I wasn’t worth it.
Like I wasn’t worth a lot of things.
I wasn’t worth kissing in public. (“PDAs are so revolting.”) I wasn’t worth risking potential shame or embarrassment in the back row of a movie theater. (“Stop that, Gina. People might see.”) I wasn’t worth trying something new in bed, even though Byron had dabbled in adventurous sex with girls before me. But no matter how I cajoled, he wouldn’t travel uncharted territory on our California King.
Velvety handcuffs? No.
A leopard-print blindfold? No f-ing way.
He’d had anal sex before me, twice, with a girl he met in New York City. I knew this because early in our relationship, when we’d been in that cozy sharing place that happens prior to going long-term, he’d confessed. I’d told him that I’d lost my virginity to a frat boy whom I chose to do the honors because he put his arms around me on a balcony during a party to keep me warm. Chivalry had gotten him where no man had before. We retreated to my dorm room twin bed and he’d made me come twice while sixty-nining.
Byron had countered with his tale of debauchery in New York City. He’d bragged about the act, as if it were something he did every day. But as the story continued, I deduced that playing this way had been entirely the girl’s idea. He’d simply gone along with the concept, taking down her jeans, bending her over the hotel bed, fucking her there. I don’t actually think he enjoyed the act—too dirty for Byron, who liked things antiseptically clean, from missionary-style sex in our king-sized bed to the grout between the white tiles in the bathroom. Still, he held the experience close to his heart, like a badge of courage. It was a medal of sexual adventurousness for a Boy Scout like him.
Whenever we made love after that, I thought of the girl. She had blonde hair, cut short and spiky. She wore sunglasses even inside, and she liked to chew Double-Bubble gum. There were pictures of her in his scrapbook, black-and-white photos of her blowing bubbles, of her winking at him, of her with her hand in the belt loop of her jeans, looking oh so cocky.
What did she have to look cocky about?
Simply this: she’d had Byron in a way I couldn’t.
In truth, I hadn’t had sex like that with anyone. I was only nineteen. My experiences were limited. Even frat boys who are willing to sixty-nine for hours don’t always broach the taboo topic of anal sex. I wished I’d done it, though. Knowing that Byron had ass-fucked someone else made me feel uneven with him, as if he were winning. As if he’d always be winning.
So I asked him to do it to me. To take down my jeans. To bend me over.
“Uh-uh,” he said, shaking his head. “You won’t like it.”
Why? Why wouldn’t I like it?
“It’ll hurt.”
“We can use K-Y.”
“It’s—it’s dirty, Gina.”
He said the word in a way that made me know he thought dirty was bad. But to me, the thought of getting Byron to do something dirty couldn’t have been sexier. Mess him up. That’s what I wanted to do. Rumple him around the edges. Untuck the hospital corners on his highly starched personality.
“Come on,” I urged him. “You’ve done it before. You know how.”
“Kiddo,” he said in his most condescending voice. “Trust me. It’s not for you.”
Byron was nearly thirty. You’d have thought he would enjoy introducing me to new things, but aside from training me in which brands he preferred for toothpaste (Crest), mouthwash (Scope), and soap (Dial)—the types his mommy always bought—he claimed that he wasn’t much of a teacher.
Yet I desired knowledge. I craved experience. Now that Byron wouldn’t even consider having anal sex with me, it was all that I wanted. I started to think about my ass in a way that I never had before. To consider my behind as a sexual object in its own right.