They crowded in on me, sandwiching me in sweet, splayed sensuality. I couldn’t spit out a single word, my Ranger training useless in this unanticipated, but highly fantasized, situation. The wicked heat and flower-petal smoothness of the girls’ boobs against my skin made my face burn and blood boil, like I’d taken a skinny dip of my own – in the hot springs. I was caught between the naughty, busty bathers, with no possible thought of escape.
And then Holly kissed me on the right cheek, Stacey on the left, their pressing breasts kissing the breath right out of me.
“You like our boobs, don’t you, Phil?” Stacey whispered into my burning red ear.
“I-I love them!” I blurted, ablaze.
Holly laughed, wobbling her breasts and me. Then hissed, “Show us!”, and grabbed my hat and flung it away, grabbed my bare head and pulled it down onto her chest.
She buried my fiery face between her pillowy boobs and I went limp as a noodle, held up only by her tits pressed against my cheeks. I could muster only enough strength to lick – straight ahead at the girl’s breastbone, side-to-side at her tit-walls.
Then I was suddenly out. And gasping for breath. Then back in again, between Stacey’s breasts this time. She buried me almost to the neckline in her hot, damp, velvety cleavage, and I tongued her like I had Holly, my lungs burning, cock stretching the fibre of my shorts to the tearing point.
Then Stacey popped me out in a gush of saliva and pent-up air. And Holly slapped my face with her thunder-tits – one cheek, the other cheek – batting my empty head to and fro. Then Stacey, the girls working their boobs like padded love paddles, playfully pinballing my noggin back and forth. I never wanted the game to end.
Until Holly shoved one of her honey-dipped nipples into my open, drooling mouth, and I latched on with my lips like a hungry child home to his wet nurse. She moaned and jerked me closer, gagging me on the fat, chewy protuberance. Then she popped the one thick stem out of my mouth and the other in.
The girls lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, tits-to-tits. And I went excitedly up and down the line, sucking on Holly’s right nipple, her left, Stacey’s right jutter, her left, back again. Gorging myself on the meaty buds, pink and tan and taut and so very succulent. On my knees in the warm sand, scuttling back and forth like a crazed crab, the girls with their boobs hanging down for my mouth-milking pleasure.
I put my tongue into action, swirling it all around and over Holly’s wide areolas, lapping the pink pebble of Stacey’s pretty halos. I lifted my leaden arms and grasped their breasts, squeezing, kneading, working the rich, baby-bottom-smooth flesh. As I anxiously licked and lapped at their stiffened nipples, spurred on by their moans of approval.
Eventually, they pulled me to my feet. Then went down into the sand on their knees. They propped their spit-slathered breasts up and offered them to my lower half, smiling encouragingly at me. I had my cock out and splitting cleavage in a flash.
I plunged in between Holly’s boobs, prick gliding slippery-smooth up against her breastbone. She promptly sealed her bustage around my dong, and I pumped my hips, fucking her tits. My dick was a blazing iron heat-sealed between mounds of stifling flesh, pistoning back and forth, oiled by the water and perspiration in the girl’s golden cleavage.
Then I popped out and in between the beaming Stacey, grabbing her plump hands grasping the sides of her overplump boobs and urgently fucking her tit-tunnel. She met my peek-a-booing purple hood with the tip of her moist, pink tongue, my balls slapping against her breasts, boiling dangerously.
Back and forth I went between the two well-endowed and more-than-willing-to-share women, sliding up and in and churning hard, my cock a numbed slab of meat pile-driving soft and sucking cleavage. I ploughed their tits in a frenzy, frantically groping shuddering breast-meat, sweating rivers and straining every muscle in my body, the sun beating down on the incendiary scene for all the like-minded animals of the forest to see, for all I cared. Smokey with his shovel upside my head couldn’t have stopped me just then.
“I’m coming!” I howled, desperately pumping past the point of no return.
“Come on our boobs!” the girls cried, arms and tits trembling like my entire overwrought body.
Semen exploded out of my cap and striped Holly’s face, her outstretched tongue. I wrenched my spurting cock out of her cleavage and buried it in Stacey’s, painting that girl’s lips and chin and chest with hot, sticky jism. I just had enough spunk left to drizzle their upthrust nipples, before toppling over into the shallow water like a felled tree drained of all its sap.
Big Betty was waiting for me in the fire tower; after I’d managed to ‘find’ the skinny dipping girls’ clothing and send them on their way with an official reprimand – and an unofficial request to return the following day, if they possibly could. Big Betty was six-feet-two inches, two-hundred-and-thirty pounds of woman-mountain, bleached blonde and brassy as a tack factory, surly as a she-grizzly. She grimaced at me when I popped my head up into the floor opening.
“Leavin’ your post,” she grunted, “is a violation of Park Ranger rules.”
I climbed to my feet, still looking up at her. “I was just –”
“I know what you were doin’,” she growled, tossing the pair of binoculars onto a counter. “You oughta be suspended, or maybe dishonourably discharged from the Service.”
“I-I –”
“Stow it, boob! All I wanna know from you is what you’re willin’ to do to keep me from turnin’ you in.”
She inhaled a great gulp of air and glared at me, her enormous chest expanding to Herculean proportions. My cock began stirring in response to her challenge, as the buttons on her tunic started popping, one by one, the pressure becoming too much – for them, and me.
Insomnia
by Karyn Winter
He is the most frustrating man I have ever met. His smutty mind, quick wit and dirty laugh can combine to change an innocuous conversation into an innuendo-laden duel which leaves my mind and my cunt engaged. With a curl of his lips and a raised eyebrow he can leave me horny, wet and inarticulate. And the worst thing is: he knows it, and loves seeing me trying to hide it.
Despite how it might sound, I am not utterly obsessed with orgasms. In the bustle of my day-to-day life – lurching through the highs and lows of a job which keeps my mind engaged, juggling responsibilities to friends and family – my sexual predilections often get pushed aside for the wider picture. All work and no play makes Cara a dull girl. Most of the time.
While I will admit that nothing gets me to sleep quite as well as the aftershocks of a good orgasm, there are nights when I fall into bed exhausted from the day without needing to rub myself to completion. But that’s because I have the choice. And as the old song says ‘you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone’.
He enjoys torturing me. I know it and usually I like it – I’m firmly of the belief that being tortured by someone you trust makes for fun. But on days like today he’s enjoying torturing me more than I am enjoying being tortured and that leaves me frustrated. Very frustrated.
It’s been a long day, full of a lot of shit. And while that means this is the kind of blessed adrenaline-fuelled relief I’d have been dreaming of from 9 till 5 if I’d had time for thought, it also means I am desperate for some attention.
Now I know that sounds ridiculous. I’m knelt naked on the bed in front of him, my hands behind my back, pushing my tits up. He is watching me intently as he asks me questions designed to make me blush, to make me wet, to leave me on the back foot trying to figure out how to please him with my answers. When I don’t answer quickly enough he slaps my tits and pinches my nipples. I try not to fidget at the onslaught, because when I do the soles of my feet catch my bruised arse and he smiles in satisfaction as I try and hide my reaction to the twinges of pain from the punishment he inflicted with the cane earlier.
He sees everything. More than I’d like. More than I can hide in a million years. He knows how contrary I can be, and
it amuses him to see the battle in my eyes between what I want to say and what I can actually bear to force past my dry throat.
Ok. I do have his attention. I just wish it was a bit more … hands on. Every nerve ending is crying out for his touch. His cock. His fingers. His mouth. But so far I’m getting none of that. And with patience definitely not being one of my virtues, waiting is making me almost grind my teeth with frustration. And he can see it and is laughing at me, enjoying the view and the power that he currently holds despite the fact he’s just lying against his pillow not even touching me.
“So what should I do with you tonight?”
I hate this question. Hate it. There are so many possibilities. Fucking, sucking, licking, biting, beating (although on second thoughts, I’m not sure my arse can take much more). Images of things we’ve done before and things I’ve only dreamed about flash through my mind in quick succession. But what do I say? If I tell him what I’m thinking there’s no guarantee he’ll do what I’ve suggested – in fact he’s so contrary that the chances are he won’t just to keep me off balance. And by telling him I’ve given him another insight into my mind, which undoubtedly he’ll use as a stick to beat me with in some fiendish fashion I can’t even begin to think of. Yes, I know I sound paranoid, but as someone wise once said, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.
But the only other possibility, and the one I usually err on the side of, is saying something along the lines of ‘I think you should do what you’d like to do’. But that sounds so arse licky that I cringe saying it and have trouble not rolling my eyes while I do. If it works for you then great, but me, well I just feel like a rubbish slutty cliche.
The silence has lengthened while my brain desperately turns over the possibilities trying to come up with something, anything to say.
As I try and form a sentence which might not get me into trouble, he moves from the bed and grabs the butt plug from a drawer.
“Too late.” His voice is brusque as he grabs my shoulder and pushes me onto my hands and knees.
He runs his fingernails along the stripes of my arse, as I try not to cry out at the sensation. I bite my lip, and as he spanks me a couple of times on the still-stinging spot my eyes fill with tears. Of course, it’s not the only thing flowing, a fact he takes glee in highlighting with a tut, pushing the butt plug into my cunt, easily anointing it with my own juices. He pulls it out with a squelch that sounds like a klaxon pointing out how stupidly horny and desperate I am already and turns his attention to pushing it into my arse, making sure to rest the hand not holding the plug on my poor punished arse cheek, just to ratchet up the sensations zinging through my body making me giddy.
I quiver on my knees as the plug pushes at my hole. Even with the natural lube those first few centimetres are slow and I am tense and difficult to penetrate. He moves his hand for a second to stroke my hair the way you would a panicking horse, and I try to relax myself, to take it, so this game can continue. My deep breathing is helping when a crack echoes across the room, a second before the searing pain knocks me to the bed, my knees giving out at the sheer unexpected pain. In the split second of shock, when the wind is knocked from me and my focus is lost, he shoves the plug up inside me, as far as it will go, further than I think I can take it. I whimper and try to move away, but under his hands, flat on the bed, there is nowhere for me to go. He fills me, stretches me until I can’t take any more. I’m assuming my arse is now plugged to his satisfaction, as he’s now pushing me over onto my back and – oh this bodes well – he is leaning over me.
“Hands above your head.”
I obey, and watch as he rummages through his bedside drawer until he finds two pieces of ribbon to tie my wrists to the headboard with. It looks innocuous enough, the kind of thing you’d buy in a haberdashery, and I make a mental note to avoid wriggling too much and accidentally undoing my bonds. It would kind of spoil the moment.
As he finishes fiddling with the ribbon he looks down to see me staring at his cock, which is swinging pretty much right in front of my face. He smiles. “Did you want something?”
I glower up at him. I want to suck him off. He knows it and I know it.
“I’d like to suck your cock.” A pause while he waits for the rest. I sigh. “Please.”
My vision is blocked as he pushes himself into my mouth, anchoring his hands into my hair. I love feeling him lengthen in my mouth as I run my tongue along the underside of his cock. Ordinarily I love taking my time to suck him, watching him struggle to keep control for a change. But it’s not working like that today. My scalp prickles as he pulls my hair with the force of pushing me onto his cock from below, while his knees pin my shoulders down. All I can do is try to take him without gagging while he fucks my face. I try to move my hands to grab his hips and reassert some control, but I can’t move my wrists more than a couple of centimetres, and I feel him thicken even further as I struggle beneath him.
My breathing is ragged, as the only gasps of air I can take are between his relentless thrusts. I can feel tears starting to roll down my cheeks, mingling with my saliva which is running down my chin as I try to lick and suck him to his satisfaction. I begin to adjust to his rhythm, the panicking feeling in my chest that I might choke easing as he abruptly pulls out and straddles me, putting his full weight down on me. He starts to grind against my hips. I cry out in a kind of ecstatic anguish. Every movement pushes the plug pushed further up inside me, the pain from the earlier punishment flying through me with every grind, until I am a whimpering, mewing bundle of sensations. He wanks as he grinds, his eyes flickering from the blush across my tits that signifies I am close to coming, to the pain in my face I try to mask. He runs one hand underneath punished my arse cheek and scratches, hard, along the wounds from earlier and – as I cry out – he comes gushing, huge amounts of hot spunk across my breasts and into my hair. I watch the spectacle greedily, loving seeing how aroused I have made him, and thankful that – finally after hours of teasing and torment – it’s almost my turn to get blessed relief.
When he speaks it is the roughened voice of someone who has just come and the first few words are so croaky it takes a second for me to understand.
“When I asked you what I should do with you tonight, you said nothing.”
I look up at him, blinking for a moment, trying to focus on the words coming out of his mouth rather than the sensations he is wringing from every part of my body, but I still can’t take it in.
“You didn’t answer me. I asked you what I should do and you said nothing in response. So tonight that’s what you get. Nothing.”
He runs a hand down my breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers, tugging and twisting it to punctuate his words.
“I’m going to go to sleep now. And so are you. With your hands still tied like that, just in case you’re tempted to bring yourself off during the night.” He casually runs a hand between my legs. “You are wet. Slut.”
He pulls the duvet up, arranging it carefully so it only covers me from my waist down thus not disturbing the streaks of his spunk drying on my tits. As he settles himself underneath the cover he takes a second to run a finger along the lips of my dripping cunt, making me moan in hope, despair and a guttural horniness which even to my ears sounds desperate.
He chuckles as he snaps the bedside light off. “Sleep well pet.”
Having dismissing the ribbons he tied me down with as not that difficult to get out of, an attempt at pulling free of the knots proves that I’ve got no hope there. My mind is spinning, my juices are running down my inner thighs, I am sticky with his cum, and I lie in the darkness trying to think unsexy thoughts to calm myself through the long night.
I don’t know how long I lie there. I am mentally counting off the nine times table in an attempt to switch my brain to something else, when he quickly pushes four fingers of his hand up inside my cunt. I scream, mostly in surprise. The movement is vicious and fleeting, but I am so wet they sl
ip in easily and it’s a moment of blessed release, thank fuck, he’s going to let me come, he was bluffing, just wondering if he could make me cry with frustration. Make me beg.
My whole body is on alert once more. Waiting, yearning for the next touch. My ears are straining to hear his movement, my eyes staring into the darkness to glimpse some clue of what he is doing. The silence lengthens. He idly pats my breast as he turns over, gathers up some duvet and gets himself comfortable on his side of the bed.
“I get so bored when I wake at night with my insomnia. I’ll probably just play with you for a bit if I can’t sleep. Stop me if it bothers you.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “Oh. You can’t. Oh well. You’ll get to come eventually. Just not tonight.”
As his breathing slows, and he goes back to sleep, I stare at the chink of street light coming in through the curtains, willing it to get brighter and for day to come, because I know there will be no sleep for me tonight.
There are nights when I fall into bed exhausted from the day without needing to rub myself to completion. But as I lie in the darkness, listening to him sleep, the very fact that I can’t come means that my entire being is focused on the pulse between my legs, the plug up my arse and my desperate need to orgasm.
He is the most frustrating man I have ever met. And I mean that literally.
Candle Light
by January James
Tuesday Troy stood at her large bedroom window eagerly awaiting the first glimpse of her husband’s car pulling into the driveway. She was so excited she panted a little. She’d never done anything so daring before. She envisaged the look on Patrick’s handsome face when he saw her. His soft blue eyes would darken in pleasure and he’d give her that little boy smile which melted her heart every time.
He was so gentle and patient, giving her the support she’d needed to start her own candle-making business. He understood how much she’d hated corporate America and how long this business had been in her heart. This was her baby and like most husbands he’d been pushed to the side once it was born. He rarely complained though Tuesday knew he hated the long hours she spent at her store, the networking trips she took all over the country and giving up his precious weekends to browse flea markets while she blissfully hunted unique candle holders. This was her way of saying thank you.
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