Ultimate Sins

by Jean Roberta

  “My compliments to the chef,” Joanne joked, wiping her hand across her mouth. But still she wasn’t satisfied. Tonight, she had a big appetite. She wanted more. As he leaned back against the table, still panting, Joanne began to fondle his limp cock, determined to bring it back to life. He laughed, but as she wrapped her hands around it, pumping, he placed his hands over hers, increasing the pressure. It took less time than either of them expected and soon he was stiff once more.

  “Very appetising,” she observed, pressing her groin against him.

  Quickly sensing her mood, he reached into his pocket and produced a pack of strawberry-flavoured condoms.

  “Hope you like fruit,” he said.

  “If it’s ripe and juicy,” she replied, pushing him down onto the floor. He looked up at her swollen pussy as she stood over him.

  “Still hot, I see,” he whispered.

  Joanne straddled him and carefully lowered herself onto his ramrod cock. She was gaping open, wider than she’d ever been before. He slid inside her, filling her to the hilt in seconds, she was so wet. Closing her eyes, Joanne wrapped her legs around him, clutching him and locking him to her. She alternately gripped and relaxed with her muscles, while he pumped rhythmically.

  “Faster,” she pleaded.

  Gathering speed, he thrust furiously into her, his rampant cock pounding, his balls slapping against her. Finally, her body jerked as waves engulfed her. She felt his cock pulse as her convulsions triggered his orgasm and their bodies shuddered as they came together. They lay panting, their bodies entwined, mutually satiated, waiting for the calm to return.

  After a while he said apologetically, “My staff will be arriving shortly.”

  She reached for her abandoned knickers. “I ought to be getting home,” she replied, matter of fact.

  “Before you leave, there’s something I want to give you,” he said, heading for the kitchen. Minutes later he returned.

  “I promised you dessert,” he said, presenting her with a generous slab of chocolate chip cheesecake. “On the house.”

  “Thanks, but actually, I’m full up,” she replied. Then she added, dipping her finger into the creamy chocolate swirl. “But there are some things a girl simply can’t resist.”

  Vichyssoise

  by AstridL

  When I was young I loved older men. They gave me gifts and taught me a lot. A lot about balls and sucking cock. And a lot about cooking.

  As time went by I developed a penchant for younger men. They let me take the lead and I had them in the palm of my hand, in a manner of speaking. I taught them a little about what pussy liked, and they loved my recipes.

  I still enjoyed men, but as I got older I began craving something quite different. My new lover is a vibrant executive and is precociously adept at beating men at their game. Much younger than I, my lover is charming and bright, and adores my recipes. She also has a soft spot for pearls, one of the first things I noticed the day we met in a supermarket down town.

  She was after one of those ready-made salads and was leaning across the herbs, blocking my view of the dill and the basil, but exposing the freshest breast with the tightest of brown nipples. Creamy pearls swayed from the slant of her grey power suit, no doubt teasing those nubs to the shape of arousal. Never had a woman’s breast moved me, at least never like that, all the way down.

  “Have you seen the chives?” I said.

  She turned. The movement suddenly pulled me within that unspoken ring of heightened interest, crossing the border from decorum to intimacy. My throat felt hot. It wasn’t the first time; it had been happening often lately, but not quite like this. She spun around, back to me, and then turned, a bunch of chives in her hand, held out like a bouquet.

  The movement took me by surprise. Bold, it brought me back to the present. “Thank you,” I said and then smiled.

  “What are you making?”

  “It’s for Vichyssoise.”

  “Vichyssoise? You can make that yourself?”

  I nodded.

  “I’d love to try some.”

  And I’d love you to do that, I thought. But we were in a supermarket and I didn’t know her name.

  “My name’s Sam. Short for Samantha,” she said.

  What could I do but answer. “Sophia,” I said. And then we shook hands.

  I don’t know if it was because of the way her hand lingered in mine. Her hand was soft and warm yet felt so strong and it seemed then as if the touch of our hands somehow sealed a sensual pact; and it all seemed so natural. So I invited Sam to come home and watch me prepare the cold soup.

  I lost little time in readying the ingredients for the Vichyssoise: the white delicate parts of leek, washed well and slivered; the potatoes peeled and sliced thin; the butter, melted evenly over a low, low heat, that swallowed the leeks which turned gradually golden. The aroma was comforting, almost homey. “Would you like some wine?” I said.

  Sam nodded. “Do you mind if I slip off my shoes?”

  I poured two glasses from an open bottle of St Emilion. “You can slip out of that jacket as well, if you like. I’ll get you a cardigan.”

  Sam sipped her wine. “I’d like that,” she said.

  When I came back with the apricot cashmere Sam stood with her back to me, sans jacket and stirring the leeks in the butter. “Thank you for keeping an eye on the soup,” I said.

  Sam suddenly turned, the wooden spoon in her right hand. The baroque pearls hung over one breast, just grazing the nipple.

  “They’re gorgeous,” I whispered.

  A thick droplet of soup rolled from the spoon.

  “Careful,” I said as I took the spoon from her hand and laid it down gently in the porcelain spoon rest. “Slip into this.” I handed her my favourite cardigan and watched her dress.

  She began to button two holes at her midriff and I found myself praying that she would not button much higher. As if reading my mind she just buttoned one more.

  “Do we add the potatoes?” she said.

  My cheeks felt hot. “We have to add some chicken stock first. Then we slip in the potato slivers.”

  “I can do it,” she said and leant by my arm, affording me a full view of both delicious breasts as she gently shook the potato slices into the unctuous mixture. When it had simmered to a soft texture, I showed her how to puree, pushing, kneading with an antique masher – a gift from a former culinary lover. When the texture was fine, we added milk and pepper and simmered again.

  “It smells so good,” Sam said.

  “Cold soups like to be over-seasoned,” I said. “They can take it.”

  Then we added the cream: I poured as Sam stirred, swirling the cream gently into a soup that before my eyes was metamorphosing from a hearty peasant stock to a luxurious sop of bourgeois decadence. The whole process was starting to transport me from simple arousal to an exciting state of pre-orgasm.

  “What about the chives?” Sam said.

  Her voice brought me back. I had arranged the chives in a glass. “They’ll be chopped and sprinkled all over.”

  “I want to taste it,” she said.

  I shook my head. “You’ll have to wait.”

  “Please?”

  “It has to chill overnight.” I was enjoying being in charge. It was something I relished, even if just once in a while.

  “I can’t wait,” she said. “Unfortunately.” And then she stroked a finger down my cheek past my throat and suddenly slipped her hand in my bra and pinched my already taut right nipple. Then, as if a question she had asked had just been answered, she withdrew her hand, cupped my face in her palms and kissed me fully on the lips. Her tongue darted between them. “Can I visit you when I am back in town?” she whispered.

  “When will that be?” My voice was hoarse.

  “Two weeks. Can I borrow the cardigan?”

  I nodded. I had tried hard, but again I was smitten. She loved my food. It always was the way to my core.

  Sam comes back regularly. She do
esn’t have much time, but what she does have is pure quality. Intense. Good to look forward to. It lets me consolidate, take stock. It’s better for her and for me. For her, as it lets her get on with her work and lets her get off as she chooses. And I can play with my cooking, indulge my memories and fantasies and look forward to her coming.

  Sam brings me gifts when she comes every few weeks. Fragrant oils – vanilla, musk. Sometimes toys, to keep me going until her next visit. Once she brought me a couple of shiny shocking pink balls connected by a pink latex string. A tiny looped stringlet for hooking a finger to ease the balls out hung cheekily from one of them; I couldn’t resist fingering it for size.

  “Wear them for a few hours daily,” Sam said. “They will tone your muscles.”

  I did. They were smooth, fitted snugly inside me. And because they were weighted and the little weights moved when I did, I swore that my shocking pink balls also sang. My cunt sang as I walked and I thrilled to the thought that others might hear. I’d walk at home naked and with slow rhythmic movements I’d expose my ripe cunt lips and sweet puckered butthole to the glint of glass in the sunlight coming from a window across the way. I’d sometimes sit facing the long French windows and thrill to the thought of the show I was giving as I twirled and tugged on the string of my balls, rocking my hips and listening to the quiet twang.

  But that and another sensation were ones I kept to myself: I didn’t tell Sam about the added value of my clit nub fitting just into the little loop handle so that when I walked and rolled my hips to the tune of a rhythmic twang the tiny girdle would keep me going and more importantly, coming. It was quite delectable as she was to see when she withdrew the balls on her next visit. They were covered in cream.

  “Mmm, reminds me of something,” she said, as she took each ball in her mouth. “I never did get to taste the chilled soup.”

  “I poured in some cream at the end. Brought it almost to body temperature.”

  “I’ve missed you. Wear your pink balls to dinner.”

  I wanted nothing better than that. I was empty and nicely throbbing and longed to be filled again, specially with her there. It was summer time. Thick creamy cold soup with a smattering of chives would be just the thing. The bistro down the street was open and served Vichyssoise.

  At dinner we sat side by side and as we were about to sip from our wine she asked me: “Are you wearing your balls?” I smiled and then nodded. “Good,” she said. “And I have a new gift.” Sam passed me a little cloth packet. Grey pearl earrings. Perfectly baroque. I pierced them through my lobes and Sam stuck her tongue in my ear, swirling it around to finish with a lap over the dark pearly nub.

  We walked the two blocks back to my apartment. I could hear the subtle ding of the pink balls within me. Sam had a hand down the back of my pants and was caressing my crack. “Stick your butt out a bit as you walk,” she whispered and licked my earlobe, sucking imperceptibly on my pearl. I did as I was told; the balls inside me moved deliciously, and as I tensed my muscles the little girdle pulled on my clitoris. Her middle finger was stroking the puckered skin of my arse. I loved the sensation, but I was not going to come in the middle of the street. That would be going too far, far too soon. “Sam!”

  Sam withdrew her hand and laughed. “I have something else,” she said. “But wait till we’re comfortable.”

  Out on the balcony in the moonlight she undressed me. I wondered if my neighbour was watching. Although I couldn’t see the glint of his telescope by night I knew he was in for another show. Or was it a she? A friend of Sam’s maybe? Checking on me? I laughed. I loved the idea of somebody watching.

  “Lie down,” Sam said. I did as was told. She played with my nipples and then, as if she couldn’t wait any longer, her hand slipped between my thighs and her finger hooked in the little clit girdle. “That’s enough now. It’s my turn. Hold your breath.” She pulled gently and one ball popped out, sulkily almost, and then the other.

  I was throbbing. “I’m so wet, Sam.”

  “I can see that.”

  The balls were dripping. “It’s much thicker this time.”

  “Crème de la crème. Hotter than Vichyssoise, my darling. Come suck with me,” she said. And we each sucked my cream from both of the balls.

  “I said I had something special. Close your eyes and lean back,” Sam said.

  Again I did as told. Suddenly, a delicious cold: caviar, hard like pearls, but a little irregular. She crammed them into my cunt. The sensation of the shapes and the cold was mind-blowing.

  “Open your eyes.”

  She held a mirror in front of me. Two diamond clasps at the end of a string of pearls the size of hazelnuts hung from my pussy. She pushed and rubbed.

  “How does that feel?”

  I was exploding. Lights shooting behind my eyes. Creaming.

  “You look gorgeous like that. I knew we’d find a special way to share my Tahitian pearls.” Then she pulled them slowly from my cunt – each one rubbing the insides of my vagina, running over my clit, against my swollen lips, bringing with the pearls a gush from the sea within me. I had never experienced anything like it. “Sam, I’m ...”

  “Ejaculating,” she said triumphantly. “Join the club, darling.” Then she pulled down her pants and straddled my face. “Suck me dry, baby.”

  “You know that’s impossible, Sam,” I said as I burrowed my face between her thighs and began lapping the flow of her thick, warm juices.

  “Remind you of something?”

  “Mmmm,” I said. The cream always comes right at the end, but I swear I could taste a slight tang of chives.

  French Connection

  by Cathy King

  Camping la France . Mandy sighed with relief as the sign loomed up ahead. She could hardly believe she’d made it on her own. Jason had never let her drive abroad and her French was almost non-existent.

  Feeling rather pleased with herself, she steered the silver convertible onto a narrow road banded by fields of young green sweetcorn. It was June and the sky was a clear midsummer blue. In a month or two the sun would have bleached it to the shade of stonewashed denim.

  She sighed again, this time with pleasure, glad she’d come. Several weeks had passed before she’d accepted that Jason, her husband of five years, had found someone new and wasn’t coming back. Drowning in abject misery, her first instinct had been to cancel the camping holiday they’d booked together, but friends had urged her to go, saying a change of scenery was just what she needed.

  A tractor trundled towards her, taking up most of the narrow road. She slowed and pulled onto the verge to let it pass. As the tractor closed, she found her eyes drawn to the driver’s bronzed and naked torso. His bulging chest muscles gleamed with perspiration. He was gorgeous. He raised a hand in thanks; then, as he drew level, his face broke into a huge smile.

  “Oooh, mademoiselle! Très belle! Très, très belle!”

  Mandy flushed with pleasure. She was used to male reaction to her large breasts, but the attentions of a sexy Frenchman were far more welcome than those of his British counterparts. Unlike the French, most British males hadn’t a clue when it came to sexual technique, including Jason. And since he’d dumped her, Mandy had gone right off British men anyway. They were all the same: a bunch of self-obsessed, two-timing bastards.

  The sounds of the tractor’s motor and driver’s whistles faded away. Mandy adjusted her strappy top and admired her breasts with a grin. Not a scrap of silicone in sight. She put the convertible in gear and pulled away.

  The lush farmland ended quite suddenly. The car crested a hill and there were the famed pine forests of the Atlantic coast. They stretched as far as the eye could see, to the north on her right, to the south on her left.

  She drove into the deep green coolness, relieved to be out of the late afternoon sun for a while, and pushed her sunglasses up onto her dark, windswept hair. The heady scent of pines hit her with a sudden rush and she inhaled deeply. The salty tang of the Atlantic bit at the b
ack of her throat. She laughed out loud, feeling more alive than she had in years.

  The campsite appeared ahead, orange tents peeping through the tree-trunks like shy flowers. She braked beside a tent adorned with a lazily-flapping sign advising BRITISH CAMPERS REGISTER HERE and killed the engine.

  The silence of the forest was breathtaking, the crashing of Atlantic rollers filtered to a whisper by the imposing pines. The campsite would be a peaceful haven until August, the main attraction of holidaying in June. Most of the few campers currently resident would be French, and on the beach or visiting nearby tourist draws. They’d return later, cars laden with wine from local vineyards, or run up from the beach, happy and laughing, surfboards and brightly-coloured towels wedged beneath sunburnt arms. The smell of suppers cooking on two-ring hobs would drift through the forest for an hour or so, then everyone would congregate in the bar, drink too much, and make plans for the following day. According to the Camping la France brochure, the bar stood at the edge of the forest, overlooking the beach. The sunsets were apparently spectacular.

  Mandy climbed from the car and entered the living area of the reception tent. It was like all the other tents she’d seen on French campsites: a small oven with a two-ring hob; a fridge; a well-stocked utensil rack; table and plastic patio chairs. The only difference was that the table was piled high with paperwork and colourful brochures.

  A groan came from the zipped sleeping quarters at the back of the tent, followed by the rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings.

  “Oh, Teddee,” breathed a French girl’s voice. “Teddeee…”

  Mandy grinned. So the courier’s name was Teddy. Probably a student on his gap year. She coughed loudly and the bedsprings stopped squeaking.