A fist curled in my long red hair, gripping me just above my nape. “You don’t have permission to touch me,” I snapped at the offending dom and made my way down the hall.
And there was Dash, leaning against the wall and smiling his arrogant, lazy smile. My heart jumped like an idiot’s. Goddamn him for being so handsome. His hooded eyes fixed on mine. “You made it.”
He loomed over me, standing a bit too close to impress me with his height. I knew that trick.
“I just stopped in. This isn’t really my kind of party.”
I glanced around disdainfully so he wouldn’t see the ache in my eyes. Just looking at him made me wet. What a hopeless, misguided fever to catch. I never reacted to anyone like this.
“Come on, I’ll introduce you around.”
I could have objected to his hand on my back as he led me through other bedrooms filled with people being spanked or tied to chairs or photographed, but the heat of his fingers burned through my dress and I could barely breathe by the time we entered the backyard. We were alone at last and my blood was rising even though my brain reminded me shrilly this wasn’t going to work. It was just temporary madness, I told myself, an itch to be scratched. I didn’t want even a one-night stand, just mindless relief for the cannibal inside me. But I had no idea how to start feasting on another predator.
“Sorry you’re not having a good time,” he said, stepping beyond a massive oak tree. “I feel like a bad host.”
We looked at each other for a long moment. Then he knelt so fast that my blood roared.
“No one’s going to find out about this,” he said, looking up at me.
“Agreed.”
I lifted my dress and his tongue lashed over me in feverish desperation, licking my pussy with mindless, voracious hunger. He sucked my clit, worked his tongue inside my dripping cunt, growling with pleasure. My fists curled in his dark blond hair and I rode his face in a rapid, undulating rhythm, mastering his tongue before I let it master me. Clutching his hair, I tilted his head back and held it tight, pushing my pussy all over his face in a signature of ownership. I slapped his cheek. “Suck me,” I ordered and he worshipfully wrapped his lips around my clit until I ejaculated on his beautiful mouth.
Then I was going down on all fours in the dirt, his fingers digging into my hips as his enormous cock pushed into me from behind. I moaned. He was rough and demanding, slapping my tits just before he pulled out, then plunging in deeper. He was fucking me as hard and ruthlessly as an animal, leaves and dead twigs crackling under my hands. I bit my arm to muffle my screams, hot, dirty, shameful lust rolling through me in wave after wave like a tsunami. It had been years since I’d fucked outside the rules like this, and my pussy felt electric. Then Dash flipped me over and pinned me to the ground, laughing evilly as he teased me with just the head of his cock.
“Beg me,” he said.
“Hell no.” But my hips did as I tried to capture his dick and failed.
“If you want to come again…”
“I’ll take care of myself in the car.”
He growled and forced my legs open wider to push inside me again. He needed this as much as I did—I could almost have called him enslaved, I thought with a smile. The idea of him in chains pushed me into a hot and drenching explosion that never seemed to end, even after he had come too and was looking at me with something like awe.
HER LOVER IS A FLAME
Cecilia Tan
Her lover is a flame and this is both joy and pain.
There are advantages. She can see him almost anywhere, anytime, so when they are apart she is never truly alone. A woman unaccompanied in a tavern is the object at times of unwanted attention, but at the Black Tabard the whispers keep her safe, about the time Tall John’s boots caught afire or that burn that kitchen boy received, what was his name?
The disadvantages come on lonely nights, when he is away, though. When the only chance for his touch comes with the single candle burning on the stones in front of the hearth. She sheds her clothes, baring a sex unencumbered by hair, meticulously shaved in his absence. She kneels before the candle, a delicate finger spreading her folds, exposing herself to the heat of his gaze. The fire roars.
She builds up a sheen of moisture, sweat across her skin and dew gathering between her thighs, spreading it over her pleasure, whispering his name. And then she rears up, the tongue of the candle flame licking at her wetted sex, until it becomes too much and she settles onto her heels again, her finger starting its travels through the wetness once again.
The fire roars.
Eventually even the slowest pace brings her to the inevitable peak, though, her desire consuming her, her edges curling in the heat, until it takes only one last swipe of her finger, or, if she has truly held back long enough, just the barest flicker of the candle near her nub sends her into spasms and gasps of ecstasy. She grinds her wetness against her palm then, igniting that heat again and again, until at last she lies sated before the hearth, soaked with sweat, her skin aglow.
And still the fire roars. He will be home soon.
ME VENGO!
Mistress Kay
College. I’m getting a bit sick of it, to be honest. Here I am, yet again, stuck in a roomful of people attempting to learn Spanish for the first time. It’s a familiar sight; I’ve retaken this class four times, and it’s the only thing I need now to graduate. I just suck at attendance, so I keep failing. This semester though…this semester has been different.
It all started on the first day of mi clase de español. He sat next to me. This handsome, attractive guy with long, brown hair and the deepest blue eyes. He was a little bit sweaty from the summer heat, but it only made him look better. And every day, when I come into class, this hunk of a guy sits next to me. Every day. Then, as luck would have it, the professor assigns him to be my compañero, my partner for vocal practice. We get to be off in the back corner of the room where the professor rarely bothers us.
And his voice! I don’t know if his Spanish or his English gets me more, but I’ll gladly take either. He rolls his r’s so perfectly, and suddenly, I’m finding that Spanish doesn’t seem so boring anymore, especially when he and I are exchanging flirty looks, and his leg keeps crossing its invisible boundary to touch mine under the desk. It’s exciting, it’s thrilling, and I absolutely love it.
A review day rolls around for las verbos, our verbs. We have to learn to conjugate them and whatnot. After an extremely boring lecture about them, we get split into our compañero groups to practice.
My dream boy gives me a smirk that says he’d rather be doing anything else but practicing Spanish as he starts off our exercise.
“Hola.” Oh, that voice of his.
“Hola! ¿Como estas?”
“Muy bien, gracias.”
Without an explanation, he pauses to flip through a couple of pages in his textbook, and he smirks as he looks right up at me. “¿Te gusta venir?”
Venir? Huh? That doesn’t sound familiar. A quick check in the book will fix that. Do…you…like…to come?
Oh my god. That must have been a mistake, right? I bet he doesn’t even know what he just said! It doesn’t stop my cheeks from turning three shades redder as I try to get him to realize his mistake.
“¿Venir?”
“Si, chica. Venir. ¿Te gusta venir?”
This is way beyond what we’d flirted about in the past, but I’d be lying if I said my body isn’t responding to his proposition. Those blue eyes of his just keep looking me over, waiting for an answer.
“Umm… Yo nunca vengo.”
Diverting my eyes to a discolored spot on the desk, my cheeks feel like they are on fire. Why did I just confess to him that I’d never had an orgasm? Oh man, he’s not going to talk to me for the rest of the semester. That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
Then his hand finds its way to rest on my forearm. “¿Quieres venir?”
“BREAK!”
When our professor calls for break, we g
et twenty minutes to stretch and eat something. The boy’s eyes meet mine. I cover his hand with my own, and nod. Yes, I do want to orgasm.
He returns my nod, and then he stands up, taking my hand, as he walks us out of the classroom in the flurry of other students. Continuing down the empty hall, he walks us into an empty classroom. The desks have been pushed to the side, and the room looks as though they’re cleaning it for the summer.
He gives me a reassuring smile as he pulls me toward the front of the classroom, out of the way of the door’s view.
With a gentle push from him, I’m backed up against the classroom wall. His lips find their way to my neck, and he starts to softly nibble the skin that he finds there. It feels so amazing. I’d been this way with boys before, but he seems to really know what he is doing, and before long, my hips are desperate to press up against something, wanting more. I feel his smile on my neck as he gives a low chuckle, wraps his arm around my waist and pulls up my shirt.
The air feels cold on my exposed flesh, and as I study his face out of nervousness, I see that the look in his eyes is one of pure admiration. His lips trail down from my neck to the voluptuous curves of my cupped breasts, and his kisses near the edges of the cups of my bra send shivers down my spine.
Just as I’m realizing that we may not have the time for much body exploration, he seems to read my mind. His hand snakes between us and starts to unzip my jeans. Trying to make it romantic and smooth, he quickly gets frustrated as the button won’t unsnap and laughs as he brings his other hand to get my jeans undone. He looks up at me with a smirk as he slides one of his hands into my jeans, then into my panties.
His touch is cool, but I’m certainly not complaining. He knows what he’s doing with his fingers, and his first few strokes bring small gasps from my lips. His hand quickly warms as I feel the throbbing in my panties start to intensify. He doesn’t stop even when my body starts squirming on its own, and even when I start whimpering uncontrollably, his fingers keep moving.
It has never been this intense before! As I start begging him to continue with my arms wrapped around his shoulders, my body starts to tighten, and I’m sure this is going to be it. My thighs grip his wrist, and I interrupt my gaspy whimpering to try to warn him.
“Oh god, I’m comi—”
“Nope. Not like that, you don’t! Our professor would be ashamed. Say it in Spanish!”
My breath comes even quicker, and I try desperately to pull the words from my mind as my hips continue to gyrate against his hand. Pushing even harder against him, I gasp out what he wants as the most amazing sensation I’ve ever felt courses through my body.
“Me vengo!”
The contractions continue as I ride out my orgasm with my arms gripping tightly to his strong shoulders and my legs starting to give out underneath me. I feel his arm grip me around the waist to support me as my gasping slowly turns into something that resembles regular breathing again. He holds me up against that wall with his face buried in my neck as I come down from my orgasmic high. I feel sweaty, and the empty classroom smells of sex.
With a quick check to his watch, he gives me a cocky grin. “Well, lovely, time is up. So…best way to spend a break or what?”
COUNT OUT THE STROKES
Virgie Tovar
Count out the strokes.”
I was sitting next to him on the tiny, pale-pink leather sofa. The cushion was long and firm, and I could feel him flexing his ass. Each time he flexed I would feel a nearly imperceptible movement of the cushion—down when he squeezed and then back up when he released. I imagined each flex made his dick twitch with momentary pleasure. He counted: “One.”
One was quiet and slow. His fist as far down his shaft as possible, his wrist facing up. I could see his taut blue veins. His mouth was open a tiny bit, just enough that I could smell his breath. It was that leftover fruity, fermented smell from beer or maybe vodka. I’ve loved the smell of alcohol on a man’s breath since I’d lost my virginity to that thirty-eight-year-old guy who worked at Sotheby’s.
“Two.”
His voice quavered when he said “two.” He had squeezed the head so tight on the first stroke that a shiny, translucent drop of precome glistened, sitting precariously on the tip of his dick. There was a quiet moan at the very end of his exhalation. It was accidental—maybe.
We met on the train on my way home from work. He was eavesdropping on an impassioned conversation about xenophobia I was having over the phone with my friend Alesia. When I hung up, he told me he agreed with me. I’d seen him before, but we’d never spoken. He asked me if I lived around here.
“Three.”
His jaw was tightening. His mouth was open wider. His chest muscles were constricting. He was topless, with tight black Calvin Klein boxer-briefs on. His nipples were hard, one of them pierced, and his right bicep—the one he was using to jack his dick—was flexed, a tattoo of a hot-pink Jesus Christ covering his entire shoulder going down his arm to the elbow. Apostasy. Hot.
He went past his stop. Usually he got off at 37th. He managed to parlay our conversation off the train and onto the pavement. He had walked me to my apartment, asked me if he could use my bathroom. “Yes, but you’re sure as fuck going to have to earn it.”
“Four.”
Four was labored. He had a hard time with four. I could feel the cushion go down, stay down for a long time. He was trying to hold the come that was building up in his balls. He squeezed his shaft low on the base, held his breath and then let it out between pursed lips. He was starting to sweat.
He had smiled when I told him about the bathroom. I walked up the stairs ahead of him, taking it nice and slow, letting him look up my little dress at my fat ass. I was wearing black, see-through tights and red cotton boyshorts underneath. They were jammed up my ass, up my cunt. I hated those boyshorts with the fucking seam up the cunt, but now that I had someone to stare at them I didn’t mind them so much.
“Five.”
He loosened his grip, knowing he was close and that he should be careful. There were just three fingers around his dick now: thumb, index and middle finger sliding up his foreskin. He was hissing out his breath. I saw him shiver.
When we got to the top of the stairs I opened the door. It was dark in my apartment. “You still need to piss?” I asked him. He could hear me smiling and I heard one husky smart-ass laugh. I closed the door, pushed him against it, grabbed his face. “Open your mouth.” He did. I licked his tongue, his teeth. I put my mouth against his ear. “I bet you’re used to good little girls who let you fuck them real hard while they beg for that fat dick. I’m not a nice girl and I’m not little, and you’re going to be the one begging.”
“Six.”
I slid closer to him, the side of my big, full breast pushed against his arm. One short exhale turned into a groan. He confessed that he’d masturbated thinking of my tits bouncing in his face while I rode him. “I’ve dreamed of what your ass tastes like.”
“Seven.”
“My ass is like a little vanilla meringue tart.” Seven was a fast, hard pump. I took his pants and shirt off. I had let him eat my pussy there on the leather sofa. He’d slid my tights over my ass, kissing down my full thighs as he pulled them all the way to my toes. He grabbed a fistful of my panties and wedged them up my pussy, letting the seam rub my clit. “Let me lick that pussy clean.”
“Eight.”
I put my finger on the top of his nose, slid it down the sweaty bridge. He looked at me, my lips, my cleavage, my belly. “Please. Please. Please.” His entreaties were staccato; he held number eight halfway down his shaft. His free hand was bearing into his thigh, the sweat from his palm matting down the hair on his leg, thinking that might save him.
“Please what?” I asked him. My pussy was throbbing.
“Please can I come?” he said with urgency. I shook my head with a little pout of feigned sympathy. His face was so perfect with just the light from the street coming in through the venetian blinds.
Nine was so, so close. He almost lost it. He was squirming, shaking. I could see the head of his dick becoming that tiny bit firmer, plumper.
I had finally let him take my panties off, and he stuck his tongue all the way up my cunt. He moaned into my pussy like he was relieved, like it was all he needed, pushing my thighs back. “You like that creamy pussy?” I asked him as I stroked his head, coming on his tongue over and over until it cramped. He nodded his head up and down. “Can I stroke my dick?” he asked over and over. “You can pump it ten times. Ten is all you get and you’ve got to count out the strokes.”
“Ten.”
I could hear ten coming in his voice. He held the soft e, making the tiny word so big. He was holding his cock right below the head, looking at my face, lips puckered. He was right on the very edge. I stood up and sat on top of him. I wanted him to come on me. I leaned in to kiss him and when my mouth touched his he began to spasm. His mouth was so wet. I was licking up his saliva and tasting his salty lips. Ten ushered in an enormous, wet, full, sloppy load all over his belly, his chest, his chin, my pussy, dripping down my cunt hair, my belly, my tits. I sat on top of him, kissing him for a long time, his come between us cooling our bodies, feeling his aftershocks, muting his moans.
STEAMY
Tess Danesi
It must be the day, with its brilliant sunshine, cornflower-blue sky and cool gusty wind, compelling me to find release. Or maybe the wind is just blowing in that direction. Or maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t come in over a week. Even though I can’t grasp how, time just seems to get away from me. Or maybe it’s the slippery, smooth feel of my spandex bike shorts against the seat of the spin bike making me linger a bit too long in the saddle even though the rest of the class is standing in second. Not any release will do. Getting off, and getting off soon, is exactly what I need.
The Big Book of Orgasms Page 6