Swimming always gets me going. Blood pumping through these sluggish old veins after being holed up in the holiday cottage with a load of rutting couples. I love it when the water’s cold and rough. Far out there a couple of surfers are wrestling with the waves. Here the beach is deserted.

And now I’ve earned a kip. The sun’s really warm after the cold water. I whip my bathing suit off and flop down onto my towel but my heart’s still drumming, my body still buzzing. I turn on my back, stretch my legs out, point my toes to make them look longer. Hmm, still pretty good.

A breath of air tickles my slightly parted fanny. I open my legs a little more. I grope about in the sand to find my oil, but I can’t find it. My hand flops back onto my bare stomach and the touch electrifies me. I move my fingertips down to the hairless groove running along the top of my thigh and that makes me jump, too. The skin is the largest organ of the human body, and boy is it the most sensitive.

There’s another place, though. So sensitive it could make me come with a butterfly kiss. My hand wanders back up to my breast, just brushes the top, avoiding the nipples. They swell out luxuriantly. My stomach flutters.

I drop my hands. Is it possible to tease yourself? The sun rests on my eyelids while my hand drags back to my stomach. I move it in circles, frantic messages puckering up my nipples. My stomach tightens. My thighs fidget on the towel, open up wider. I fan my fingers, catching at a hardening nipple, and sidle the other hand downwards to the warm nest of hair. My fingers tangle in the wet curls, pulling strands, feeling each hair tug on the tender skin.

My middle finger extends down the crack and I half gasp, half giggle at the moist blood-heat warmth just inside the lips. That’s not just damp from the sea although I wonder what it would taste like now. I wiggle my finger, feeling the sliver of sensitive flesh. I shock it into tingling response. I moan softly, sure that the sound is only in my ears.

A shadow crosses my face and I swear, thinking a cloud is obscuring the sun. But it’s too solid for that. There’s a tall shape a couple of feet away. Surely not the others, come to spy on me from the cottage? I raise myself up on my elbow, ready to give them hell. My breast bounces against my arm. I raise one knee to get myself upright and a droplet of juice runs out of my crack and across my thigh.

It’s not my friends. It’s one of the surfers. His short wetsuit is rolled down his torso and he has his back to the sea. He can see me clearly, but I’m half blinded by the glare. I raise one hand to shield my eyes and take a good look at him. Sex on legs. Like something out of a beer advert. He’s lithe and tanned. His face is young. So young. Tiny gold prickles of barely shaved stubble speckle his brown cheeks. Hectic flushes of blood are just visible under the skin. Is he blushing?

I try to remember myself at his age. It wasn’t so long ago, for God’s sake. He’s seventeen, eighteen. Maybe nineteen. Definitely a boy and yet his body has been worked on. Hard. No ounce of puppy fat. His arms are big with muscle.
I let my eyes flutter back to his face. I open my mouth to speak, but he’s not about to make small talk. His bright blue eyes are fixed on my big breasts, hanging there in the sunshine. I must look like some kind of nude sculpture there on the towel. I suppose I could always pretend I’m one of those naturists.

But the naturists always claim there’s nothing sexual about nakedness, don’t they? What bollocks. I reckon this boy’s nakedness would be a blatant invitation to a shag-fest. His eyes are burning on me and my nipples harden as if agreeing with my assessment. They shrink into tight little arrowheads. Pointing directly at my young stranger.

The young man/boy swallows, getting the message. He scuffles his bare feet in the sand. Shit. He’s trying to get away. I want to stretch out and stop him. But no. He’s just planting them more firmly in that kind of swaggering stance young men have. Through his tight wet suit I can see his groin bulging against the black cloth. I want to rip it off here and now. I want to know what’s going on underneath.

‘Surf up today?’ I suddenly ask into the sizzling silence. I can imagine my mates up at the cottage giggling at my lousy attempt at surf-speak. ‘I thought there were two of you out there.’

He nods, and tosses his head back towards the waves. His hair is beginning to dry into bleached strands.

‘My brother’s still out there. I got a cramp.’ ‘I can see that.’

The fluttering in my stomach is back with a vengeance. No, forget fluttering. Nothing lady-like about this sensation. It’s twisting and tightening with total lust. I can’t believe I’m still sprawled here like some kind of centrefold. Usually I would have lifted the towel by now to cover myself up. I’d have made some shy, dismissive remark to send him on his way, but right now his glowing stare and his unmistakeable hard-on are just too good to waste. I’m not letting this opportunity pass. Apart from anything else, I intend to dine out on it tonight. The others will never believe me.

‘Want some lemonade?’ God, I sound like his aunt.

‘My dad says you should never accept drinks from strangers,’ he croaks with a lopsided grin, and I laugh. How sexy is that grin? How sexy is it that we’re strangers? I take the bottle from the cool bag and wave it at him.

‘I say you’re big enough to look after yourself.’ I’m still laughing. I pat the towel beside me. He steps closer. I’m making him feel safe. He leans across me, and swigs from the bottle. ‘So,’ I go on, my voice husky with laughter and desire. ‘Do you know this part of Devon?’

‘No. It’s my first time.’

Colour floods his cheeks even more as he says it, and this time I rein in my dirty chuckle. I quietly take the lemonade from him, keeping my green eyes calmly on his burning blue ones, and without wiping his spittle off the neck of the bottle I flick my tongue round the wet rim before tilting my head back to take a deep swallow. Now his eyes are on my throat as the cold liquid swishes down. This is like something out of a movie.

‘I mean, it’s the first time we’ve been down to this coast,’ he stammers. ‘Dad’s rented a place for the summer. He insisted we come here this year. Normally we go to Constantine Bay, in Cornwall. The surf’s miles better over there. So’s the surfing crowd. I mean, it’s just dead round here, isn’t it?’

‘That depends what you’re after,’ I remark lazily. The bottle is still hovering above my open mouth as if I’m about to give it head. I lick it again, turning myself on with the suggestive swipe of my tongue. Then I wrap my lips round the long cool shape and swallow a little more. His Adam’s apple jumps. I screw the top back on. On an impulse I put the bottle not back in the cool bag but between my legs, resting it up against my pussy. I can’t stifle a gasp as the cold plastic meets the sensitive, warm flesh. I lean back, letting it rest there, restraining myself from grabbing it and rubbing it up and down my hot slit like a sex toy. The urge won’t go away. But then, nor will the boy. My voice comes out in a low moan. ‘There’s plenty to entertain you if you know where to look.’

‘I’m beginning to realise that–’ Without the bottle the boy doesn’t know what to do with his hands. So he starts rolling the wetsuit back up his stomach.

‘It’s too nice out here today to cover yourself up. It may not be the Med, but this lovely weather has got to be a record for Devon. Sit down for a moment. Like you said, there’s nothing to do round here. So there’s no rush, is there?’

‘No rush,’ he echoes, and his young voice dips violently into a deep manly timbre, at odds with his adolescent face. My cunt gives a couple of uncontrollably cheeky twitches, practically nudging the bottle away as I watch him wrestle with the twin urges to come and sit near me or to stand there and remain cool.

Time to be a little less obvious. I relent and draw my legs up, so that my pussy is temporarily hidden from his confused, hungry gaze, but the movement brings the bottle harder against me, its long shape pushing between my sex lips and nudging the tiny bud of my clit. I grip it with my legs and feel the droplets of condensation mingling with my own sweat and moisture.

I’m getting breathless again, as if I was still swimming. I want to show the boy what I can do with the bottle, but it’s too soon. I hitch myself up the towel, pulling my shoulders back in an effort to look more sophisticated, but that just thrusts my breasts out so that his baby-blue eyes, which are still struggling to remain politely focused on my face, swivel back to watch the tightening of my red nipples.

‘It may be a bit quiet, but where else can you get quite so close to nature, after the city smoke? I expect that’s what your dad was after,’ I whisper, trying not to giggle out loud with delight. Something is still warning me to act very calm, sit very still so as not to alarm him. ‘That’s why I’m stretched out here, starkers. Never do that in London, do you? Hope you don’t mind me being topless like this?’

He shakes his head violently, like a little boy trying not to tell a lie, and at last, like an animal tempted in from the wild, he squats down, just by my feet. He rubs the salty strands of yellow hair off his hot face.

‘So. You here on holiday, or what?’

He’s giving in. He can’t take his eyes off my tits, even though he’s attempting to make conversation. I know my nipples are harder and darker now and impossible to ignore. Neither of us really wants to talk, do we? It’s as if he’s in a sweet shop with no pocket money. His tongue slides across his white teeth and he gulps. I keep my smile faint but encouraging.

‘It’s a mixture,’ I answer. ‘Work, and play.’ ‘So which is this bit? Work, or play?’

A soft wind comes off the sea and ruffles his hair. He swipes it impatiently out of his eyes. My own hair tickles my face, and the wind caresses my bare skin like delicate fingers.

‘Oh, that’s easy. Play,’ I whisper, not sure if he can hear. ‘This bit is definitely play.’

I tilt forwards on to my knees, the bottle still clamped there. I pause for a moment as he blinks, focusing on the big tits bouncing right there in front of him as if they were ice creams on offer. Then I pick up one of his large hands from where it’s digging frantically about in the sand. I lift it like it’s a warm animal and place it on one swollen breast. My nipple spikes against his palm. His mouth drops open. My head falls back as his fingers close harder, making it ache. I spread my knees a little to balance more comfortably in front of him, dislodging the bottle. I lean back on the towel so that my spine is arched and my breasts are pushing at him, jumping up with each heartbeat.

The dry grass rustles in the slight breeze, and far away the waves curl with a collective sigh onto the beach. Both the boy and me are panting. My tits disappear into his hesitant fingers. His blue eyes blaze with a crazy request. Christ, it’s enough to make me melt. Of course you have permission, my precious. I’m practically begging you!

My head feels heavy. The only energy is fizzing between my legs. I’m ready to let him take and thrust and pummel. I want to make him into a man. I have privacy, sunshine, a boy with the body of a god waiting for me to show him the way. And all the time in the world.

Lust is eating me up. His fingers dig into my breasts, wander across them and squeeze them, push them together, letting them fall, playing with them, staring at the rigid raspberry nipples. Then I kneel up and place my hands on his shoulders and push my tits into his eager face. I want him to nuzzle in, I want him to lick, suck, bite. Yes. I can tell he’s never seen anyone as luscious as me. A real woman. I want this to be what he’ll write home about, remember for ever. I want to smother him. He buries his face between my breasts, pressing them into his cheeks. Then he draws back. I cup one breast and offer it. I rub its taut dark nipple across his mouth. His tongue flicks out tentatively. My knees wobble and I clutch more firmly to his shoulders. My tit is angled right into his mouth.

He licks the nipple again, and his hands squeeze my breasts until they sing with delicious pain. Hands that a few minutes ago had been wrestling with a surfboard. Then his soft lips nibble up the little nub of the nipple, the tongue laps round it. He draws the burning bud into his mouth, pulling hard on it, and begins to suck. I cradle his bleached blond head, the salt water dried in granules and flecked white across his cheek bones. I could stay like this forever. His sucking makes my whole body ripple with desire.

I look away over his head, across the dunes and over the ocean, distancing myself, seeing us like a movie or a photograph, but his mouth, his teeth, keep pulling at the aching nipple and pulling me back. Electrical currents streak from my nipples to my empty, waiting cunt.

He has the other breast up by his face now. He’s turning from one to the other, lapping and sucking, snuffling through his nose to breathe, groaning, biting and kneading harder and harder as if he owns my breasts. It’s never enough to suck just one. They both have to be stimulated, and, boy, is he getting the hang of it. God, it’s going to be earth-shattering when I get him inside me.

He’s rougher, more ferocious, already more confident. I grind against him, daring him, searching for more pain to communicate more pleasure. I plant my knees on either side of his so that I’m straddling him, and still have his head crushed between my tits. I push him backwards so that, still sucking on my nipples, he’s lowered onto the sand. Now I’m on top of him, my tits dangling down like heavy fruit dented by his brown fingers. I tilt my pussy towards his groin and rub against his wet suit. The rough material is glorious, grating on my skin.

And I can feel the length of his dick. Still pushing my tits in his face, don’t ever want him to stop, I grab at the wet suit and start to roll it off him like a second skin. He raises his hips obligingly. So sweet. He does that so eagerly and readily. Does he realise how big his fucking gorgeous erection is? I yank everything down and his cock thumps free, juddering out from the rough tangle of blond curls, pulsating golden brown like the rest of him. God, it’s a work of art. Its surface is smooth like velvet, the mauve plum emerging from the soft foreskin which wrinkles back to show itself all gleaming. This gorgeous cock thumps into my hand. Now it’s my turn to fold my fingers round something, and as I do it he bites my nipple so hard that I scream out with delight. I lean over him.

‘Just take a little break. Try something new,’ I whisper, both to myself and to him. I start to wriggle back down his body so that his head follows for a moment, still attached to my nipples. Then he falls back as I slither down towards his groin and he can only grab at my wet hair. I reach his dick, standing up like a beacon. The tip is already beading in anticipation. A fresh stick of rock.

I open my mouth and draw his cock into it, using my teeth as well as my tongue, draw it all in until the boy’s knob knocks at the back of my throat.

He makes a sound, exquisitely shocked. His buttocks clench as I suck on him, nibbling down to the base of his shaft and licking and sucking the sweet length of it. He starts to buck about, groaning in amazement. I wonder if any of his pert little girlfriends give head like this. I doubt it. After all, I didn’t have much of a clue at this age. I want him to think he’s died and gone to heaven. Any minute now I’m going to heaven, too.

As I suck, I rub my tits and pussy up and down his legs. He pulls at my hair. I have to slow myself down, because we’ll both come too soon. I don’t want to waste this golden moment by coming all over his shinbone. My pussy is clenching frantically now. I’m leaving slicks of juice all over him.

I give his dick one last, long suck, pulling it towards my throat and nipping it with my teeth, then I let it slide along my tongue, out through my nipping teeth. Greedily I clamber back on top of him as he struggles up, seeking out my tits. I press him down on his back, tilting myself over him. We’ve moved some way from the towel now.

‘See how beautiful it is,’ I croon at him, showing him the length of his shaft encircled by my fingers. ‘See how well it’s going to fit.’

I smile as I raise myself on my knees and aim the tip of his cock towards the warm hole hidden in my soft bush. I let it rest there, at the opening, just like I did with the lemonade bottle, just nudging it past my wet sex lips. I wait. I smile again, lowering myself a little more, gasping as each inch goes in. I reach under him to cup his balls in one hand and he groans again.

This tension is ecstasy, but I can’t hold on to it for much longer, and slowly, luxuriously, I let the boy’s knob slide up inside, all the way to the hilt. It’s so tempting to ram it, let our hips start jerking, but once it’s right in I force myself to pull away again. He frowns, perhaps thinking I’m rejecting him, but I just ease myself down again, moaning and tossing my head back, and the next time I do that he’s with me, learning fast, pulling his own hips back, waiting when I wait.

I sigh out with the joy of being fucked by something so big and hard after months of sitting on the sidelines. As I bend over to let my tits swing across his mouth again, his eyes flip sideways and his face freezes. His hands jam onto my hips and hold me still. I don’t move. I don’t want to. But I see another shadow falling across his face.

‘Oh, piss off, guys!’ I shout, without looking round. ‘Go back to your poker game!’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it! This looks like a hell of a lot more fun than poker!’

A male voice, very similar to my boy’s, speaks from somewhere above and behind us. I go hot and cold. I try to read the boy’s expression. Then there’s the unzipping sound of another wet suit, and the boy’s eyes widen. First he shakes his head furiously, and then a filthy grin spreads across his face. Not a grin I’ve seen before. He looks at me in a different way. Kind of domineering. I’m thrown off balance. Already he’s learning. Glancing at the newcomer, the boy knocks my breasts from side to side.

‘My older brother,’ he croaks. ‘Back from the surf.’

He pulls me forwards, jamming my tits into his mouth again, and now my backside is up in the air. I want to protest but I can’t move. My butt is all exposed, bouncing in front of his brother, but so gorgeous is the feel of my boy’s almost aggressive mouth sucking on my sore nipples that I can’t stop him. As first one nipple then the other grinds into his mouth I automatically start up the rhythm again. I’m acutely aware of my new audience. It’s unutterably sexy to be watched.

I slide up and down his cock, showing off now. My muscles tighten each time to grab hold and keep him inside, and his cock is hardening even more with each thrust.

I’m just poised to ram down onto him harder than ever when my butt cheeks are pulled apart and another male body presses up against my back.

‘Can’t let you have all the fun, bruv,’ says the voice. ‘Reckon I want a go.’

‘You’ve got some catching up to do, mate. Bloody well wait your turn.’

The first boy pulls me harder down on top of him, ramming me right up inside.

‘You don’t mind me watching, do you?’ his brother murmurs in my ear, still fondling my buttocks.

‘No,’ I puff, barely able to speak. ‘Don’t mind.’

There’s something else going on here, too. I can recognize sibling rivalry when I see it, or rather sense it. It’s not that different from the ‘friendly’ rivalry between me and my mates up at the cottage. Our parlour games are never going to be the same after this.

I’m dizzy now, knowing I’m being watched. Who knows? Maybe the crowd up at the cottage will be down any minute, join the audience. See me in a whole new light. I gyrate as if dancing on the boy’s pole, flinging myself wildly about. The urge for satisfaction and the loss of control starts to overwhelm me.

The invisible brother is right behind me, touching me everywhere. I fall onto the rigid cock inside me and the orgasm is gathering. My moans are snatched into the sea air as I rock frantically. My boy can’t hold back and it’s spurting out of him and I’m bucking in my own orgasm.

‘Can’t let you corrupt my little brother and get away with it,’ the older brother says, pulling us apart. ‘Reckon you need teaching, too.’

He parts my legs, gets his own cock out. I try not to smile too greedily as we all lie on the sand while the tide encroaches up the beach and the seagulls wonder what the fuck these tourists are up to.

The post On The Beach appeared first on sexstories.org.

It’s so hot this morning. So unusually hot. Global warming, I’m sure. It’s almost like being in a foreign country. I’ve already started sweating and I haven’t even stepped outdoors yet.

Outside, the birds are singing, plants and flowers are in profusion, the sky is azure blue, broken up with snow-white clouds, and that construction team is working away there, just across our garden fence, making a lot of noise.

It’s cooler in here, but still too hot for comfort. I’m feeling clammy and sweaty, drugged by heat, adrift with my thoughts. I feel a little unreal.

I can see him out there, working. In his T-shirt and tight jeans, laying bricks, one on top of the other, on the wall of that new house being built right next to ours. His hair is flopping over his forehead. His short-sleeved T-shirt is as tight as his blue jeans, emphasizing the rippling of his muscles every time he moves.

So graceful, yet so masculine; occasionally looking in this direction, expecting to see me looking out, as I’m doing right now.

I’m shameless, I suppose, though also absolutely helpless. Having visions of him finally getting the message

and coming over here to open the back door, slip inside, and then…

Oh, dear, what am I thinking?

God, yes, it’s so hot. My clothes are sticking to my skin.  I can feel my blouse clinging to my breasts, exciting the nipples. My husband, John, is out front, inspecting his garden, a Sunday-morning ritual, whiling away a few minutes until it’s time to leave. But I’m not looking at John. I’m looking at that other man, the real man. The sweat trickles between my breasts, my nipples harden and tingle, when he moves and I see his muscles rippling. That short- sleeved T-shirt, those tight blue jeans, the impressive bulge at the crotch…

No, this is ridiculous. It’s pathetic and disgusting. A woman like me shouldn’t be thinking of such things. Particularly since that young man’s half my age.

Though almost certainly more experienced. Looking like that, he would have to be. He’s probably had more women than I’ve had hot breakfasts. He probably knows things that I can’t even imagine, given John’s vocation and sexual inhibitions, our lack of electricity in bed.

Am I just frustrated at the thought of what I might be missing? Is that why I’ve been watching that young man for the past two weeks, ever since that construction team turned up on the plot next door? Is that why I’ve found myself pondering what it would be like if he sensed what I was thinking and decided to take his chances, walk over here, open the kitchen door and march in, to…?

No. It’s perfectly ridiculous. I’m standing here, slightly stunned by the heat, feeling languorous, dreamily sensual, having all sorts of crazy thoughts, these perverse sexual fantasies. I should be ashamed of myself. A woman in my position. And the thought that he might look over, see me looking at him, and decide to do something about it, is clearly preposterous. It’s just not going to happen.

Oh, God, I’m wrong! He’s obviously seen me standing here, looking at him, as I’ve been doing every day for the past fortnight. But this time, having seen me, he’s smiling and putting down his trowel.

Yes, he’s definitely seen me. Now he’s hitching up his jeans, emphasizing his bulging manhood, letting his hand slide across it, drawing attention to it, grinning crookedly as he stares directly at me, letting me know that he knows what I want.

Or am I simply imagining this?

No, I’m not He’s left the building site and is strolling casually towards me, grinning, heading deliberately, at a leisurely pace, for the door of my kitchen, at the rear of the house.

Oh, God, what have I done?

John’s still out front, still tending to his stupid garden, but he could walk in any moment… Walk in just as that young man opens the unlocked back door to…

Lord, what am I thinking? It must be the summer heat, this almost foreign humidity, making me feel all sensual and dreamy, encouraging these licentious, dirty thoughts, this debased wishful thinking.

Yes, that explains it. I’m a middle-aged, childless housewife, a decent, Christian woman, not particularly attractive, but I often find myself wanting to be someone else, a woman who has wild sexual experiences and suffers no guilt. Then I see that young man, so physical, so handsome, like the young Marlon Brando in his T-shirt and jeans, confident in his amoral, animalistic sexuality, and I imagine what it would be like to do it with him: to briefly feel like a younger, more desirable woman. So, yes, there’s a lot of wishful thinking. That’s what we have here.

But, oh God, it’s more than that. It must be more than wishful thinking. Because that young man’s actually opening the back door. I’m frightened that he will, but equally frightened that he won’t, concerned that he might change his mind and go back to the laying of bricks, leaving me here, still frustrated.

Yet mostly, I’ll admit, I’m frightened…surely with good cause.

My husband is outside, at the front of the house, tending his garden, and this young man is about to come in and…

Oh, God, I can’t bear this.

I should stop him, but I can’t. The heat has rendered me helpless. I’m drowsy. Too hot. My clothes are sticking to my breasts, exciting my stiffening nipples as he steps inside. Suddenly, there he is, silhouetted in the doorway, tall and broad, long legs outspread, sweat trickling over the muscles in his arms – pure maleness rampant. He stares steadily at me, looking me up and down, not saying a word,  then, satisfied that he’s doing the right thing, he grins and steps all the way in, closing the door quietly behind him, shutting out the bright sunlight.

So there he stands, in my neat country kitchen, surrounded by pots and pans, looking out of place in his working man’s clothing. With his short-sleeved white T- shirt and tight blue jeans, muscles rippling, crotch emphasised, he looks just like the young Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire.

Like sex incarnate.

My heart starts racing. I can hardly breathe. When I open my lips to say something, perhaps ask him to leave, he places his index finger to his lips – those thick, slightly brutal, sensual lips that I’ve thought about, dreamt about, for the past two weeks.

‘Don’t say a word, lady,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to say anything. I know just what you want.’

I don’t say a word.

He walks across the kitchen and then stops right in front of me. He has a crooked grin, like the young Marlon Brando’s grin, and his lips, like Marlon’s lips, are full, almost feminine, making me wet between the legs at the very thought of what they might do to me. He doesn’t say a word. He just holds that challenging grin. Then he slowly slides his hand around the back of my neck, takes hold of my hair, jerks my head back, looks me straight in the eyes, grinning, calmly taking my measure, then mashes his lips down on mine.

I feel his tongue in my mouth, licking my teeth and gums, filling my mouth with saliva, as he kisses me, passionately, almost brutally. Then I helplessly, shamelessly, respond in kind, kissing him back, pressing myself into him, writhing in his embrace, rubbing my burning belly against his groin, his hot, masculine hardness.

His hand leaves my head, moving down to my spine, the fingers outspread, his strong arm locked around me. His other hand, his free hand, is cupping my rear, squeezing my buttocks, fingering the crack. And as my legs start to tremble, threatening to give way beneath me, he pulls me tighter to him, grinding his hips, deliberately letting me feel his hard…thing…pressing into my belly.

‘Do you like that?’ he whispers, removing his lips from mine, leaning his head back to look at me, his gaze steady and mocking. ‘No,’ he adds before I can answer. ‘You don’t have to reply. I can see by the look on your face that it’s what you’ve been wanting.’

He grins as he says it, pulling me even tighter to him, then he slowly moves his hips from left to right, rubbing his belly against mine, letting me feel his heat and hardness, as he strokes and squeezes my buttocks, still fingering the crack, where, in truth, to my eternal shame, I’ve never been touched before.

I’m so excited, I can hardly breathe. My heart’s racing and I’m trembling all over, too weak to resist, filled with a desire that’s only increased by my dread of being caught.

John is out front, still tending his stupid garden, but he could walk in any moment and see us like this.

The very thought of it, though terrifying, is also exciting. Yes, come in, I find myself thinking. Catch me in the act,

John, darling. It might do you some good.

But I automatically push the young man away from me, offering token resistance despite what I’m feeling.

‘Get out of here,’ I say without conviction. ‘You want me to leave?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘right now.’

‘No,’ he says, ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘I think so.’

‘No, you don’t.’

Grinning, he slides his hand around my neck, gently stroking and pressing, then lets his fingers trail down the front of my throat, to the swelling of my bosom, then under the open collar of my blouse. He cups my breast in his hand, squeezes it, kneads the nipple, sending waves of excitement quivering through me. Then he unbuttons the blouse with his other hand, slides it down my arms as if peeling a banana, and lets it fall to the floor.

‘Nice tits,’ he says. Then he lowers his head to kiss each breast in turn, while I tremble, eyes closing, becoming senseless with desire, aware only of his lips on my skin, his hands sliding down my spine, the heat and hardness of his…thing…as he presses his belly against mine, his hips moving languorously.

‘Mmmm,’ he murmurs. ‘Nice.’

‘Yes,’ I gasp. ‘Oh, yes!’

Encouraged, he unclips my bra, lets it fall to the floor, to join the discarded blouse, then bends down to kiss and lick my naked breasts, sucking on one nipple, then the other, as if preparing to eat them. My breasts come alive, the nipples almost on fire, waves of heat radiating out from them, to travel up to my bone-dry throat and then down to my belly. That fire spreads below, making me wet and receptive, excited beyond control, with everything inside me crying out to be penetrated and filled, ravished and consumed. I want to feel his throbbing hardness, his – Oh, say it…his cock – inside me.

Nothing else matters.

With a shock of disbelief, I slide my hands around him, fingers outspread, to stroke his sweat-slicked spine, dig my nails into his skin, squeeze his firm, though quivering, buttocks, pulling him into me with greedy desperation, wanting to feel the rapid growth of his cock beneath his zipped-up blue jeans.

Now his cock feels as hard as a steel rod and I’m helplessly groaning.

‘Yeah, baby,’ he whispers.

Just like Marlon in A Streetcar Named Desire. God help me, I’m dying here.

Lord, yes…desire. I’m consumed by desire. I’m reaching down to feel his cock, wanting to cup it in my hand, to squeeze it and feel it pulsating. And when I do, when I feel it, a real cock in my real hand, even though it’s still covered with the coarse material of the blue jeans, it feels like a small, hot-blooded animal.

‘Try this for size,’ he says.

Before I can unzip him, he pushes me backwards, down onto the kitchen table, causing cups and plates to rattle, then he tugs my dress up over my hips and gropes between my spreading, slippery thighs. He strokes and squeezes me there, pressing down on my pubes with the palm of his hand, rubbing his hand to and fro, massaging me, driving me crazy, then he slips a finger under my knickers and dips it into my wet…

No, I can’t say it. That’s one of those words that John would never let me utter. Another word like ‘cock’. He’d never let me use words that might have made us excited. Crude words. Sexy words. Words deemed to be erotic or pornographic. So I could never say…

Fuck! I could never say fuck. And of course I could never use the word… Cunt!

Lord Almighty, I’ve finally done it – described my cunt as a ‘cunt’. And, even sweeter, young Marlon, my nameless stud who looks like Brando, is moving his finger in and out of my wet cunt, first a finger, then a thumb, to make me writhe and moan, a slave to whatever he might desire. Then he takes hold of my clit and plays with it while I gasp and groan helplessly.

‘God, yes, fuck me!’ I cry out. ‘In my cunt! Fill my cunt with your cock!’

He rips my knickers off, unzips himself, takes out his cock, hard, engorged and pulsing, then puts the tip of it to me – down there, where I’m wet, warm and soft – making me open out like one of John’s flowers, offering honey to the bee. Then I feel his cock moving up inside me, in my cunt, and he’s fucking me.

Yes, he’s fucking me. I can use that word at last. And just using it excites me all the more, encouraging me to raise my hips up off the table, opening my legs farther, my feet meeting on the blade of his curved spine, locking him to me. ‘Don’t stop, Marlon,’ I moan, forgetting who he is, imagining for a moment that he’s actually the real item. ‘God, just do it to me. Do what you want to me. Anything!

Any way! Just do it and do it really quick, before my husband comes in. Do anything you want, show me everything you know, and don’t stop until you hear the front door opening. Oh, Christ, oh my Lord, oh my master, I’m all yours for the taking. Fuck me blind. Fuck me rigid. God, I want you, I need you, I love you. Anything you want. Anything!’

He’s thrusting in and out, first violently, then more slowly, in deep, languid motions, moving this way, then that, touching me here and there, filling up my insides in a way that I haven’t known before…because John is so useless.

Ah, God, that’s beautiful. Ah, Jesus, give me more. Belly slapping on belly, groin to groin, as he squeezes my tits, bites my neck and puts his tongue in my mouth. Just keep doing it, don’t stop, keep going for now and all time, till death do us part.

What…?

God, no! He’s pulling out. Straightening up to look down at me. He’s grinning and letting me see what he’s got and it’s something to see. I’ve never seen a real cock close up like this before. I mean, I’ve never looked at John’s. When we do it, we’re always under the blankets and John does it furtively. Him and his damned religion. His puritan thinking. Pretending he’s not really doing it, even when he’s hard at it, though in his inexperienced, woefully inept way, held back by his many inhibitions.

No such inhibitions with Marlon. He’s looking down at me, grinning, as he curls his fingers around his cock, pumps it gently, teasing me, then leans forward to put his hand behind my head and tug me upright. I slide off the table, onto my knees, and there it is right in front of me.

He’s still holding it, thrusting it at my lips, letting me know what he wants. I’ve never done this before (it would

shock John if I tried) but right now I want to make a meal of it and so I open my lips. I’m taking it in, sucking it, licking it, trying to swallow it, and he’s holding my head with his free hand to ease it backwards and forwards. It’s so thick and smooth, so hot and hard. I feel its tip at the back of my throat and almost swoon from the feeling.

‘Yes, baby,’ he drawls, withdrawing, ‘that was nice. Now let’s try it this way.’

He slides his hands over my shoulders and down to my breasts. After squeezing my tits, he cups his hands under my armpits and raises me off my knees. When I’m standing upright, breathing heavily, feeling dizzy, wet as a swamp down below, he flips me over to press me face down on the table.

I spread my hands out to grip the sides of the table, my feet on the floor, my arse in the air. I think he wants to enter me from the rear, but he needs to prepare me.

‘Where’s the butter?’ he asks.

Instantly, I think of Marlon Brando again. This time the mature Brando of Last Tango in Paris. The infamous butter scene. Marlon and Maria, one on top of the other, him slipping his buttery finger in before penetrating her with the real thing, though still wearing his pants.

God, no, I can’t! It’s too awful to contemplate! On the other hand…

How will one learn if one doesn’t experiment? I mean, John would never attempt it. He might secretly think about it, licking his puritan lips, but I doubt that he’d have the nerve to try it. Poor John, so religious, so inhibited, that neither of us has ever had a good time between the sheets, never mind stretched out on the kitchen table, as I am right now.

‘The butter’s in the jar behind my head,’ I hear myself whispering. ‘But I don’t think…’

‘Be quiet,’ he says.

As he stretches out over my spine, trying to reach the butter-jar, the tip of his cock slides along my arse cheeks as if trying to get in before its time. It’s hot. It’s hard. My buttocks twitch in response. I hear the butter-jar rattling, feel his chest on my shoulder-blades, then he straightens up again, breathing heavily, until he’s standing behind me. I close my eyes and clench my teeth and hear a groaning that can only come from me. He pushes into me, slow and hard, and at first it feels too tight, but then, as I shiver with pain and pleasure, he pushes in all the way.

My thoughts scatter and spin.

Oh, God, this can’t be true. I can’t really be doing this. I’ve often thought about it, wondering what it would be like, but it’s not the kind of thing that a decent, Christian woman dwells upon.

I think I’m going to die. Now I’m nothing but sensation. I turn my face to the side and look out through the front window to see John bending over some flowers, sniffing them lovingly. He loves those flowers, I’m convinced, even more than he loves me. He loves me in his own way, but doesn’t know how to please me, because he wouldn’t want to believe what it is that I truly need. He’s a Christian, a puritan, and that makes him strictly limited. I’m deprived because he thinks it would be depraved to do what I dream about.

God, he’s just turned to look back at the front door. He can’t come in now!

Yet the fear of that thought only makes me more excited so I clutch the sides of the table even tighter, groaning with delight.

‘Don’t stop now!’ I cry out.

Thank God, he doesn’t stop. He just moves ever faster, thrusting ever more violently, breathing harshly and

grunting like an ape having a romp in the jungle. I’m feeling really horny now. Like an animal in heat. I couldn’t stop him now if I tried, but I’ve no intention of trying.

He’s standing right behind me, thrusting in and out, a stallion. Leaning forward, he runs his fingers through my hair, then slips his thumb between my lips and starts moving it in and out, just like his cock in my cunt, making me feel that I’m sucking on a second cock.

Instantly, I have visions of two men at me at the same time, one behind me, the other in front, and as his thumb moves in and out, as I hungrily lick and suck, imagining the thumb to be bigger and harder than it actually is, he continues to attack my rear passage with the real thing. He’s reducing me to a pulp, protoplasm, pure sensation, turning me into an animal that knows nothing but physical need, wanting only to satisfy its base instincts, wallowing in the mud.

‘Yes!’ I beg. ‘Yes!’

Then I see John again. He’s wiping dirt from his hands as he glances at the house. That means he’s about to come back in and tell me it’s time for us to leave. The very thought of it fills me with panic and the panic excites me more.

‘Don’t stop!’ I cry out in desperation. ‘Oh, God, don’t stop now!’

He doesn’t stop. Instead, he pulls out of my rear passage and flips me onto my back, preparing to slip into me that way. But he doesn’t get the chance. I’m now awash in my own juices. When I see him standing there, his huge cock thrusting arrogantly out of his unzipped jeans, I simply have to taste it again. So I slide off the table and fall onto my knees to slip my lips over his rigid tool and start gobbling frantically.

‘Oh, boy,’ he says, ‘that’s your husband out there. And I think he’s about to come back in. Christ, I’ve got to get out of here!’

‘Not yet!’ I cry, releasing his cock from my mouth, then I stand up and fall back onto the table, spreading my legs.

‘Oh, please God, just finish it!’

As I frantically reach up to pull him down upon me, the fear of being caught by my husband lances through me, making it all the more exciting. Young Marlon falls upon me, all muscle and bone. He’s biting my neck and his tongue is in my mouth and then I’m licking his ears, nose and throat as my legs lock around his rocking hips and my feet drum frantically on his buttocks. His belly smacks on my belly, his cock fills me up again. We move together, one on top of the other, my groin rising to meet his groin as he presses down upon me and pushes brutally into me.

I’m sobbing and groaning, whispering, ‘Fuck me! Don’t stop!’ as my husband, that dear man, that innocent buffoon, commences the short walk to the front door, about to enter the house.

‘Now!’ I shriek. ‘Come now!’

Marlon comes like Niagara Falls, like a dam breaking loose, and I come at the same time, spasm piling on spasm, everything pouring out as it’s never done before, satisfying me for the first time in my life. A sexual Nirvana, heaven- sent, a dream come true. And we both shudder convulsively and collapse into each other. And I’m just returning to earth, getting my senses back, when I hear the front door opening and realise that John, my dear husband, is entering the house.

Luckily, he’s entering through the front door, two rooms away from here.

Marlon pulls out on the instant, tucks his wilting cock back in, whispers, ‘You’re terrific,’ zips himself up as he

hurries to the back door. I roll off the table, sexually satisfied, feeling terrific, depraved on account of being deprived throughout the long years of marriage. Marlon leaves by the back door. I adjust my rumpled clothing. I quickly comb my hair and touch up my lipstick (always modestly, respectably, applied), then rearrange the crockery on the table, until everything looks normal again.

Which, of course, it is.

Because none of that happened. It’s only what I wanted to happen. What I often desperately wish and dream might happen.

I’m looking through the back window and can see that young man out there, a vision of pure masculinity in his T- shirt and blue jeans. He’s certainly not Marlon Brando. In fact, he looks quite ordinary as he lazily lays the bricks of that new house. He looks common, a bit of rough trade, but that’s what makes him sexy.

John has just made his way from the living room, through the dining room, and is now standing in the kitchen doorway, smiling lovingly at me. He has a kind face, but he’s prematurely bald, has a burgeoning pot belly, and  wears a black suit and clerical collar. He’s the one who’ll be giving the sermon and it’s rarely exciting.

‘Time for church, dear,’ he says.

‘I’ll just fix my hair and put on my hat,’ I reply. ‘I’ll meet you outside, darling.’

‘Excellent,’ he says.

When he leaves the kitchen, I look through the back window and see young Marlon Brando out there, laying brick upon brick in the rising heat. He knows I’m watching him. He sometimes smiles in my direction. Some day, if I get up the nerve, I just might invite him in for a drink – a glass of lemonade or a cup of tea, maybe something stronger. And if I ever get up the nerve to do that, who knows what might happen?

But right now, alas, I have to pin up my hair, cover it with my broad, respectable hat, then put my arm through the arm of my dear husband, so loving, so boring, and let him walk me to church, this sunny Sunday morning.

I’m a decent, Christian woman, after all, and we’re the kind who have to keep up appearances.

All the rest is a daydream.

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I’d like to blame it on the wine but I’m not much of a liar. I will chalk it up to a really good sweaty romp and then a rather erotic thriller. The movie got me going all over again but by the time the good parts were over, it was time for Steven to go to bed.

‘Good night, love.’ He ruffled my short blonde hair and gave me a long lingering kiss. ‘We need to do that again tomorrow but for now I’m off to bed. Early morning.’

And he was gone and I was horny. Again. I finished my wine, flipped through a magazine, and read a sex survey. That didn’t help. Basically, I stewed in my own juices, so to speak.

I was just about to give up. Throw in the towel. When it hit me. Again, maybe the wine, maybe the thriller, maybe the fuck. I really don’t know what did it. I didn’t care. I grabbed the pad of sticky notes from the desk and began writing furiously. When I went to bed, it was stuck to the coffee pot. My little love note for Steven.

What do you want? Your wildest fantasy (or fantasies). Anything you want. Spill!

Love, Loren

I had forgotten the note in the morning. It was Saturday so I lingered in bed. I was sad, I’ll admit, that Steven had to go to work. His side of the bed, cold and unoccupied was enough to make me want to call him and tell him to come home. Come home and fuck your woman. In my mind’s eye I could see myself dialling my cell. I could hear myself making this giggling but authoritative command. He had to work, though, and I was fine with that. I was just lonely.

I ran my hands over my soft negligee. Felt my nipples turn to hard pink pearls under my fingers. My pussy went soft and wet and I let out a sigh. Somehow, as horny as I was, the thought of rubbing one off alone in bed was disappointing. I would go downstairs and make some coffee and wait until Steve got home. Then I would attack him like a horny mountain lion.

I was still laughing at the thought of a hormone-induced attack on my studly guy when I wandered into the kitchen. There it was. Hot pink. Innocent to look at. A sticky note for me.

TO    SEE    YOU    WITH    ANOTHER     WOMAN.    NO TOUCHING FOR ME. JUST WATCHING.

LOVE, STEVE

Somehow the sight of his answer, boldly printed all in caps, did me in. I did it right there. Clutching at the pantry door, fingers working furiously and wetly under my nighty. It only took a few minutes. My fingers diving greedily into my humid wet cunt, my thumb rubbing roughly but expertly over my clit. I stared at the words as I came in one long, delicious spasm. Little animal sounds rushed out of my throat and I collapsed on the cold linoleum in a glowing, warm heap.

I needed to leave him notes more often.

My fingers still tacky and shaking, my knees still knocking, I claimed the hot pink square and stuck it firmly in my day planner. I made my coffee, enjoyed my afterglow and mentally calculated how many hours I had to wait for him to get home.

‘I’m home!’ Steven’s face lit with a tired but happy grin. ‘Thank God! Oooph-’

The last part was my fault. I launched myself at him like a lusty groupie and kissed him long and hard. I pushed my tongue past his soft lips and tangled it with his. I plundered that hot sensuous mouth and pushed my wet pussy against his belt buckle, my legs tightly clamped around his lean middle.

‘Did you miss me?’ he laughed as I slid my tongue down his neck, nuzzling him at the base where his cologne seems to settle. A nice warm, manly scent that hovers in the hollow of his throat.

His big hands palmed my ass and he groaned. Shifting me a little lower so my crotch was level with his, I could feel the growing bulge of his awakening cock.

‘I liked your note,’ I sighed and pushed myself against his hard-on. Shameless hussy. That’s me.

‘I can tell.’

‘Come on, come on, come on,’ I was practically barking as I set my feet on the cold floor and pulled him toward the sofa. ‘Off with the jeans! Off with the shirt!’ I directed, stripping my leggings and sweatshirt off.

‘As long as you don’t say, ‘Off with his head!’,’ he chuckled. But he obeyed. He soon stood before me completely naked, his beautiful cock a blushing purple and standing straight up toward his flat belly.

‘On the sofa!’ I could hear my demanding tone but couldn’t seem to control it. I was in a fog. A thick fog of lust and need. I always wanted Steven, but right now I needed him. My body thumped with a pulse of arousal and craving. I need him. Hard cock. Hot cunt. His. In mine. Now.

I straddled him, the soft green sofa cushions engulfing my knees. Without preamble I sank down onto his dick, sighing with what sounded like relief to my own ears. Within three desperate strokes, my thighs were soaked from my own juices.

‘Correspondence is inspiring,’ Steven muttered as his eyes rolled back in his head. He looked like he was in pain.

‘Am I hurting you?’ I grunted. It was all I could manage. I admit, though, I didn’t slow my frenzied pace for even a moment.

‘Fuck no!’ He grabbed my hips as if for emphasis. Big fingers digging into my soft, flushed skin and propelling me faster with his strong hands. His hips pumped up as he drove into me.

‘Best note ever…’ I mumbled as my cunt seized up, gripped him greedily and then fluttered around him as my orgasm roared through all of me. Even the roots of my hair tingled and I swore I heard myself cry out, ‘Evvvvvver…!’

Steven yanked me against him and I felt him pump into me. Hot wet come. Filling me. For the first time ever I really felt it, the incredibly warm emptying of his body into mine.

I collapsed, exhausted and panting onto his chest; our breathing creating a nice little cha-cha number.

‘Sorry about the ninja attack,’ I giggled but my wet insides still fluttered and pulsed around his deflating cock. It would work for every last flicker of pleasure, it seemed.

‘Loren, you can go ninja on my ass any day of the week.’ And then he kissed me.

Steven went to bed early that night. I think I wore him out. I weighed the pros and cons and then my mind flashed to that first seductive moment of my body engulfing his and my mind was made up. Before I locked up for the night, I grabbed my faithful sticky notes and wrote another. I was humming merrily as I shut off the kitchen light. I could see its little square shadow as I left. I smiled, knowing what it said.

What else! I’m begging. Hands and knees. Tell me.

Love, Loren

I climbed into bed, snuggled up against a loudly snoring hunk of man and drifted off to sleep. Somehow I couldn’t wipe the goofy grin off my face even as I slipped into dreamland.

Sunday morning didn’t so much break in as creep in. Gray, murky light filled the bedroom. Another overcast February morning. I stretched and yawned loudly. My hands found the cool empty spot on the sheets where Steven should be. A momentary blip of sadness skittered across my internal radar screen and I sighed. Then I remembered the sticky note I had left and I tore down to the kitchen. I didn’t even bother to put on slippers or a robe. I didn’t care if I froze. I wanted to see my note.

My bare feet slapped the cold linoleum as I ran to the coffee pot. There it was! I was so excited. My belly did a flip and my nipples grew hard.

I claimed my hot pink prize and read.

I WANT TO FUCK YOU IN PUBLIC. MAYBE THE DARK SMOKY CORNER OF THE CLUB. UP AGAINST THE WALL. HANDS UNDER YOUR DRESS. YOUR LEG WRAPPED AROUND MY WAIST…

LOVE, STEVE

Oooooh. I caught my breath, sank into a kitchen chair and once again settled in for some self-abuse. My fingers made quick work of my swollen clit. Two fingers plunged into my flooded pussy as an accompanying finger played a rousing number of God-I-am-turned-on on my clit. I stared at the words, read the sentence over and over until my insides were so tight it was nearly painful. Then I focused on my favourite sentence: MY HANDS UNDER YOUR DRESS. These were his hands under my nightgown. Steven’s hands. Under there. For all to see…

The orgasm left me bedraggled and flushed. A stupid smile on my face. I drank my coffee, puttered and counted the minutes. When he came through the door I was waiting for him. Only this time he was prepared.

I wasn’t very creative, I’ll admit. I once again did my animalistic pounce the moment he shut the front door. Only this time, he promptly dropped his briefcase and held his hands out. At least I wasn’t afraid I’d hurt him this time.

‘You’re wearing a dress!’ he exclaimed around my wandering, plundering tongue. He kissed me back and laughed against my lips.

‘Yes, yes!’ I hissed, ‘Now put your hands under it.’

‘Ah, our missives have done a number on you again.’ His tone was teasing but his hands were big and warm as they slid under my short dress. Goosebumps and baby hairs along my spine sprang to attention and my pussy did that persistent little thump, thump, thump! that signals impending orgasm. Dear Lord! He hadn’t even touched me yet. Well, none of the naughty bits.

I didn’t stop to ask what a missive was. I simply wrapped my legs around his waist and shoved my pelvis against his. I ground against the erection I found there, refraining from whooping in joy. Barely. ‘Sofa, sofa, sofa!’ I took up the chant as my brain seemed to short- circuit.

There it was again. An overwhelming need. Urge. Compulsion. I had to have him in me and it had to be now. Steven complied. Smart man. This time there was no upper hand for me. The moment we hit the sofa, Steven flipped me on my back and pinned my arms above my head. His other hand slid and groped and pushed its way greedily under my dress. His breath beat warmly against my throat as he practically panted.

‘Good Lord, what has gotten into us?’ he growled.

Steven didn’t stop for an answer. My two thin wrists held tightly in his strong hand, he slid down my body and buried his face in my pussy. Like a crazy man he snuffled and licked and ate at me until I was making little whoop, whoop sounds. What the hell was that? Didn’t know, didn’t care. I let my thighs fall open and he burrowed deeper, shoving the rigid tip of his tongue into my tight, wet entrance. I clamped my knees around his head as his perfect lips worked their way back up to my clit. I came so hard, I feared I’d given him a head injury. But he was fine, forcing his way between my legs roughly. His cock was hard and already leaking a steady stream of pre-come. I licked my lips and he allowed me one good swallow and one good stroke of my tongue over his slit before he whipped it away. He got between my thighs.

‘Fuck.’ That was it. That’s all he said as he slid into me. My cunt, still echoing from my orgasm, latched on and clenched him tightly. Little aftershocks of pleasure lit up my insides.

It felt so good. Unbearably good. I clamped down. I made my pussy as tight as I could until the friction of his thrusts nearly drove me insane.

‘Fuck,’ he said again.

A few more frantic pounds and his body went rigid in my arms. I felt his cock swell even larger for just a moment before he jerked against me and came with a long low moan. I joined him. Just watching his face and the power in his body as he came was enough to shove me right over the edge into another orgasm.

After a sweaty moment of tangled laughing, he stared up into my eyes. ‘You’re not drugging me, are you?’

I giggled until I thought I would cry. ‘Nope. No drugs.’

Steven kissed me on the lips, the nose, the forehead. He climbed from me, steadied himself and ran a hand through his thick black hair. ‘Beer? You want a beer? I need a beer. I’ll get us some beers.’

I could only grin as he wandered into the kitchen buck naked and chuckling.

Now I was preoccupied. All I could think about was what might be going on in that handsome head of his. As usual, he went to bed long before me. I sipped a glass of Cabernet and watched a little TV and tried not to think of crisp square pieces of paper that could be stuck to virtually any smooth surface. I cracked. I knew I would.

Before bed, I wrote my now normal love note and affixed it in its usual place. My notes had become as intense as my sexual urges.

And!? What else? I need more!

Your slut, Loren

Monday morning dawned just as bleak. It was even more depressing because my alarm went off at 6:30. A work day. Yippee! I turned it off and stretched, taking a moment to sniff at Steven’s pillow. The warm, familiar scent of him clung to the pillowcase and I felt a stirring of my now ever- present arousal. Then I remembered my note.

I barely noticed that it was snowing outside my kitchen window as I yanked my pink prize from the coffee pot.

I WANT TO SHOVE YOU UNDER A VERY ELEGANT TABLE IN A VERY ELEGANT RESTAURANT. PUT MY COCK BETWEEN THOSE PERFECT PINK LIPS AND HAVE YOU BLOW ME UNTIL I BREAK MY WATER GLASS.

YOUR SEX MONKEY, STEVE

Ah! Just the thought. The wonderful taboo thought of doing that in one of the very nice, very posh restaurants we frequented was enough to bring a warm sluice of fluids between my thighs. This was too much. This was not a masturbate in the kitchen note. This called for the big guns.  I eyed the clock, calculated my allotted time to get to work. I nearly broke my neck getting up the steps to the bedroom. I opened my middle dresser drawer and rummaged until I found it. Ahhhh. My vibrator.

All pretty and pink and smooth and jelly filled and vibrating; at my mercy and very talented. I clutched the note, flipped the ON button and dove onto the bed. No lube needed, I was soaked, I worked it inside myself and let out a blissful sigh as it danced inside of me. I closed my eyes and saw myself in my most elegant black dress, strappy black heels, under the table. Dark and warm. Steven’s naked cock. His hand on the back of my head. Pushing me. Urging me.

Not always gentle. Fucking my mouth. Me under there. In the dark. Warm and cosy and cave-like. Licking up  his shaft. His spasm in my mouth. Drinking in his warm milky come.

I gave the vibrator a run for its money as I came with a bellow and a long lusty laugh. My heart was beating so hard my eardrums vibrated. I climbed from bed, my body like taffy. Warm and happy. Completely loose. I’ve never been so happy to get ready for work.

The day at work was a treat. I was so content I just didn’t care. I didn’t care that they screwed up my pay-check. I didn’t care that the voice recognition system had made a grievous error in a legal report. It should have read: ‘The client was injured at work while dragging a trash can’. What the system entered was: ‘The client was injured at work by a dragon with a tin can’. This should have been enough to send me into a tailspin. Oddly enough, I found it extremely humorous. The sigh of relief from my assistant was audible.

Even rush hour traffic didn’t bother me. Sitting and inching my way home didn’t set me off like it normally would. Every time I had to sit and wait, I pulled Steven’s sticky note out of my day planner and read it. And got hotter. Hornier. Crazed.

This time he was waiting for me. He grabbed me the moment I shut the door, took my bag and pushed me to my knees. Then, never taking his eyes from mine, he unzipped his khakis, freed his cock and pushed the already engorged head against my lips.

I opened for him compliantly and played my tongue over the weeping slit. Then I fell on him as if I were starved. And I was. The taste of his salty warm skin on my tongue was heaven. The hot hard length of his erection, like suede covered marble. So hard and yet so pliant. He tasted like sex and love and man.

I licked my palm several times, plunged his cock back in my mouth and moved my slick fist in tandem. Steven buried his hands in my hair and rocked against me. Moving back on his heels, head tilted back, eyes closed. All harsh breath and rumbling growls deep in his throat. The urgency in his sounds sent a thrilling shiver down my spine and I sucked harder and deeper than ever before. I couldn’t settle for anything less than making him lose control.

I loosened my throat and burrowed my nose against his pubic bone. Let him slide all the way home in my throat and I palmed his balls and let my middle finger skim his perineum. That did it.

Steven roared, ‘Loren!’ as he came and just the sound of my name tearing out of him like that soaked my panties.

Steven scooped me up and collapsed in the overstuffed arm chair with me on his lap. He kissed me, opening my mouth with his tongue. He kissed me deeply until we both tasted like him and warm wet kisses.

‘Think we’ll ever do any of them?’ I asked, squirming just a little in my wet panties.

Steven shifted under me. My squirming had done wonders. I could feel him getting hard already. He acknowledged my observation by pushing his cock against my ass. ‘Well, I’d say just talking about them is keeping us busy at the moment,’ he said with a grin. He pumped his hips up again and I noticed that hardening had turned to hard.

‘I’d like to try them all some day,’ I laughed, squirming just to be evil. ‘But you’re right. Just talking about it is making me a sex addict.’

‘Well, if you’re curious,’ he said, sliding his hand up under my skirt and hooking a finger in my panties, ‘ I have a few more.’ Then he plunged two blunt fingers into my cunt and I shuddered around him. ‘For instance-’

I shoved my palm against his lips and pushed my pussy against his hand. Forcing him to probe and push deep inside of me. ‘Don’t tell me! Don’t tell me!’ I sighed, squirming some more. ‘Leave me a note.’

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