by Ella Hilton
It was now 11.45 and sleep overcame Elizabeth as she drifted off, too relaxed to resist, her body had enjoyed quite a workout. It was 12.30 when she was awoken by the flash of light and crash of thunder overhead, Richard was still not back.
The Nomad
He pulls up to the house and parks, checking the address for the third time. He checks himself in the rearview mirror again before taking a deep breath and stepping into the street. The evening has turned cold after a mild day. The wind had died down but there is the smell of snow in the air now. His cock grows hard even as he is ascending the steps of the front porch. As he goes to knock he sees the note on the door commanding him to just, "Cum on in."
He hesitates and looks back to his car parked there on the street before taking a deep breath and pushing the front door open. The lights inside are off but there are candles burning throwing just enough light to show her silhouetted against a doorway to another room off of what must be the living room. "Hello, lover," she whispers and then walks towards him. He backs into the door to push it closed behind him as she closes in on him. She brings her right hand up to his face as she kisses him, but he doesn't return it. She presses her body against his, pushing her ample chest into him, daring him to bury his head into it.
Instead he continues to shy away and she presses harder into him. Her frustration grows. "What are you afraid of, honey? You didn't come all the way down to just stand there did you?" She tries to kiss him with more passion. Still her efforts are fruitless, but she can feel his stiff member. Her hand reaches down to feel that bulge in his jeans. "Baby, I know you want it. I want you and I know that you want me," she pleads. She undoes the button on his waistband and begins to slide herself down his body as she slides down the zipper, but he pulls her back erect. "Why?" He doesn't answer.
"I need you!" Her voice has become a bit frantic and one hand is now under her robe caressing her own tits and then sliding lower to press into her wet slit. "I want you to fuck me!" she wails. "C'mon! Fuck me!"
Suddenly she is being wheeled and slammed against the wall of the entryway. Her robe is open and one of his hands is squeezing her right breast. She gasps as the other hand takes the hand she was rubbing herself with and pushes both their fingers together into her gaping pussy. "Is this what you want, you little cunt?" he growls into her ear. Her response is only a whimper.
His left hand moves to clutch her ass and bring her leg up onto his hip as his other hand continues to force her to frig herself. She's clutching his neck and moaning. "Yess.... yesss..."
The next moan is caught in her throat as he grasps her arm and practically throws her from the entrance way to the side of the couch. She tries to look back to see what his intentions are, but before she can make out what they are, his hand is on the back of her head, bending her over the armrest of the couch and shoving her face into the cushions of the sofa. Her arms splayed out in front of her, she tries to push herself up, but he keeps weight on her back as his other hand finally unleashes his engorged cock. She's struggling to turn her head to breathe. He doesn't notice as his legs push hers apart. She tries to let go a scream as his thick, hard shaft thrusts into her hungry pussy. He notices her head struggling to turn to find some fresh air and he grips her auburn curls and pulls to force her head back.
"FUCK ME!" she screams when she is finally able to fill her lungs. He obliges by pistoning his cock in and out of her with fury. His one hand grips her hip and then slides in front and under her to spread her pussy lips so that his balls slap up against her clit. They are two animals with their grunts and gasps, his low and throaty and hers high-pitched and staccato.
He begins to buck wildly and with a final grunt unleashes a torrent of hot cum inside of her. She gasps as she feels his cock explode. Before either can get their breath, he withdraws and then throws her onto her back onto the couch. He nearly leaps over the side to end up with his face between her legs, his hands spreading apart her thighs and his tongue delving in to her just-fucked cunt to lap out the seed he just planted.
She is writhing beneath him. His tongue pushes deeper into her, and she begins to play with her nipples. "Oh, God, Jim! Eat my pussy!" She squeezes her tits and pushes her hips up to increase the tension between her clit and his mouth. "Suck my clit!" she commands. Again he obliges and takes that button between his lips while he pushes two fingers into her sodden hole.
Finally, it is too much for her and as her dam bursts she clutches his head in her thighs and lets loose a scream that echoes throughout the empty house. She bucks against his face with each aftershock her orgasm sends through her. His chin is drenched with her juices, and he slides up her body to kiss her now, letting her taste her own flavor and smell her own aroma.
"Oh, Anne." His voice is gentle now. "Anne, I needed that so badly. Needed you so badly."
"You should have come by sooner."
"I tried to resist. I have people who count on me. Obligations."
"You have an obligation to yourself. Be happy, Jim."
"This is the happiest I've felt in a long time." He kisses her and runs a hand down her side. Within minutes their kisses go from gentle to firm, and his cock springs back to life.
She moans as his lips close around her firm nipple and his tongue begins to circle it. She reaches down to bring his cock back to life and finds it already hard so guides it back in to her pussy. She gasps as he pushes back in.
This time their love-making is focused and deliberate. He pushes as deep into her as possible before slowly withdrawing almost completely. She takes him in completely like taking in the breadth of a starry night and then clings to him when it feels he is on the verge of leaving her. They continue for what seems like hours, this slow, purposeful fucking.
Feeling like he wants to be even deeper he drops one foot to the floor and pushes her thighs back so her knees are almost to her tits and his cock is filling her more deeply. She can't take the slow pace much longer and begins trying to increase the pace at which she is rocking back down into him. Her moans become cries of yearning. "Yes, Jim. Oh, fuck me. Fuck me hard, please!"
With only a bit more urging his weight is fully upon her, her legs up on his shoulders, his shaft plunging straight down to hammer at her hole. "Mmm, Anne, my little whore. . . my little. . . fucking . . .whore. You fuck so. . . fucking. . . good!"
When they come there is an eruption of writhing and screaming and shuddering and finally they lie together spent.
"I forgot where I was." He shakes his head. "I mean, that's not what I meant to say. What I mean is I forgot everything else. I forgot home and work and the stress and the boredom."
"Shh. It's ok. You should. Don't worry about those things when you are here. I will be your oasis from them."
"Thank you, Anne."
She kisses his forehead and tries to believe that the next twenty minutes can last twenty years.
Frank Sinatra
"Frank Sinatra had a massive johnson."
Sarah looked up from her copy of Marie-Claire at her husband nestled in his armchair reading the Daily Telegraph. She furrowed her brow quizzically.
"It says so here. He was incredibly well-endowed in the trouser department. His crowning glory was a real whopper!"
"Was it, Phil dear?" Sarah remarked, lifting herself up slightly but not able to disguise the smile that flickered across her face. Nor, she was sure, a flash of excitement at the thought of a well-endowed Frank Sinatra.
"These singers have pretty big john thomases. Except Elvis, of course. Tight foreskin. All he could do was dry-hump. Not a whole lot of shaking going on there. No wonder he had such tight trousers!"
"Frank's trousers weren't tight," Sarah mused.
"They couldn't be, could they?" Phil agreed, standing up and letting his newspaper fall to the floor. "It wouldn't do, if you had a trouser snake of his dimensions!"
Sarah felt Phil's hands land on her shoulder. She looked up at his face.
"
Just imagine it, eh?" Phil continued, a lustful smile breaking the contours of his face. "Frank Sinatra. No wonder Ava Gardner went for him! And she knew a thing or two about lurve!"
Sarah smiled. Not that Phil was such an expert really.
Her husband tightened his grip on Sarah's shoulders and brought his mouth down to peck little dry kisses on her cheeks, on her forehead and on her lips.
"That man! The bobby-soxers! If they knew!"
Phil swivelled round and loomed above his wife. Sarah looked up at him, studying with interest the excitement that illuminated his eyes.
"Perhaps they did know, dear," Sarah agreed, her lips slightly pouting and a slight heave escaping from her breast.
"That'd explain a lot, wouldn't it?" Phil agreed, leaning over Sarah, his legs between hers and a foolish grin on his face.
"I'm sure it does, dear," Sarah agreed, placing an open palm on his trouser front. Phil was clearly no Frank Sinatra, but there was an undeniable stirring inside his Gap chinos.
"So he really did it his way! What it would be to be a stranger meeting him on a night!"
Sarah mused momentarily about Frank. She enjoyed those CDs they'd bought cheap at Woolworth's, especially In the Wee Small Hours and Only the Lonely. What she wouldn't have done for Frank to ask her to fly with him. Or to call her his funny valentine. Or to take her round his kind of town.
But there was a more pressing need to address.
Sarah squeezed the hard rod in Phil's boxers.
"Yes," she said softly.
"Yes?" pleaded Phil.
"Yes!" she assented.
And then the fumbling, as gallantly (for a change) Phil undid one by one the buttons on Sarah's blouse while she pressed her hand hard on Phil's throbbing manhood, keen that it shouldn't lose that proof of love and affection which she had once enjoyed so frequently and so regularly,
And then the disinvestment, as shirt followed blouse, chinos followed culottes, trainers slipped and espadrilles kicked off. Until the moment that widened Phil's pupils to nearly obscure all trace of the green-grey cornea, as the bra and vest accompanied the boxers and knickers in that final inelegant fumble that meant that every last obstacle was gone and there was only one thing left to do.
And that was to fuck.
Which Phil did with a sudden and irrepressible thrust, all thought of foreplay discarded as he surrendered himself to the need to bury his weapon of manly virulence in the shaft where he so often said it belonged.
"Imagine Ava Gardner being fucked by Frank," commented Phil, his penis thrusting back and forth, his buttocks clutched in Sarah's clawed fingers, his face close to his wife's.
And indeed Sarah was imagining just that as Phil thrust away, his more modest member no match she was sure for the crooner who, if he made love with the same skill as he sang, holding those notes for such a deliciously long time, relishing every moment of every syllable, would have shamed her husband rather more than in just crude physical dimensions.
Conversation became impossible as there was thrust after thrust as Phil pushed inside her, his penis pushing open the folds of Sarah's vagina rather more than usual in their occasional lovemaking, his sweat pouring off his forehead, shining his fifty pence sized bald spot, the sweat from Sarah's bosom sloshing against that entangled in the curls of Phil's chest hairs.
But although talk was impossible, Sarah's mind could wander. And not only to thoughts of the man with the strangely vulnerable smile and the confident voice, but to another who was also well-endowed and who had taught Sarah a love that Phil for all his exertion, let alone his perspiration, could never match.
Thrust after thrust. Each one a mere echo of the other lovemaking that Sarah yearned for so often, pencilling in, but only in her mind as a real pencil mark might be seen, those occasions never as often as she'd like when she and David would, on the same couch (and once even the marital bed), fuck in a way that Phil was never able.
Sarah looked down her body at that strangely distant penis thrusting inside her, the sensations so vivid and strong, but curiously outside of her. And Phil's penis was so much more slender, such a feeble affair compared to the animal thrusts from David's huge, Frank Sinatra-proportioned penis.
And so soon! Although Sarah fancied she'd come a little. Not a lot. Not like with David. But enough. Something anyway. Phil released his load inside her, his penis withdrawing so very quickly, a trail of pale semen leading from his deflating glans and leaving its trail in Sarah's pubic hairs and upper thighs, while also shining on the thicker hairs of his legs.
Phil leaned over and kissed his wife.
"Fuck! That was great!"
Sarah smiled.
"Did you enjoy it, dear?"
Sarah nodded.
But what she couldn't tell her husband was that she enjoyed it rather more with his best friend and the best man at their wedding.
And that in comparison Phil was very much Elvis Presley to David's Frank Sinatra.
Blood Red Roses
Amanda stood quietly on the doorstep of his house. He was taking forever to answer the door, she thought to herself, her stomach in turmoil. While they had been dating for about a month, and had been together before, tonight was going to be something special. Tonight, he had consented to be her dominant, to take utter control of her and the situation, though he'd never done that sort of thing before. It would be a night of exploration for both of them, because while being submissive was a thing she craved, she too had never participated in anything of that nature. She had no idea what to expect from him.
He answered the door with a deep red rose in his hand. He used it to brush her cheek softly, and then beckoned her into the house. He had prepared a light meal, but he insisted that she serve it, and to wait until he was done before she was permitted to eat. She smiled and did so willingly, knowing this was only the beginning of the evening. The table had continued the theme of the rose: spaghetti with a deep red sauce, strawberries, and 4 more red roses in a vase on the table.
After she had eaten, under his watchful and silent eye, he led her to the bedroom. It would serve as the dungeon for tonight's entertainment. The sheets on his four-poster bed were black, and strewn with red rose petals. Beside the bed was a table with another vase of the red roses. Also on the table lay the tools of the evening, the shiny metal and dark leather gleaming in the light of the candles burning all around the room.
He walked over to the table and picked up four pairs of handcuffs. He ordered her to strip, and after she did so, had her stand at the foot of the bed. She shivered in anticipation under his stare as he looked over her, evaluating her. She had, of course, been with him naked before, but this time was more personal. She somehow felt more than naked under his gaze.
He had her spread her legs, and her arms above her head. Then, he methodically handcuffed her to the two posts that framed the foot of the bed. The reach was tight enough that she could not lean forward or back, but could only stand up, perfectly straight.
"Our safeword tonight is roses," he whispered to her, "but I will be very disappointed in you if I have to use it. A good slave takes what her master gives her."
With that he walked back over to the table. He picked up a black leather flail, and brought it over to stand in front of her. He showed her the flail, and she shuddered a little, afraid of how it would feel against her flesh, but already feeling herself getting wet with the anticipation of what was to come. He waved it around in front of her before bringing it down sharply on her lower stomach when she wasn't expecting it. Her breath hissed with pain, but she refused to cry out.
"Good," he said, "I'm glad you could handle that so well. We'll see how you handle what I have next in store."
With that, he walked back to the table, and put down the flail. She tried to crane her neck to see what he next picked, but she was held to tightly to see. After what seemed like an eternity he came back into her line of sight, holding one of the long stemmed r
oses from the table. Ever so softly, he trailed in down her cheek, her neck, her breasts. The touch was ever so light, barely there, and she tried to squirm away from the tickling, but the handcuffs held her fast. The soft touch continued down her abdomen until it stopped at her clitoris. There he paused, continuing the unbearable tickling.
She tried to pull away, the sensation was intense, she could feel it bringing her close. She closed her eyes and gasped for breath, when suddenly, the sensation stopped. She opened her eyes to see the rose reversed, and the stem, still thorny, slashed her between her legs. The pain was harsh, and she felt small prickles of blood form on her clitoris and labia. She gasped as the slashes came again, but they felt so good through the pain. He switched the rose again, using the petals to wipe away the blood and sooth her sore clitoris, bringing her close to the edge again, and then lifted to the rose to his lips and delicately tasted the blood which stained the petals a deeper red.
