by Zane
His breathing quickened and his moaning competed with hers. He licked his way to her navel, probed it briefly, then swirled his tongue lower, much lower. He lifted her legs up and farther apart and went down. His tongue began its delightful torture at the base of her crotch, then moved up slowly between her thighs, stopping just outside where she most wanted it. Alternating from side to side, using the top of his tongue, he drove her to sexual madness. She grasped both sides of his head, placed his tongue directly between her legs, and guided him as he licked and swirled upward. His mouth found her clit, causing her hips to lunge uncontrollably as she groaned and moaned and mumbled nonsensically.
Within a minute her moaning soared to a scream and she climaxed against his tongue; her entire body radiated with painfully intense pleasure. He completed the fury of her spasms by keeping steady pressure and strokes against her convulsive thrashing until the last of the continuous orgasm left her fighting for air. Releasing his head, she dropped her arms limply to her sides.
He remained in position for a moment, keeping his tongue pressed against her clit while inserting his forefinger inside her, moving it slowly in and out. She felt the last vestiges of her contractions thunder sweetly within as her pussy involuntarily grasped his finger; she purred low moans of unbelievable satisfaction.
When her quivering abated, he returned to her side and said, “Don’t let anybody ever tell you you’re not sexy as hell. You look good, feel good, smell good, and taste good. You fucking blow my mind.”
He held her in his arms, landing soft kisses across her face and down her neck. His erection had not softened. After the pleasure he had just given her, she could not deny him anything, nor did she want to.
“I want you inside me now,” she whispered, and rolled him to his back, straddling his body. She grasped his penis and slid the head against her outer wetness before dipping it into her velvet sheath. She felt him respond, push slightly, and her desire rose from a smoldering kindle to a merciless inferno. Her inner walls burned in anticipation of complete fulfillment. Despite her profuse wetness, he made no progress past a couple of centimeters. Though she longed for all of him, she realized she was afraid of his size. If he wasn’t a gentleman, he could hurt her badly.
“Relax,” he whispered, “I’ll be very gentle.” He cupped his hands under her buttocks, lifting her slightly and kissing her passionately. She took deep breaths, let her muscles relax, and pressed down against him. He continued to push into her with short, thrusting movements as she pulled him into her harder, utterly turned on now and uncaring of discomfort. She bucked too forcefully and the head of his penis plunged inside, exploding needles of exquisite pain within her.
She cried out and he froze, holding his position, waiting for her response. Her pain was nothing compared to the pleasure. She relaxed and pushed down again. Another inch slipped inside and there was no pain. She smiled with satisfaction and said, “I want all of you.”
Slowly, gently, he slid his way deeper and deeper inside her. He moaned with animal desire as he violated the depths of her willing vagina until she took him completely, inch by exquisite inch. His immensity filled and stretched her; his increasingly urgent movements applied the perfect friction to sate her long-denied hunger. She fed on him, sucking and milking him with her muscles, showing him it was okay to be less gentle now, savoring his penetration as his girth stretched her to the point of never-before-felt pleasure, touching places no man had reached.
His first strokes were slow and deliberate, yet urgently demanding. Then, as if sensing she was nearing another climax, he grabbed her ass and rolled her underneath him. He increased the speed and depth of his thrusts, pounding and throttling inside her while they clutched and grasped at each other like feral beasts. Now she grabbed his ass and kneaded his flesh. Her arousal surged higher from feeling his muscles thrusting and pumping heatedly into her, his skin slippery with sweat.
Suddenly he stiffened, trembled, and grunted wildly. His facial muscles tightened and his eyes squeezed shut as if he were in pain. His penis swelled and pulsed to an even greater fullness as he plunged into her until their pelvic bones ground together. Then he exploded inside her. She felt every throbbing convulsion of his ejaculation, stretching her with hot spurts of electric tendrils, leaving her breathless, astonished, and moaning. Her body screamed with indefinable sensations that intensified repeatedly as his powerful contractions extended her pleasure. It seemed like hours before their shared orgasm ended. Both gasping for air, they remained together a few minutes before he finally softened and slipped away. While they recovered their breath, they held and touched each other like familiar lovers.
“Until today,” he whispered, “I never made love with an Asian woman. I’ve often thought how it would be, but it was better than I ever imagined, much better. It would be so easy to fall for you.” He pulled her close and she kissed him in return.
“I should really leave now,” she whispered, unsure what to do or say.
“I know. But please, let me have you just one more time before you go.”
She smiled at his desire. “Yes,” she said, and began her own journey down his chest. “But first there is something I need you to teach me.”
Later, when their passions were drained, Lang slipped back into her clothes and gave him a quick kiss, not really wanting to leave, but keeping herself in motion. As she reached the door, he stopped her.
“I’m Lorenzo, pleased to meet you,” he said, grinning. He grabbed her hand and shook it.
Lang laughed, realizing they hadn’t known each other’s names. “Just call me Lang. And the pleasure has most certainly been mine.” She winked as a warm blush touched her cheeks.
“I want to see you again. You’re truly the most incredible woman I’ve ever known.” He held her hand, his voice hoarse and deep. “When is your next trip to…anywhere?”
“I’ll be in Pittsburgh tomorrow. I’m in no hurry to get home.” She smiled, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him softly on the lips.
As she walked back to her room, she knew she would see him often. He made her feel like a complete woman. And his phone numbers were in her pocket.
The Wicked Wahine—a Tall Tale
BETTI MUSTANG
ONCE UPON A TIME, on the little Hawaiian island of Maui, a curious Caucasian tourist entered what appeared to be a dark and run-down bar in the middle of Waikapu town. The crackling, pink neon light above the door said THE WICKED WAHINE.
As soon as his loafers crossed the threshold, an odd chill ran through his body—a strange tingling sensation that ran from his toes to his head and then back down, lodging itself in his groin.
By nature an observant kind of guy, his senses immediately picked up a few things: The small room was empty except for four young, beautiful Asian girls standing around the bar, and a haggard old woman chain-smoking thin, black cigarettes behind the counter. A strange mixture of seafood, days-old grease, smoke, sweat, and sharp perfume filled the air. The women squawked at each other in a language that his ears found abrasive, yet somehow captivating. The music that filled the room was generic pop without the vocals. For some reason it reminded him of cheap plastic. Karaoke?
He stood just inside the doorway trying to process what his senses were relaying to him. His gut reaction was that he should do a 180 and hightail his white ass back to the resort, to the “matrix” of his vacation—staged luaus, palm trees, watered-down mai tais, and lots of chlorine.
His dick had other plans though, and so did the women.
So, against his better judgment, he cleared his throat, officially entered the Wicked Wahine, and slid into what appeared to be an old diner booth—red and cushiony vinyl.
He felt awkward—the bar didn’t give off the vibe of a place of business. He felt more like he was sitting in a stranger’s living room—stared at and uninvited. He needed a drink. Fuck mai tais. Vodka—straight. Heineken chaser. Three of each. Please. Now.
The old woman from behind the
bar shuffled up to his booth. She wore a faded Hawaiian-print muumuu and royal-blue flip-flops. The melody of Tiffany’s “I Think We’re Alone Now” (without Tiffany) played out of scratchy speakers. The old woman carried a golden plastic cup filled with ice water in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other. Her lips were dry, and the deep, vertical wrinkles above her top lip came from decades of pursing themselves around a…smoke?
He suddenly felt a little disoriented. Where exactly was he anyway? Waikapu—he vaguely remembered reading something about this town online somewhere when he was planning his vacation. He got the feeling that whatever he had read wasn’t positive. He just couldn’t…quite remember. Waikapu—didn’t it translate to “forbidden water” or something?
She set the cup in front of him with a clack and a splash.
“You like wash clothes?” she asked him in a raspy voice. Her English was broken. Maybe he misunderstood her. Before he could figure out a polite way to ask her to repeat herself, she broke into a phlegmy cackle, her rheumy eyes watering.
He wanted to leave. He didn’t. When all else fails, request alcohol.
“Vodka?” Everyone knows that word, right?
She gave him a rough pat on the shoulder as if she appreciated that he proved to be so amusing.
“Ne, ne…first you get girl first,” she said as she wiped the tears of laughter from her leathery face.
She called out unintelligible names in her foreign language and shuffled back behind the bar.
Things got strange fast.
One, two, three, four girls slid into the booth next to him.
He was to call them (the women that he would remember years from tonight as “those freaky Asian succubus-whores”) Tammi, Sherilyn, Tina, and Mimi. Of course, these weren’t their real names, but then again at the Wicked Wahine, real names didn’t really matter.
“You buy me drinky?”
“Ne, he buy me drinky!”
“You buy me drinky, yes?”
The women bickered and hissed in their foreign language. He was instantly reminded of beautiful bettas—fighting fish that were exotic, flamboyant, colorful, and deadly.
Fascinated, he became vaguely aware in the background of the faint pitter-patter of raindrops beginning to fall on the aluminum roof overhead.
Slap! Out of nowhere, the old woman put a quick stop to the symphony of alien tongue by shuffling up and striking her dry, open palm onto the tabletop.
His water spilled. The girls watched it rush, then trickle—dripping onto the filthy, slick carpet—the way one watches droplets of blood fall from a pricked finger.
Slap! The old woman did it again. All eyes fell on her.
“Rain!” she hissed, pointing her burning cigarette to the ceiling. “Rain!”
The women murmured excitedly. He felt, with a tad of relief, like he had disappeared. He was invisible to them. He was aware that their attention and harshly whispered dialogue focused on the girl who called herself Tina. Black-haired, kohl-rimmed-almond-eyed, slim-waisted, fleshy-lipped, mounds-of-white-titties-popping-out-of-a-hot-pink-Lycra-halter-top Tina.
She did not look pleased. The rain began to fall harder.
The murmuring in the dark room grew in intensity.
Tina shook her head violently and crossed pale and delicate arms under her bosom. Her jaw suddenly seemed bigger, more masculine. She set it in a firm, tight line that radiated the word no with stubborn finality.
It rained harder.
“Saw-dool-law, saw-dool-law!” the old woman shouted. She waved her bony arms toward Tina—cigarette smoke hung in the air like floating runes. “Jee-gum ee-yah!”
Hurry up, hurry up. The time is now.
He watched as Tina flared her nostrils. The image of a she-dragon flew across the borders of his rational mind. She muttered something that he thought sounded extremely unfriendly to the old woman, who simply shrugged and cackle-coughed in return.
Tina turned toward him. As she squinted her heavily outlined almond eyes at him in a glare, the she-dragon reappeared. It circled his brain and blew long, searing blades of fire through his consciousness.
He instantly felt what you feel when you realize that you’ve had a little too much—the sixth shot, the third hit, the fifth drag.
It didn’t occur to him that he should still be sober.
Without warning or prelude Tina roughly pulled the elastic fabric of her top down under her right breast—her plump, ivory titty did a little upward boing before it settled into the makeshift shelf of the Lycra.
He blinked twice and cleared his throat.
“Drleenk,” she commanded him.
He didn’t understand what she meant, and besides, the sight of her cherry red, pert-as-a-little-mushroom nipple pointing right at him was rather distracting.
He sat very still, looking foolish, staring at her tit.
“Drleenk, drleenk!” she commanded again. She cupped her breast in a death grip that was oddly accented by mother-of-pearl-colored, acrylic fingernails and jiggled it. “Drleenk!”
The more she jiggled, the more his crotch tingled.
The old woman pulled his ear violently, making him lurch forward, placing the lashes of his left eye less than an inch away from her breast.
“Dr-ink! Dr-ink!” the old woman enunciated in an exasperated tone. “Now! Her teat, drink her teat!”
Tina, evidently sick of waiting for him to get the picture, rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, grabbed him by the chin, and shoved her hard, rosy nipple into his mouth.
The old woman nodded her approval, which made the wrinkled folds of her neck fold in and out like an iguana’s. She shuffled over to the jukebox, pulled two quarters from the rusted coffee can sitting on top, plunked them in, hit a button, then hit REPEAT.
Drum machine, synthesizer, the pseudoraspy voice of George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex” over scratchy speakers.
Tammi, Sherilyn, and Mimi clapped and cooed their approval.
In another space and time he would have found the scene as ludicrous as it truly was—but not tonight.
He tentatively flicked his tongue over Tina’s nipple. Her skin smelled like coconuts. He flicked his tongue again and was rewarded with a drop of creamy liquid. On flick of the tongue number five he realized exactly what the pearly fluid tasted like: piña colada poured with Captain Morgan’s Private Stock—spicy and rich on his taste buds.
Tina colada served fresh from a titty, he thought, ingenious and delicious.
Simultaneously the room shrank in around him (he was oddly reminded of a Space Bag infomercial), and he became aware that at some point in the past forty-five seconds, his penis had become unnaturally hard.
I have been poisoned. I have been poisoned while on vacation by strange women. The thoughts in his head seemed watered-down and dull—his realization unimportant.
It had been thirty-seven long years since he had been force-fed a boob, and by God did he miss it.
He worked the drug from her breast like a thief until it flowed rich, sweet, and intoxicating. He took it down his throat like a baby bird takes food into its gullet; or like a porn star guzzling cock.
Tammi, Sherilyn, and Mimi began to strip off their clothes—a denim skirt here, a purple demi-bra there…long legs, short legs, a round, vanilla-ice-cream bottom popping high in the air as tight, black jeans were stripped off…nipples, nipples, nipples, six different nipples…cunts…three cunts—two with tufts of soft black pubic hair, and one shaved as bald as a newborn lovebird.
He watched the naked women begin to touch and lick and suck and poke at one another with the same distracted curiosity that a nursing babe has while watching the colors and shapes in a mobile spin above its mother’s head.
The rain poured down.
Mimi (the one with the hairless pussy) came up for a breather from between Tammi’s long, sweat-slicked legs. Tammi’s whimpers of protest were muffled and lost in Sherilyn’s hairy little cunt.
The vibration of Tammi�
��s voice, or perhaps simply just her whimpers, caused Sherilyn’s purple nipples to harden into sharp points. In return, she rode Tammi’s face faster. Her powerful thighs flexed as she dipped her chubby pussy down, like inking a quill, over and over onto Tammi’s waiting tongue.
George Michael, one would assume, still wanted his sex.
Mimi patted the dripping lips of her mouth dry with a bar towel, flung her straight, knee-length, blue-black hair over her shoulder, and sauntered toward the tourist.
The look in her black eyes was playful, her grip dead serious, as she grabbed for his iron-hard penis beneath his khakis.
She wedged her long, thin pointer-finger into his mouth (which was still firmly attached to Tina’s boob) and plucked sharply at its corner.
The reluctant detachment of mouth from boob sounded like a rubber boot pulling out of mud.
Tina colada dribbled down his chin.
Tina immediately snapped her top back into place, cracked her neck from left to right, smoothed her skirt, slid from the booth, and relocated to a rusted fold-up chair in the corner.
She conjured a nail file out of thin air and began to whittle at her fingers.
Mimi unzipped his fly and skillfully freed his throbbing penis. It was roughly twelve inches long.
His eyes met his dick bulge for bulge in the “bigger than they had ever been” department. He didn’t have time to contemplate how his normally average-size member had grown to pony-cock proportions in a matter of seven and a half minutes of bad pop song because Mimi frowned.
What kind of woman frowns at a foot-long penis? he thought.
She made an irritated hmph sound and spun toward Tina.
“He too small,” she said in a breathy, childlike voice that was so very Minnie Mouse meets Marilyn Monroe.
The sound made his scrotum ache in a pleasant way.
Tina gave a nonchalant shrug and kept filing. “So make big.”
Mimi pursed her lips in a second of thought, then turned her attention back to him. She expertly spun some of her silky hair into a knot on top of her head, the remaining length of it trailing to her waist, and took a deep breath.
